Of all the castaways of this Solarian society on the road to perdition, the Freaks were certainly the most to be pitied. Their misfortune dated back to the post-WWII progress in genetic modeling that allowed the ‘wise and kind’ sapiens to reconfigure their own DNA. From sexual perversion or scientific curiosity emerged half-human/half-animal mutants. And all it took was bean-sized pills and a dose of gamma radiation straight from a Sci-fi pulp magazine.
However, the mad scientists of Earth ignored that these unholy mutations would reappear decades later as broken souls from perfectly human-looking parents and grandparents found themselves endowed with tails, horns or snouts. Often mocked like fairs’ biological rarities and sometimes hunted like beasts, the Jovian moon of Amalthea became the Freaks’ hideout in our wonderful Lunar-ruled apartheid.
“A glass of Y.T., bokkie?” asked the wasp-sized waitress with the local creole accent. She winked and I gladly accepted. The Darwin’s Palace’s milk, the biggest cabaret of Amalthea Bay, was a pure wonder unlike that diluted plaster brewed on Chaldene; probably because of the rum spike.
The evening was ending and the night spot was still full. In the thick smoke of 0G-grown tobacco, a magnificently monstrous audience savored tapas and alcohol while being entertained by the brazenly synthpop rhythm of the Pet Shop Boys, currently on stage.
As a salvo of applause concluded the two dog-Freaks’ performance, I could use the dim light one last time to reach my Salem pack. But when I took a cigarette out to calm my growing migraine, a colossus with aurochs horns snorted behind me.
“Ag, man! Can’t you stop puffing this childish crap and get yourself something real between the fangs? Like a true Freak,” he nagged, chewing his large cigar.
“Is this a pick-up line?” I replied immediately. “Are you making advances?”
Bovine-face widened his eyes as his hyena-headed friends burst out laughing, clapping their fists on the table. However, I regretted possessing a ready tongue. This wasn’t a good time to start a fight, and Buffalo Bill was already furiously rummaging inside his pilot jacket. Luckily, he didn’t pull out a weapon, but a chrome Zippo to light my cig.
“Eish! You have bigge’ balls than half the cunts on that orbit, pussycat!” he apologized while waving to another long-horned waitress. “Oi, Annika, sweet Annika! Bring us a round of pints… and anothe’ glass of milk fo’ the little bra down he’!”
As the two hyena-Freaks stuck our two tables together, the chandeliers suddenly went out, plunging the room into darkness. Far at my right, the eight-armed pianist cracked his joints, and Maurice, the club’s winged dodo-boss, clumsily asked for silence.
“He’ we go, little bra! Fasten you’ seatbelt! These lekker girls are damn fly, you’ll see!” whispered my new rustic friend, before grabbing our drinks directly from the waitress’s plate.
The first piano notes accompanied Ali and Zéphyr, standing on the stage under a blueish spotlight’s burning light. The Freaks only welcomed a few pure-born Homo sapiens on Amalthea’s orbit other than for trade, but my partner and the Data Maiden were different; they were closer to tigers than bald monkeys. That night, they wore black fedoras, black sunglasses and black suits. I laughed so hard when they started their goofy dance that I almost missed Ali’s following intro echoing through the orchestra’s heady trumpets:
And please remember Jovian people, that no matter who you are
And what you do to live, thrive and survive
There are still some things that make us all the same
You, me, them, everybody, everybody…
Ali and Zéphyr hit the boards with their black loafers to accompany each note. As the androgyne’s chorus struck, the entire room sang with her:
Everybody needs somebody
Everybody needs somebody to love—someone to love
Sweetheart to miss—sweetheart to miss
Sugar to kiss—sugar to kiss
I need you, you, you…
The last row was standing on the counter. That evening was a pinnacle as the Outer System hadn’t seen in years.
Less than an hour later, Maurice stormed into the dressing room, almost making me fall from the wardrobe facing the door: “What a show! You mystified them all, mes amours!”
Sat at the table, back to the round mirror surrounded by light bulbs and faded photographs from the club’s former glory, Ali threw away her cleansing wipe to take the plastic glass of boozy milkshake Maurice handed her. “You think he’ll show up this evening?” At the same time, Zéphyr preferred sneaking outside through the window for a smoke.
The chubby angel had forgotten once more the real purpose of these performances. “I already told you, petite. He rarely leaves his secret lair,” he avowed as Ali took off her white shirt. “You’re playing with fire.” The owner then nervously tapped the edge of his glass. He finally withdrew, leaving it behind.
A few seconds after the man-dodo passed the door, we heard a knock. This time appeared the long-awaited Harvey Hermann, with his dark bulging eyes and squared turtle jaw. Apart from the brown shell he wore on his back, the rest of his body remained human under his white three-piece suit. This lecherous reptile-Freak appeared to be one of the most powerful music producers on Amalthea; and the main reason for our temporary residence at the Darwin’s. “Greetings! May I come in?” he croaked.
“Of course, Monsieur Harvey,” my sapiens futilely replied because Hermann was already waddling towards her.
“Where is your friend? Will she join us?”
“Taking some fresh air,” Ali went on, as the window clapped behind us. Zéphyr was back; but not in the visible world thanks to her upgraded holosuit. “Would you like a sip, Monsieur Harvey?”
She offered him the cup Maurice forgot, and together they drank. The gaze oscillating between the eyes and the bare breasts of my human, the man-turtle congratulated her for her performance. As expected, the conversation quickly drifted and he already had his free hand anchored on Ali’s right thigh. Harvey Hermann would never change.
Disgusted yet amused, my sapiens’s didn’t go along much longer. “Would you mind if my squeeze joins us to spice things up, salad eater?”
Something flickered behind Hermann—like hot air above the highway’s asphalt—betraying Zéphyr. When the Maiden placed her burning palms on the Freak’s shoulders, making him jump, Ali grabbed her Desert Eagle previously hidden under the desk and pressed it under the pervert’s chin.
Hermann’s gaze shifted from lustful amusement to frustration. “Such a bootless effort, filthy human whores!” the turtle-Freak boasted, licking his wide chin. “As soon as I am handed over to the authorities, I shall be released. On Amalthea, I am untouchable.”
Slightly appearing, Zéphyr provoked him: “Oh, yeah? Yet I hesitate to do so. And in places where you don’t necessarily want to.”
“We’ll see about that with the marshal once in his office,” I declared from my spot, letting my human handcuff this elusive catch.
It was before I heard a slam as someone had violently opened the backstage artiste lounge’s door. “No need to go to his office,” boomed out a familiar voice. Captain Braun didn’t wear his blue uniform from the Military Police and was dressed in civilian attire: a synthetic brown leather jacket on his shoulders and a pair of weighted boots matching his beige pants. He bore resemblance to one of these archeologists from old Hollywood productions; but without the whip, as it would have been in bad taste on Jupiter V.
“Rasputin! What’s your damage?” Ali exclaimed, grabbing the first towel at hand to cover herself as the androgyne immediately disappeared again. My partner then taunted the Marine as she took her black body folded on a stack of props: “Tired of jailing innocent people, you’re a Techno-Marshal now?”
“Don’t be foolish!” the Soviet retorted before glancing where the Data Maiden stood. It was a matter of seconds before he could discern the steamy silhouette, and we were relieved when he chose to carry on: “Marshal Easter is outside. I came to fetch you.” Seeing Ali getting dressed, he turned around to reach the door. “And you can release this scaled scoundrel. We have a bigger fish to fry, you and I.”
I waited for Braun to leave before imploding. “What ‘fish’ is Soviet-boy’s talking about? It was hard enough to trap Donatello, and now we have to set him free?” Meanwhile, Hermann guffawed; proud of taking advantage of his notoriety once again. He made one last cutting remark before leaving the Darwin’s for good, hobbling in pain.
Ali sighed, “Take a chill pill. You’re not the one he almost molested with his Sarlacc tongue…” She then grabbed her pink jacket, and quickly combed her blond hair.
My deuteragonist was right; complaining was useless. We had to see what the marshal and Braun—whom we hadn’t encountered since our misadventures in the belt—had in mind to let the turtle run away.
Zéphyr finally turned off her suit and became visible again. She was gasping for air. Steam was coming out of her mouth and nose. “We—we were very close to a—huge catastrophe,” she coughed as her white eyes flickered.
“Are you alright?” Ali asked, helping her take off the holosuit with care.
Zéphyr withdrew both her arms from her attire which started to glimmer. “I don’t know. Should I be jealous of you and Kamirov going on a date?”
“Braun’s not my style,” Ali obviously lied.
Sitting on a second chair, almost breaking the plastic legs with her augmented body made of black steel, Zéphyr laughed. “Damn, girl! We both know that your sexual preference is summarily ‘yes’.”
My sapiens frowned, arms crossed, “That didn’t bother you until now.”
“I’m messing with you,” Zéphyr resumed, cautiously dusting the holosuit. “As for me, I still need to run after Hermann.”
Ali passed the androgyne a cup that started melting in her hand. “When will we see each other again?” She seemed upset.
“I don’t know—after that, I need to go to Mars, so… maybe eight—six months.” Zéphyr looked down then drank some sparkling wine that almost evaporated when it touched her lips. “I’d love to kiss you goodbye but—”
Ali beat her to it. Leaping on the Maiden’s lap, she kissed her despite Zéphyr’s dark coating being nearly white-hot. “But?” my copilot asked, her skin reddened.
“That hurts…” the Maiden said, brushing her finger over Ali’s chapped lips.
Ali smiled before kissing her again. “Big time.”
Squinting, I tried to figure out what was happening. Humans are weird.
