A few weeks later, I was lounging on the patio of the clinic, watching the always spectacular setting of Tattoo-ine's binary suns. The unpredictable combination of reds, orange and gold made pleasantly hazy by the desert air was a sight I never got tired of – though that could be largely a consequence of floating around in the oppressive black void of space in one variation or another of a glorified metal canister. I imagined that, given enough time, the brilliant colors would fade to being a forgettable backdrop to the constant dust, grit and dessicated lifelessness of the desert.
I was dithering now, stretching out the time before I had to go to my next session. Don't get me wrong. I was happy to be here, instead of cooking tasteless grub and being blipped and blooped at by a droid with anal calipers that were too tightly calibrated. It's just that my exciting trip ended up not to have the harem of scantily-clad ladies I was hoping for.
Turned out I was at an actual recovery clinic that did actual treatments that were supposed to make me feel better and able to serve the Empire another day. Admittedly, the steady regimen of pills and time in the reconditioning chamber – the “Box” – were making the periodic test-flashes of the plasma grill induce only mild anxiety and slight nausea, which was an improvement over sheer terror and getting brain-melting images of people dying and burning. In fact, I don't think I've even thought of poor Joe in the last few days; my last dream of him was a week ago and I was having a rather pleasant conversation with his burnt-out corpse in a nice field of flowers.
All praise the miracle of Imperial medical science indeed. I couldn't tell you how they managed to do the fixin' in my noggin' though, seeing as how walking into and out of the Box was all that anybody remembered. For all any of us knew, they could be dicing up our brains and feeding it to hypnotic brain leeches. Either way, we were all getting better, and, much to our dismay, progressively getting closer to active duty.
Damn! So close to the ladies and a cornucopia of inebriants, and odds were none of us were going to get a taste of them before leaving. Well, “close” was relative, since as our clinic was a good two hours away from any decent town, and that was at full blast on a speeder. I guess we did have a “lady” of sorts here. I looked over to the other patient sitting next to me, and said,
“Hey, Mike. I was thinking that if I took a few more pills and bonked my head a bunch, you'd be the resident chick and I'd be hitting on you.”
“Ha ha ha, Suntan-Tim,” Mike replied, his voice muffled under his thick layer of blankets that made him look more like a lumpy couch, instead of one of the Empire's feared fighter-pilots. He didn't like being outside as much as I did, but I enjoyed having the company and I made him come hang out with me. “You wish. I like my men looking like men, not wasted refugees.”
“Shoot, I guess that means more jerking off to the fem-droid for me,” I sighed dramatically.
With his neck and thighs easily larger than my scrawny torso, Mike's hulking frame could hardly be mistaken for being girly in any way. Ever since we became friends though, he'd given my teasing some generous leeway. Of course, if we were out in public, he'd be systematically beating me into the consistency of cheap synthburger chuck by now.
Not surprisingly, when we had our first group sessions together, I hadn't been thrilled to see the same asshole pilot who had given me a hard time before the “noodle incident.” But as the twisted nature of fate would have it, we were the only familiar faces to each other; so, when we were told to do the pair-up exercise, we ended up grudgingly gravitating to one another other – since sharing with a prick that you knew was the better than with a prick you didn't.
We were probably an odd match to watch: me, a relatively shortish (I'm only a little below average) over-wrought bundle of exhausted nerves, staring with incendiary fury at Mike, an enormous man looking sheepishly into his hands, unwilling to meet my gaze, and sitting on a chair that he made look like part of a child's tea party set. We'd sat in silence – and I was perfectly content to do so indefinitely – but then, in a palpable ah-fuck-it moment, Mike started talking.
I only half-listened initially, but his words slowly gave flesh to my asshole image of him: I learned about the man who ate compulsively and guiltily, then worked out ceaselessly to punish himself for being soft, weak – and ultimately for not being attracted to the correct gender that he had been taught to be attracted to. Smothering his desires was impossible, but he did find that the more kills he notched in battle and the more he was violent, aggressive and hyped-up on identifiably masculine testosterone, the more people around him turned a blind eye to his “deficiencies” and gave him a wide berth.
The strain of hiding, killing and bullying eventually proved too much however, and, shortly after my own breakdown, Mike found himself no longer able even to approach his fighter without crying uncontrollably. When his superior found him huddling and shaking in a corner of the hanger, Mike was assigned to the same flight to Tattoo-ine as me. I figured they must have dosed us with empathy drugs that day, because pretty soon we were bawling in each other's arms and apologizing non-sensically about everything and anything. Not very manly, I know, but I blame it on the PTSD.
“Well, you may not have to do the ol'droid shag this time, Timmy-boy, but I don't know if I should tell you, since you're an ungrateful bastard,” Mike said from his chair.
“What? Who was the one who got you quality time with that guy you couldn't stop talking about?” I shot back.
If he'd found a way to leave this place and get our respective itches scratched by a warm-bodied living organism of any species and that had the orifices and groping features of our preference, then I'd be reminding him of every favor I'd done for him and maybe throw in some made-up ones for good measure.
“Doug? Whatever, that guy was a dud, and you even knew it and didn't tell me.”
“You're the one who wanted a swing at him. I wasn't about to take away that chance from you. Besides, when's the last time you set me up?”
“In the males-only ward? Right. What about the fem-droid I found for you?”
“A deactivated droid with a pointy chest is nothing close to a fem-droid.”
“Didn't stop you, did it?”
“How about I get you a fucking droid probe and see how much you like that.”
“Oh, shoot. Look at the time, we better get going for our turn in the Box,” Mike said throwing off his blankets and climbing out his chair.
“Hey! Wait! What's the deal?! Can you get us out of here? You gotta count me in!” I suddenly panicked, my desperation suddenly surging up in me like a twenty-foot tall tidal wave about to wipe out a tropical island filled with unsuspecting peace-loving indigens.
“Sorry, I can't be late...” Mike grinned as he made for the door.
“Ok! Shit, I didn't about Doug being straight. I'm sorry. I honestly thought that he might have been bi or something. Come on, Mike. You gotta tell me what you got going on.” I pleaded, leaping in front of the door to block his escape. Yes. I was very horny and desperate. You try staying sane with the best brothels in the galaxy just moments (i.e., hours) away.
Mike chuckled and raised his arms in surrender, “Alright, alright. I paid one of the locals to take us into town. It's not huge, but at least there's a cantina where we can both get what we want.” He grinned at me and gave me a light pat on the shoulder that nearly knocked me over. “Meet me after your session in the atrium, and we'll get the fuck outta here. Get your credits all stacked out, buddy. We're gonna have a good time tonight!”
Some hours later, I was grateful for the amazing time-wiping properties of the Empire's mystery procedure that made me feel as if only moments had passed. It again made me wonder what they were actually doing to me while I was in there. Maybe they were sending reams of electrical currents through each of my nerves as I was fully conscious, screaming and thrashing; but, with a quick flick of a switch, all was well, and I'd wake up, and walk cheerily away. Troubling, I know, but at least my pants were s
till zipped up when I woke up.
Oh, well. I did agree to sign away all my rights and possibly my soul and existence when I joined the Service. I pushed all my unproductive wondering away from my potentially vivisected mind, and thought instead of all the lovely ladies I was soon going to see and trade my credits for this planet's version of earthly pleasures. Where was Mike anyway? I fidgeted and paced around the atrium as I started to have alarming thoughts that Mike might have been messing with me, or, much worse, be leaving without me.
“Tim! Over here!” whispered Mike's voice, putting a damper on my abandonment issues. He was waving at me from behind one of the stock statues of the Heroic Soldier series that were littered everywhere in the clinic to inspire us broken men. As soon as I ran over, he gave me a thick jacket and goggles. “Here, you'll need these. It'll be a rough ride.”
No shit. After sneaking out the service door, we leaped into the “ride” that Mike had arranged for us: a lop-sided derelict of a speeder that had maintained its grip on bare functionality through welded-on ill-matching parts that had their own grafted parts and that threatened to fly off as we flew over the windy desert.
Our driver was a taciturn Tusken local whose bundled up head kept me from identifying he, she or it; frankly, I should have done similarly and wrapped up my head, as, naturally, the speeder had neither canopy nor windshield, leaving us to be whipped raw by the sandy winds. I desperately gripped the sides of speeder with the certainty that, if I loosened my hold even slightly, I would be blown out and left to tumble on the dunes, breaking my every bone and leaving my sexual frustration unsated. The horrible thought made me hold on harder.
It was a good couple of hours of flying in darkness, before some sparkly lights appeared in the distance, making me hoot for joy – internally, that is, since my facial muscles had been clenching so long it was a struggle to shift them. As the lights brightened, multiplied and grew into full-fledged buildings and gyrating signs, we thankfully slowed down to approach the town.
The place wasn't much to talk about; if you've seen one Empire town whose entire existence depended on servicing the lewd needs of crewmen desperate to recklessly blow off steam, you've seen them all. I started to relax and feel giddy, as we coasted by the reassuring sights of drunken and vomiting soldiers lurching around, held up by their laughing companions or a hooker with one hand caressing their backs and the other fishing for credits in their pockets. It was so very nice indeed to be here.
Seeing a place that looked promising, but wasn't too seedy (we had some standards), Mike gestured for the Tusken to stop. Credits flashed between Mike and our driver, and, before I could get a better look, he gave me a goofy grin, and hopped out of the speeder. I nearly wiped out as I jumped after him, filled as I was with bubbling excitement. Yes yes yes! I could taste the intoxicating odors of stale air, spilled booze and cheap pheromone-laced perfume. We must have looked like two imbeciles swaggering our way into a crappy joint, but we couldn't care less. This was our night out and we were going to be lords of the place.
As far as dives went, the cantina we walked in was in the upper-middle end. Sure, there was the ever-present veil of smoke and dim-lighting that gave the place a comforting feel, but, considering the clean(ish) floors and the matching chairs and tables that looked only well-used rather than slip-shod, it seemed like someone had made efforts for it not to be at the bottom of the town's septic hole. A live band was even strumming away and filling the background with tunes that weren't lively enough to get people to stop drinking and dance, and not slow enough for people to get lost in their thoughts and pass out in despair.
Walking up to the bar, we ordered two glasses of the local swill, and, in very short order, we were slouching casually against the bar counter like regulars and checking out the crowd. Our drinks came in a couple of tall brimming glasses filled with a cloudy red brew that neither of us could identify, along with a bowl of something salty and crackly that I didn't want to look too closely at, but put in my mouth anyway.
Did it really matter what it all was exactly? Not really. The essence of it was all there. We clinked our glasses, downed them in one go, and ordered two more. Much much better. The drink was too much on the sweet side with a disturbingly musky animal-like aftertaste, but it did have the desired effect of dimming our faculties and making us generally happy about everything. Now this was therapy!
After a few drinks together, Mike and I gradually split up. In theory, we could have played each other's wing man, but since we had our eye on very different targets, it made more sense to fly solo so we'd have the best chance of getting lucky. Now that I'd had a drink in me, my freneticism calmed down, allowing me to take a closer look at the crowd. For a place that was essentially a barnacle on the Empire's back, there was a surprisingly large amount of aliens mingling. Not that I minded them, of course, being the open-minded person that I am, but most aliens were poor and from low-tech planets, making them, in the eyes of the Empire, largely moochers, and trusted only for menial tasks.
In my defense (yes, I was feeling defensive about it), I actually profited from the Empire's biases, as I found that being one of the few willing to deal with them meant I could get unusual spices and drugs with interesting side effects on the cheap and resell them as exotica. In fact, noting an Arconian trader in the corner, it occurred to me to get another supply of “smoke-essence,” since mine was floating around in Deeeeath Star debris. You never knew when I'd be asked to dazzle someone with my cooking and that stuff could be useful.
No rush though. I'd been eying a red-head two tables over whose clothing was essentially a couple of strings and some strategically placed splotches of gauzy fabric. Seeing as how my imagination wasn't feeling up to working in any capacity, ogling her wide-expanses of flesh and inviting curves suited juuuuust me fine. Looking over to a darkened corner, I caught Mike's eye as he was inching closer to a wide-chested, scruffy-in-a-groomed-way guy, and we both grinned and lifted our glasses at each other. Tapping my pocket to make sure my credits were still there, I took one more gulp of booze, gave my hair a quick slick back, and was about to launch into my pick-up routine, when a gentle flash of white and a waft of fruity, lighthearted scents glided in to sit beside me. I couldn't help but look over.
Whoa. Way out of my league. What was a cute, classy chick doing here? I tried to be casual about it, but I was probably leering as I checked her out. She was wearing a plain white dress cinched at her waist by a dark leather belt that matched a pair of heel-less boots that seemed suited to walk for miles in the desert, and yet still hugged the elegant curves of her ankles. Her dark brown hair was oddly arranged on both sides of her head to look like two swirling pastries, which I assumed was a local style, but that had the notable effect of showing off her delicately shaped ears.
My mind fought against its fuzzy state to calculate the effort versus return of trying to talk to the mystery chick, as compared to the red-head with whom I could be making out and groping in minutes. It was obvious it would be a waste of time to stay, but my fantasy mind made me linger and teased me with nonsense visions of scintillating conversation, irresistible charm – both coming from me, by the way – and soul-mated crap. Surely, there was no harm in hanging out a bit longer, right? Just be the dark and solid type. That could work. I could be nonchalant, and look sultrily attractive if I stayed quiet and cool. Which is, of course, why I had to pipe up, and blurt out,
“Can I buy you a drink?” Brilliant. That was barely comprehensible too. I may have accidentally spat on her.
To my surprise, she didn't roll her eyes, or turn away with disgust, but looked at me with her soft, inviting hazel eyes (yes, I was already drowning in them), smiled coyly (and invitingly, I swear! (give me a break. I hadn't gotten laid in a full year)), and said, “I already have one.”
Smaaaart. Uh... uh.. uh... “Oh.”
Charm! Switch on, charm! Switch on! “I meant the next one, of course. While I keep you company finishing that on
e.” Not bad! Not bad!
The hot, mystery woman that I've already completely fallen for, smiled at me again, sealing my fate even more firmly, and turned to face me, “I don't usually have more than one drink, you know...”
“Well, you can drink slowly then,” I quipped, flashing my most confident smile, to which she laughed lightly (would you be surprised if I thought it was like listening to the tinkling of angelic bells?) and looked at me with a bit more curiosity. YES!
“So crewman, where are you from?”
“Who says I'm a crewman?” I replied, knowing full well of the Empire's reputation – particularly with a proper hottie like her.
“Pretty much everything about you,” she said and started pointing. “Empire-issue shoes, Empire-issue pants, Empire-issue coat, Empire-issue shirt.”
“I'm coming from a costume party,” I grinned. I was on a roll!
“Yeah? What if I like Service-men?”
“I'm good at role-playing too,” I replied again, and maybe even added a little swagger then. To my intense delight, she laughed again, and I joined in, with some relief and lots of enjoyment with my remarkably smooth flirtations.
“What do you go by?” she asked, gazing at me from beneath her long, lovely eyelashes.
“Tim. You?” I managed not to squeak.
“Leah,” she replied, as she settled into my Amazing Aura of Irresistible Charm.
“That's a pretty name.”
“Hahaha... that's sweet. I'll imagine that it's the first time you said that to a girl.”
“It isn't, but it's the first time I meant it.”
“Hahaha... well, then, isn't that different.”
“Are you from here, Leah?”
“No, I'm actually from Coruscant. I'm volunteering at retreat center on the planet and SWOOFing at their farm.”
“Oh, wow. I've always wanted to SWOOF too. You know, work the land and all that. Hard worker, aren't you? And such pretty hands too!”
“Hahaha... Oh, I'm so embarrassed about my hands. They're always so dry and rough...”
“No they're not! At least they look nice and soft to me...”
Oh, man. It was so amazing. We talked and laughed and looked deeply into each other's eyes the whole night. I don't exactly know what happened, but I must have had my sexy-smart hat on, since I kept coming up with witticism after clever witticism, and she never stopped laughing and giggling. Unfortunately, I don't remember all the details, so I'm not sure I'd be able to replicate it, but something about my brilliance and animal magnetism had to be working because she didn't move away as I moved closer, and even caressed my arm encouragingly a whole bunch of times when the words didn't flow quick enough out my mouth.
It all ended too quickly when what had to be many hours later she looked at her watch and got up to leave. Yeah, yeah, I didn't score that night. Though, needless to say, I would have been very very happy to. I wasn't too upset or surprised though, since, with a classy chick like Leah, you had to expect a little work. To be fair, I did my best to keep her there and ply her with more booze, but, apparently, she had to wake up early the next morning. I was about to protest and possibly whine, but she silenced me with peck on the cheek and nice tender squeeze of my arm that left smiling and glowing. Fortunately, in my goofy dazed state, I did hear her invite me to visit her the next day at the town's market where she'll be working the whole day selling produce she'd grown. Oh, yes, I promised, I'd definitely see her tomorrow, even if it meant selling my right testicle.
Later, when Mike and I met up to go back to the clinic, we spent a good ten minutes giggling and slapping each other's backs, as he too had met a guy he had fallen for, and who, in a rather remarkable and fortuitous coincidence, was also going to be working at the town market tomorrow in the same farm stand as Leah. There was no question about us not finding away into town, so we started strategizing ways on how to make it happen.
It was going to be tricky to weasel our way out again, not to mention bribe the Tusken, which, to be fair, I had to agree to use my credits this time around, but it was possible. Soon though, we brushed the annoying details of our escape aside, and started talking again about our sudden and very dreamy flames.
“His name is Haan,” Mike said, his eyes going all starry again. “That guy is hot!”
CHAPTER 5