Loderunner

Dedication

For my dear friend Kae Colley and her son Michael, to whom I wish much joy and laughter on the other side.

Loderunner

Imagine if you will:

Somewhere in the depths of space a somewhat ordinary, boring-looking medium-sized yellow star cast weird-looking shadow-puppets across the dark interstellar wastes that currently belonged to the Terran Empire. Nine planets spun around it in suitably eccentric orbits – tiny slivers of matter that had rolled up into little balls and wished the rest of the universe would just bugger off and stop staring.

When the Humans arrived here they settled on one of them and (in polite company) called it Home. Since it was a frontier world where roughing it was a way of life, there was very little at all to laugh at. So one bright su – um, day, they called the star Ramalama – and named the two tiny moons of their new home Ding and Dong. (This is something of a local joke.) Since that time, the Terran colony known as Deanna flourished and prospered to become the bustling third rate world it was today, which in case anyone is wondering, was a bright February morning in the distant future.

A couple of decades before, the first colonists set up their basic settlements, which were cut from the wood of the local forests. Over time, these four little settlements became towns, which spread with the rapidly growing population, to form the urban sprawl now called Atro City. This medium-sized city was the largest on the planet.

Deanna's prime business was mining Lantillium, which was used to line blaster emitter barrels and the cores of warp engines (and to a lesser degree, to line the special coffee cups and jugs used to serve Hot Stuff Blend).

As the entire basis of trade and commerce in the known universe (other than actual money) was interstellar transport, it was fairly obvious to anybody who saw the mine dumps on the equatorial plains of Deanna that it was a very important activity. Very large loderunner transports would arrive to pick up megatons of ore for shipping to other nearby colonies whose main business was ore processing and manufacturing, while also delivering cargoes of consumer goods and luxuries from other places within the Terran Empire. Needless to say, with a population of over two million, Deanna had other activities as well.

According to the Galactic Tourist Guide, Deanna was a prolific tourist destination – having miles of white sandy beaches, bright clear sunny skies most of the time, with only a gentle breeze and hardly ever a storm.

For the gaming fishermen there was the Whatoosie River and its native cocka-snoek, the main game fish of the resident Skegg's Valley Dynamite Fishing Club. Cocka-snoek were wily and tough and rather too bright for mere fish. You wouldn't catch much with a rod around here. Many inexperienced visitors would find the bait stolen from their hooks, which punctuated the discovery that their lines had somehow got snagged and tangled irretrievably around some underwater obstruction – sometimes tied together with neat little bows. Often, several direct hits with hand grenades were needed to stun the creatures long enough just to catch them, gut them and fry them, but these former military types had become experts at it. For a modest fee, tours could be arranged via the booking office, which included an overnight stay on the banks of the river where one could drop off to a great night's sleep after a satisfying meal of cocka-snoek done on an open fire, and the sound the bits of shrapnel made rattling in your stomach.

The Landlocked Ocean was shallow, fresh and filled with all manner of interesting native life forms. The most popular of these was the shoals of braking dolphins that frolicked in the fresh shallow waters of the Greater Equatorial Fishbowl. These were small hand-sized marsupial creatures very similar in shape and behavior to Terran dolphins. They were warm blooded semi-intelligent air-breathers. People would come from light years around to see the endearing little creatures swimming in the blue ocean of Deanna Their pouches tended to slow them down quite a bit, and sometimes the tourists would be treated to the sight of a shoal of braking dolphins actually swimming backwards in the strong current – making a spectacular underwater display when they accidentally swam through the tour boats' propeller. They were too small to train to retrieve mines or torpedoes, but somebody did once train a few to retrieve unexploded hand grenades in the Whatoosie River, with tragic, if not predictable results.

As far as weirdness was concerned, Deanna was probably the center of the universe. This was very probably the only place where Chicken Little would be right at least once a year. Its main claim to fame was having a small moon that occasionally fell out of orbit, usually at awkward moments – like when lots and lots of people were watching. The smaller of the two moons, known as Ding, was only about fifty feet around and consisted of solid titanium and was also a known hazard to shipping. The Department of Tourism kept putting it back, never getting it quite right. Sometimes it would take up to four large space tugs to put it back into its low orbit, at the right altitude, speed and vector – but only after the Tourist Office had spent some quality time polishing the marks and scratches off it. (Can't afford to have a shabby moon with fingerprints all over it, can we? I mean, what if someone saw?) It seemed it was scarcely back in its low orbit than some careless pilot would knock it down again. Its larger sibling, Dong, is about a kilometer in diameter has been described as a large piece of nothing much with a flag planted on it.

Deanna was an interesting place for anyone to live, bearing in mind the word 'normal' only means 'statistically prevalent' or even 'demographically dominant'. What was demographically dominant on Deanna was jeans, boots and tweed shirts. Cowboy hats kept the heat of Ramalama off your head if you didn't want to look like yesterday's bacon 'n beans before you turned thirty. Anybody who was anybody drove fancy hydrogen powered SUV's and ATV's. Everybody else had plain old electric Jeepo's or used public transport or walked.

Where would tourism be without a little luxury and a taste of night life? There were several cities on Deanna, all moderate in size, but the largest was the capital, Atro City. For the connoisseur of fast-foods, Albrechts' famous hotdogs and coldcats were sold fresh from his stall (Albrecht's Takeaways) on Lupini Square. For the sake of his own mental health he had temporarily removed Hot Stuff Blend from the menu. The city was home to Atro City University, which taught everything from algebra and make-up application to advanced stamp collecting; and it was also home to the planet-famous bounty hunter – Beck the Badfeller. Beck was a legend in his own lifetime. If Deanna had any folklore, then Beck the Badfeller was one of its main features. He was the local version of Robin Hood, the Davy Crockett of Deanna. The Local rumor mill had it he was so good he could find the missing day in a leap year. Once, so the story goes, he even found a missing sock.

Beck the Badfeller might be the best bounty hunter on Deanna, but if you were looking for a private investigator, then Timaset Skooch was your man. Timaset Skooch was a former Sheriff's Office Deputy in Atro City. After seven years of getting shot at for not much money, he decided it was time for a change. He did get paid better than when he was a Deputy – but not as regularly. Sometimes lately, he even got shot at for free. Hmm. He supposed that was the tradeoff.

It was a mild winter's evening in 'Japp's Saloon and Speakeasy', in the northwest corner of the only legal red-light area of the city. (The S.O.D.s believed in crime management.) Timaset Skooch leaned back in the aluminum framed chair, checking his cards carefully while wearing his best poker face. Across the table from him sat Jonn Deire, a large man who was trying very hard to out-poker face him and who didn't enjoy jokes about his name much.

Three other men were sitting on the other sides of the table, opposite each other. One was a man called Gary Beck and the other was a gentleman who went by the name of Peeping William. Jimmy Skoda was tall and lanky and lost in the world of cards for the moment, while William seemed to be holding something behind his back, with his cards lying face down on the table. He had a rather bored expression on his scarred old face, which had a shadow on his forehead cast from the paint stain on the lamp shade above the table. It was shaped rather like the head of an obsidian crow. Gary Beck didn't like obsidian crows much. (One had got him killed once, but that was another story.)

"Your turn, Will." Said Beck cheerfully. "Oh, sorry." Beck reached across the table laden with playing cards, cash and whisky glasses to pick up Peeping William's cards, and played for him. "Oh-kay – sorry, nothing there this time, Will!"

Peeping William was a wanted man and Gary Beck was the bounty hunter that found him – which brings us to why Will was looking slightly bored. Beck arrested Peeping William over an hour earlier, and was forced to wait while Beck finished another card game with his hands cuffed securely behind his back. Well, at least Beck was nice enough to let him play a hand or two, figuratively speaking. Will just grumbled something and rolled his eyes.

"C'mon bounty hunter – I ain't got all day!" Grunted Deire.

"My turn again?" said Gary and put down a four of blacks. "Sorry."

Ignoring the apology, the surly Jimmy Skoda plonked down a four of reds.

Jonn Deire picked up eight yellowed and dog-eared cards from the pile, grumbling 'garrn' under his breath, while chewing on a frazzled looking toothpick. Skooch threw down a five of reds and said nothing. There was an impatient pause as the players waited for Beck to remember he had to play for Peeping William, who was still grumbling softly and rolling his eyes at intervals.

"Sorry, Will." He said, dropping a five of yellows. Then he threw in one of his own, a seven of yellows. Skoda followed with a nine and scratched his overgrown chin thoughtfully, eyeing the kitty lying in the middle of the table. There was plenty of money there, as far as small-time casual gamblers were concerned. For Skooch it would help keep the wolves away for a few weeks. The kitty got off it, stretched and yawned before lazily dropping off the edge of the table. Undisturbed, the players continued. Jonn Deire began tapping his fingers on the table rather nervously. Well, this was the moment of truth for Timaset Skooch who was next in line, wondering how fortune would favor him. Deire played a nine of blacks. There was an almost indefinable click as something slotted into place for Skooch, who dropped the eight of blacks on the pile. He cried out elatedly.

"How about that – Uno!"

"Oh, damn – Uno again!" Jonn Deire exclaimed, slapping his cards down on the table in disgust.

"The pot is mine, I believe!" Said Skooch, joyfully reaching for the pile of notes and coins as the assembly of players and spectators began to break up.

"Gentlemen." Said Jimmy Skoda, getting up to leave.

Seeing a sneaky movement from the corner of his eye, Beck the Badfeller reached across and pushed Peeping William back into his chair.

"Not you, Will!" he said. "I'll be with you in a minute." Then he looked directly at him, smiled and said "Great game, Tim. Still, take it easy – you can't win 'em all, eh?"

"No, I certainly can't!" agreed Skooch, grinning back. "Say hi to Mei for me." His acquaintance Gary Beck, aka Beck the Badfeller rose and helped Peeping William out of his chair.

"Sure. And you say hi to Dory, 'k? C'mon Will – let's get you to the Sheriff. I need a cold one."

"Yippee." Said Will, not exactly brimming over with enthusiasm.

Timaset Skooch reached across the table and packed the notes together. He counted them out too. Seven thousand credits! Then he scooped the coins and the (ugh) gold tooth into an empty glass for the waitress. Seven thousand credits! But what was the plastic slip under it all?

"What the heck is this?" he asked, reading it. Jonn Deire sat across the table from him, his eyes red-rimmed and moist. The big man seemed to be dissolving from the inside.

"That's the ownership papers fer ma' pride an' joy." He said in a shaky voice. "The Celeste. That's ma' ship – ah knew ah shouldn'a bet 'er. She's yures now."

Skooch stared, shocked. "You bet your ship? On a game of Uno? What for?"

"Ah needed the money! Ah had a few debts to pay off." Deire said, subdued. "Ah didn't think Ah'd really lose."

He thought about it for a minute. The kitty was only around seven thousand give or take a gold tooth and some coinage – minus the ship – which must've been worth well, a lot more than seven thousand, even in scrap metal. An alarm was going off somewhere, faintly.

"What the hell am I going to do with a ship?" He said, slumping into his seat. He passed the document over to Jonn, who looked at him as if he were mad. "Here, I don't want it. I can't take your livelihood. You have that back!"

"You don't want mah Celeste?" Deire said, glowering. Skooch realized he might has well have just called the man's darling little sister a two-bit counter-clockwise thigh-scrubber from North Lugaluru. "Ah lost her to you, Mister Skooch - fair an' square!"

Okaay. He noticed the area of empty space which had started to grow around them. He had unwittingly offended the man's sense of honor. And he was a big man. Taking the document back, he started looking it over. Under the grime and stains of ages past, it read: 'Terran Merchant Fleet Registration Certificate'. Somewhere in the spaces indicated below were the name of the owner – one Jonnulass Mc Watt Deire and the technical specifications of the particular vessel. It was a Rotanga Class loderunner, first commissioned in 2068, certified to carry cargo and passengers with a total not exceeding blah, blah, blah.

"But it's a hundred and twelve years old!" He protested.

"She still works pretty good." Deire maintained. "Stardrive gets a mite twitchy at warp 4, but that's just a dodgy plasma injector."

Timaset didn't need a ship – especially not a flying museum piece! And as far as he knew, a dodgy plasma injector could drop you smack into a wormhole ending somewhere on the other side of the universe with no way back. Well, he could always sell the damn thing. Couldn't he? He could use the money. Damn, he could always use the money! Maybe the crew would want to buy it over from him?

"What's the catch?" Skooch asked. There had to be one. There was always a catch. Just like contracts and catches – there's a loophole somewhere. You might not see it because it's lurking somewhere in the small-print, looking at you with its beady little yellow eyes. There's always a loophole. Sometimes it's the one that slips around your neck and strangles you.

"No catch." Said Deire. "On mah honor!"

Perhaps it was some kind of blessing in disguise? 'Yeah, right' a small imaginary figure with horns and a pitchfork whispered in his ear.

"Well, all right then." Said Timaset Skooch at last, shrugging. "Thanks."

"She's parked at the space port, Bay 227." Deire said, rising. "Ah'll have mah things cleared out by tomorrow noon."

"I'll come around sometime then." Said Skooch numbly as the dejected man walked out. Well, alright then. Pocketing his winnings for the evening, Skooch rose and waved at the barman on his way to the exit. As he drew level with the doorway, he slowed cautiously and paused a moment. Most guys who had just won seven grand in a card game in a dingy low class bar would stand a fairly good chance of getting mugged as soon as they set a foot outside. But not Timaset Skooch. His reputation tended to provide him some protection. The denizens of the red-light district gave him a wide berth, unwilling to tangle with him... And that was possibly the last thought that passed through his mind before the world around him exploded into constellations of stars and other assorted bright lights.

When he finally awoke, lying in a puddle of his own drool, the first – ok, maybe the second thing to hit him, was that he was still alive. And that it was probably worse than being dead. But only because being dead probably didn't hurt quite so much. While pulling himself together and taking stock, he discovered that he'd been robbed. Money, all gone – the ship's papers – no, damn – he still had that! The only thing in his coat was him and the deeds to nothing much. Hmm, thieves with savvy. Fancy that. He was actually disappointed.

He was already starting to become convinced the thing was jinxed. His wallet was also missing. He now had to get another one, but then what would be the point? He had nothing to keep in it anyway. So now he was broke and he still had a ship to get rid of. Well, maybe he could recoup his losses that way. And he'd acquired a headache. Massaging the lump at the back of his head, he slowly made his way back to his Jeepo, now more determined to get rid of the damn thing than ever.

* * *

Dorian Wintermuller was something of an enigma. At 27years, he was still not really what you might call gainfully employed. He was a qualified interior decorator and did the odd private contract now and again, but being a kind of new-age house-wife was less stressful. No, gainfully un-employed suited him better for now. It saved years on his life not having to fuss and fiddle – to say nothing of the stress involved in getting a client to understand the subtle differences between cerise and lilac.

Back in the early 21st century there had been something of a second sexual revolution, carrying on where the original one had left off. First it was women's liberation, followed by the gender equality revolution. People suddenly came in fruity new flavors of heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, asexual and even omni-sexual – and of course, anything else in between that suited the individual. Not forgetting the transsexual and transgendered folk. Then followed a couple of new definitions like 'metro-sexual' which allowed ostensibly 'straight' men the freedom to be comfortable while dressed in funky styles, experiment with perfumes, skin care products, make-up and nail varnish and even carry – um, man-bags. Everything available for the – um, liberated modern man. That in a nut-shell more-or-less describes our friend Dorian – a guy with far too much good taste and style and sensitivity to be content with blue jeans, a check shirt and 'old leather' after-shave. He had on a black silk shirt, brown slacks with silver zippers down the front of each trouser leg and a pair of black, thick soled 'puppy squasher' ankle boots in the latest style. Thick gold chains encircled his neck and wrist, highlighting his long brown hair which was straight and cut in an elegant bob. Imagine a few rings too for effect. Very camp.

On the balcony where he sat, legs crossed, sipping at a tall thin glass of red wine while reading 'La Femme' magazine, he had a pretty good view of the back of Atro City University across an alley-way. Soft music played in the background as he heard the sound of a key in the front door.

"Honey, I'm hom–o." Came the sound of his partner's voice, laced with irony.

"Oh, Skoochy – that one's so old already." Said Dorian rolling his eyes and draining his glass. "Find another one, will you? Preferably something not quite so hurtful."

Tim disappeared past the open-plan kitchen, dropping his coat on the sofa as he passed.

"Got any band-aids?" He called out.

"Did you get rumbled again, darling?" Dorian called, showing concern as he rose and went inside to point out the little pack of band-aids in the medicine cupboard in the bathroom that Tim was rummaging in. He'd dropped his t-shirt into the laundry already, and was standing with his back to him. He turned round and they embraced, his muscular arms encircling Dory's slim little waist, his slim little arms reaching round Tim's neck. Their closeness highlighted Dorians petite and feminine build.

"You men, " Dorian smiled up close, giving him a good view of his feminine features. "Couldn't find your own ass with a GPS!"

Tim laughed, and winced suddenly from his headache.

"I wouldn't need a GPS to find your ass!" He teased, knowing Dory's weakness was his misconception that his rear end was overweight. As with most of Dory's complexes, it was inaccurate.

"You're mean!" Said Dorian, feigning mortification. He withdrew his slender hand from Tims' hair, now wet with his blood and regarded it with distaste. "What happened?"

"Won seven thousand creds in a card game, then I got mugged."

He continued cleaning himself up as best he could, thinking a nice soothing shower and perhaps a nice relaxing evening with Dory over a glass of wine and some dinner might cheer him up.

"And the money?"

"The money, Dory? What about me? I got my head bashed in." He said, getting more serious. With Dorian it always came back to the material things. And no matter what, sometimes it was never enough. "The money's gone. But my head's still here – a little dented, but okay. Not that you'd miss it, huh?"

"Oh, poor baby. Pain makes you grumpy." Said Dorian, wiping the blood off his hands on a towel before leaving Tim to shower and clean and dress his wounds. 'That's quite alright', he muttered under his breath. 'Do it myself.' A few minutes later he returned to the lounge area, to find Dorian relaxing on the sofa watching a local soapie with a fresh glass of wine. Popping some pain pills, he downed them with a glass of milk and slunk off alone to bed.

The next morning he woke up with Dory's head on his chest. The soft smooth skin of her face was pressed against him. Her brown locks snaked across him, as did one slender arm. Pale morning light was filtering through the blinds over the window. S - he was fast asleep.

He considered his life as it was. It wasn't too bad; he had enough to get by on. Okay, he was broke at the moment, but Dory owned the apartment and anyway, he had a credit card to take care of things like groceries and the odd luxury. Every so often he had to work like crazy to make a dent in the debt. And he had no issues about his gender or sexual orientation. Not really. At least, not until he met Dory. He was comfortable and for the most part, he was happy with Dory. They'd been together for two years now. He had girlfriends – real girlfriends – before Dory, and had never intentionally fallen for her, but sometimes crazy things just happen. One night a guy goes to a new club, has a few drinks, meets a beautiful girl who completely blows his mind, and wakes up in a strange apartment next to her – and then she gets up to go to the loo, and pees standing up. And on the way out in a great hurry, he trips over her clothes and false boobs lying in a pile on the floor.