Terrorist Guide - Beer
Version 2.0
Danyl Strype
Anti-copyright July 2003
We walked into the dealer's flat, a penthouse unit on top of a nondescript
block of eight. It was close, stale place that spoke of urgency and paranoia.
The dealer was a quezat; squat, pot-bellied, dark purple. Two of his five
eyes watched us from the tops of his shoulders while the two on either side
of his head kept an eye on the buyers already present and the one on the
top surveyed the room nervously.
Three of the buyers were also human. They sat with a half-dozen others in
a semi-circle on the floor, their backs against liquid-filled cushions. They
spoke amongst themselves in a language I didn't recognise, a code perhaps?
Their dress was a mixture of military surplus and last season's castoffs.
The quezat shooed us over to the others and shuffled over to the ancient
enviroset, roughly assembled on an improvised desk made of matter transfer
containers. The lights dimmed and the air-conditioning began pumping pungent
smoke into the room, an burning weed which I remembered from my Earth history
studies as 'Tybako'. How appropriate I thought, smiling to myself. Our host
selected music and booted up a 2D screen which flared into life with a moving
picture display of ancient humans playing some forgotten sport. Earth broadcasting
from the late twentieth century (old calender) was only just arriving in
the Krata system and apparently it was all the rage.
Climbing behind a long bar of plasterwood the quezat urged us to clamber
up onto tall stools lined up along the other side of it. I put our recording
chrystal on the bar and inclined my head towards the assembled punters to
indicate that we were paying for this round. The dealer picked up the chrytal
carefully, spoke a chittering phrase into it and flicked its flat face wit
his mandible-nail. It emitted the phrase back to him in a resonant, humming
tone.
It's quality seemed to satisfy him as he lifted a silica bottle from behind
the bar. Gripping its neck in his mandibles he took a swig and passed it
to Rahdish. "It is safe?" he asked, looking nervously at the scruffy quezat.
"Quezat only die from old age," I replied, "that's why they make such good
dealers. By the time they've swallowed their commission the bottle's virtually
anti-sceptic."
He took a nervous sip and passed it on to me. I took a long pull and handed
it on, wiping my mouth on my plaited side-lock. Rahdish was smiling vacantly.
"Mmm," he said, "interesting..."
Last updated: 8 July 2003
Screw you guys I'm going home...
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strypey_at_orcon.net.nz