Space Opera (Space Opera 1)

“Fine, fine, doesn’t matter. Pint of lager. Nothing simpler.”

The Yurtmak Devourer of Spleens sighed. His vestigial ears oozed pheremonal wax. He turned around, bound and determined not to let go of that cocktail glass, the one thing he felt reasonably good about. He held it up next to a bottle labeled CHERRY SCHNAPPS. Then he started to cry.

“Oh, come on, I can see the taps right there!” Decibel snapped in frustration.

“Don’t shout at me!”

“I thought this was supposed to be the South Wharf Hilton, all done up special for us, mint condition! I have personally gotten completely, totally, paleolithically drunk at that very establishment, and I distinctly recall that the first step to success in that regard was pulling a measly pint of lousy beer.”

“You’re supposed to be nice to me!” Yilgar Bloodtub sobbed in abject embarrassment. Bloody tears dripped down over his muzzle. “You’re supposed to be on best behavior because we’re all judging you, and if you think I don’t get a vote tomorrow, you’re very seriously mistaken, you muppet. You can’t talk to me like that! You’re descended from bonobos. I’m descended from Goguenar Gorecannon on my mum’s side, and I’m not even making that up! I don’t need to impress a bonobo. I kill nicer boys than you for fun.”

Decibel Jones deftly sensed that he was losing control of the situation. “All right, you’re right, we’re just having a chat about mixology, aren’t we? Come on, darling, we can do this. We can get through this together. Life is challenge. Just grab a glass and hold it under the tap and pull. Believe and achieve! I saw you make something way fancier than a pint for that Alunizar back there.”

“No, you don’t understand. That was a Long Slow Wormhole Up Against the Wall with a twist—I know how to make that, everyone loves those. I’ve got all the ingredients right here. Oh, do you want that? Only I don’t know if you have the blood chemistry for it. How many proteins encode your DNA? Under six and I’m supposed to get you to sign a waiver.”

“I’ll give it a miss.”

“These aren’t taps, see?” Yilgar waggled a big wooden Boddingtons tap. Nothing came out, but a trapdoor opened over by a guild of Lummutis. They peered over at it, then awarded themselves five points each. “They don’t connect to kegs. It’s all for show. We rather thought you’d never ask. You’re supposed to be professionals. You know alcohol is bad for your throat. Wrecks your mid-range tone. We just tipped a lot of our hooch into your bottles and called it a job well done. It’s like Great-Aunt Goguenar’s Sixth Unkillable Fact: ‘Everything just gets so fucked up sometimes and the natural resting state of reality is not to make any goddamned sense if it can help it and you’ve just got to accept that because it’s not going to get any better from here on in.’?”

Decibel Jones felt as though he might just have to have a scream if he had to listen to one more life lesson from something that looked like a zoo tossed into a blender. He made mournful eyes at the fake taps. “Isn’t there anything I can drink back there?”

Yilgar Bloodtub squatted down and rummaged under the bar. Jones heard a lot of scraping, knocking, and at least one distinct cry for help before the Yurtmak reemerged with a mug of hot tea, a pot of honey, and a fat lemon wedge. He gave Dess a meaningful, motherly look.

“Careful, it’s hot. Now, look, I’m sorry about my little cry. It’s only because I wanted to bite your face in half and I’ve already been written up twice for maiming the punters so I just didn’t have any other emotional outlet available to me. So. The score is this: even though you yelled at me at my place of business, we Yurtmak remember what it was like when we were new and living with the possibility of everything we’d ever built being summarily vaporized on account of a bum note. We’re all pulling for you. Team Human.”

“Christ, really? I didn’t think anyone was. Except maybe Clippy. And the roadrunner. I don’t really know what’s going on between Öö and Oort except double vowels, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t extend to the masses. That’s such a relief to hear, you have no idea. It’s a tough room out there.”

Nessuno Uuf, the brutally elegant Smaragdi performance artist who had so recently and efficiently condemned the better part of human history, sidled up and leaned a pronged elbow against the bar. The low lights glowed against her glossy armored plates. “Hey, sailor,” she said silkily in the direction of Decibel Jones. “This contemptible vermin has been looking for you. Buy a worthless conversational Dumpster fire a drink?”

“Fuzzy Ruutu?” Yilgar offered. The Smaragdin didn’t much seem to care either way. Her eyes were the most extraordinary violet slits.

“Listen, about all that lion business back there,” she began. “We all have traumatic puberties . . .”

“Don’t apologize, you were very fair.” Dess sipped his tea. “The defense will stipulate that we’re rubbish. Genocidal meatbags with mummy issues and embarrassingly poor impulse control. As far as quality housemates to be found on Planet Earth, it goes: dolphins, elephants, orangutans, octopi, then every single spider, then Joan of Arc, the Dalai Lama, Mr. Rogers, Freddie Mercury, my nan, all the scorpions, German measles, a dented recycling bin, and then maybe some of the rest of us. It’s grim.”

Nessuno’s remarkable eyes went all wide and warm and soft. She put one severe three-fingered hand on his elbow. “Mr. Jones, are you trying to seduce me?”

“I’ll tell you what, darling. If low self-esteem and public humiliation is your bag, Earth may not be such a raw deal for you.”

“How fascinating that you should say so. Perhaps this untitled monochrome canvas in the museum of politico-cultural relevance might have reason to travel there one day soon.”

“I don’t know what’s in this tea, Yilgar, you charmer.” He peered into the mug. “Honesty, I s’pose. Look, Nessie, my love, the way it’s headed, in about twenty-four hours, the only reason to visit Earth will be if you’re really, really into squirrels.”

“Perhaps very soon.”

“I’ll alert the squirrels.”

The ivory Smaragdin glanced over at Yilgar Bloodtub. “Mr. Jones, do try to focus. This morally depraved dishrag is, perhaps unsurprisingly, given that her soul is a continually oozing oil spill, for sale.”

“Me too,” chirped the Yurtmak bartender. “Though my soul is more of a piñata full of knives.”

Decibel blinked. “What do you mean?”

Nessuno Uuf spread her beautiful claws. “The Smaragdi are members of the Octave. We have significant voting power in the Grand Prix. The Yurtmak are not, but they have a great deal of influence with the smaller specie

s, since they tend to start hitting one another with shovels when they can’t agree on what constitutes good art.”

“I don’t know why that bothers everyone so much.” Yilgar wiped ichor off his chin with a bar napkin. “We’d never shovel you. We keep it Yurtmak. How else are you supposed to deal with people who like terrible things? Hit them with a shovel till they stop, that’s how. That should be the thirtieth Unkillable Fact, I tell you what.”