It was somewhere in a far-flung
future time. Unnatural cosmic forces had inexplicably reinvented the known
universe, violently, cataclysmically, into a concentrated and diverse melting
pot of exotically inhabited worlds. When the dust finally settled thousands of
alien species, many quite intelligent, found themselves to be neighbors sharing
this strange, warped and chaotic new version of space. Time passed.
On what was inexplicably still
termed a Tuesday a shiny, limited edition, Farren class, mass hauler sped
silently through the surreal interstellar void. Within the ornate corridors and luxurious suites beneath its
metallic green hull a pretentiously synthesized low modulating roar gave the
passengers the impression that the process of simple space propulsion was much
more exciting and sexy than it really was at this moment.
The door of the C-deck reception lounge slid open and in
stepped a tall yellow humanoid with a wide stalk-eyed head, Firimo was a xetenu,
a goomun from the Mogun Heights of Xetii. Several days earlier the lanky xetenu
had come on board the star cruiser Spirumb Red to fill a temporary communications position and had been
unexpectedly thrust into directly assisting the eccentric genius who owned the
vessel. He’d been told the previous assistant had suddenly quit citing some
sort of egregious mistreatment. The
new studio assistant job paid much better but Firimo still did not know quite
what would be expected of him from his new employer, the eccentric, ingenious
and notoriously famous designer known only as Fugi.
As Firimo quickly entered the
lavishly eclectic lounge he was startled to encounter another being. In the dim
corner a short figure was relaxing with a self-illuminating magazine on a
regally overstuffed chair. “Ah, B’cheez! Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in
here.”
“Oh, hi. I'm-…” he put aside the
glowing periodical and cleared his throat a bit, “I'm Yzo. I'm uh....” By this
point the indescript Yzo had unfolded and risen from the chair and stepped
forward into the light extending an elegantly masculine hand.
Firimo could now see Yzo was
another xetenu like himself, much taller than he had first thought and
extremely attractive. “You’re one of the models?” Firimo inferred.
“Yes! You got it. I guess I'm modeling the
new project.”
“Ah,
I see. Everyone’s being very secretive. What ‘s it look like?”
“I'm not really sure yet.” Yzo
said with a nervous grin that momentarily flashed his flawless and beguiling
smile.
“Oh,” Firimo said, momentarily
distracted by the slightly exotic and sophisticated accent that Yzo spoke in, and
then awkwardly added, “I heard it was some weird material or something.”
“Oh,
ya? Huh! …some wild stuff. So …
what’s your name?”
“Oh sorry. I’m F’rimo, …I'm the
new studio assistant.” he added trying to quickly throw the conversation into
the correct context. Firimo had to admit that Yzo was quite good looking, but
he was also finding Yzo unusually and inexplicably charming. It was making him
feel a little off balance.
“I guess we’ll be working together then. We should probably get
to know each other, broog.” Yzo had invoked
a trendy xetenu buddy term in an overly casual and masculine way. He turned to
the Dargonah-matic in the corner to quickly program it: hot, thick, spicy, “Black or brown?”
It easily could have been a
common Xetenese dialect they chatted in and for sure there was a smattering of
various xetenu words and phrases exchanged but for the most part they spoke as
all diverse alien beings, in the popular language of the ruling galactic
empress. The universal adoption of this rather bland and ugly idiom was at
first in honor of the emperor’s new bride as she strangely spoke no other. Of
course as most species throughout the
universe have little problem adapting to other languages, it was only a matter
of it becoming fashionable to popularize the royal lingo for all public
conversation. Unfortunately the language shift slowly became mandatory as the selfish
empress moved from a powerless figurehead to a dominant ruling force. If anyone
had bothered to look at her planets history they would have noticed it was also
a very similar process that had condensed and whittled away at all of the other
languages on that world until only this one remained.
Hours had passed as the shiny
green ship arced through space. A sticky spoon jangled on a drip stained saucer.
Firimo had become quite relaxed talking to the handsome and beguiling Yzo. It
seemed they had quite similar backgrounds. But really the two were quite
different.
“F’rimo, there’s something you
should know … about me,“ Yzo set aside the empty dargonah mug and leaned a
little closer.
Firimo froze in horrific
anticipation of Yzo’s next action. Had the attractive model interpreted their simple
casual conversation to have romantic overtones? Of course! He’d said too much,
shown way too much personal interest! How could he have been so careless? And
now he had to think fast to control the situation and avert embarrassment, he
had to quickly clarify his feelings. Firimo shot up off the couch and backed
away, “Woa broog, I know where you’re going, and that’s fine but I don’t go
that way! I like to glag chicks… with big tee-tas!”
“Huh?
Oh… yes. Of course you do,” Yzo chuckled a little.
Incidentally the term glag was
not Xetenese but actually an older term from the Empress’s language. Derived
from the name of an ancient extinct corporation called Glagol, it was once the
key to an interconnected information super-system. Seeking information on said
system was called glagoling and the term slowly worked its way into the place
of a common rude phrase. If an unwitting person did not understand a reference
in conversation they were tersely told to ‘go glagol it!’ But the Glagol system
eventually became so complex and full of misinformation that it was soon akin
to telling a person to go get fucked, and thus the terms became interchangeable.
“Attention guests and crew,” a pleasing automated voice chimed out breaking the
tension. “Next stop Space customs, Sector J. Space Customs Sector J.”
“Ok, I better be going. I think this is my cross-route,” Yzo
said. It seemed awkward, but only for reasons not exactly related to their
conversation. He rose and grabbing his things quickly slipped trough the
doorway.
Firimo was sure he had offended
the young attractive xet and would later agonize over it as he always seemed to,
never quite comfortable with his own conflicting thoughts.
The xetenu species had evolved
like most others in the universe with perfect self acceptance of its own
diverse socio-sexual configurations of genders. Guys with girls, girls with
girls, guys with guys… No problems. Reproduction always found a way and the
whole sexuality thing was simply a non-issue. This was the norm throughout the
universe. The norm, that was, until the Great Cataclysm altered the universe
and left many diverse and intelligent species as close galactic neighbors to
maybe the most selfishly obnoxious, twisted and infectious beings in all
creation; Humanity.
Xetenus among other species were
quickly sucked in to the flashy technology and the persuasive although skewed ideas
of the brownish pink bipeds that called themselves humans. It was only a sad
matter of time before warped human values taught many well balanced idyllic alien
societies to fear and hate, to shun and blame. It was no surprise that it was a
human that had managed to claw and manipulate her way into supreme galactic
power.
Firimo thought perhaps he should
go after Yzo and try to fix things somehow but he knew he’d probably just make
things worse and by now Yzo was probably leaving the docking bay or else busily
arranging to catch another ship at Space Customs.
In the pristine docking bay of
the Spirumb Red, Fugi himself was
hurrying on board an audaciously finned shuttle craft. He did not see the young
xet model his assistant had been talking to, and in fact there was really no
way they could have run into each other.
The Zeg-style shuttle was a
small two manned craft, and a pilot-bot in the driver’s seat was awaiting the famous
artist’s destination instructions. Fugi was just too famous to drive himself
anywhere and in reality he didn’t even know how. His genius and talent lay in a
completely different arena.
Destination sir?” the pilot-bot
rotated his photoreceptors toward Fugi but found he could not focus there for
long as he seemed to experience an input disturbance associated with the designers
traveling outfit. The glamorous ozme from Dark Planet frequently dressed in loud patterns and colors but this
for some reason was too much for the mecha-chauffeur to bear.
“Where
are we?”
“The
Spirumb Red is now approaching the J
sector cross-route, sir.”
The J sector cross route was a
little-known flaw in the Space Customs system that let small ships avoid search
and scanning while allowing some access to other sectors. Fugi had used the
sketchy route a few times in the past to smuggle exotic fabrics.
“Tremendous.
Take the cross route, we need to avoid as much attention as possible. Set
course for The Club.”
The Club. Cultural Mecca, meeting place for the brilliant and
talented, refreshing retreat for the spiritually exhausted, perpetual happy
hour. It was the greatest place in the remaining universe. Named for the planet
it was built on, Club Neopolsi was the true embodiment of paradise. The size of
a small mountain range, it functioned like a self sufficient nation unto
itself. A nation where diversity and harmony were one and the same and anyone
could find happiness and enlightenment. The desserts were also to die for.
During happier times the
majority of the population in the universe understood and upheld the principal
tenets of Club Neopolsi across nearly all worlds. But things had changed since
then and the attitudes of many individuals had been poisoned by manipulative,
less enlightened life forms previously out of contact with the rest of the
civilized universe. Club Neopolsi now stood as the last shining beacon of hope
in an ever-shrinking universe paralyzed by fear and oppression.
“I calculate this star-route to
be least optimum with a high danger factor. My recommendation is to pass
through Space Customs, Sir.” the pilot-bot cautioned with mechanical calmness. He
was well familiar with the reputation of the secret J sector course.
“No! No time for formalities,
just go,” Fugi insisted. Inside he was a little worried about the crew he was
leaving in charge while he embarked on this covert endeavor. His brother Drozi
was capable of running things but his methods were a bit self-indulgent.
Hopefully he wouldn’t screw things up. The new studio assistant would be a big
help if Drozi didn’t scare him away first thing. These things were not Fugi’s
to worry about now though and soon he would encounter an entirely different set
of problems all together.
