I closed my eyes and sighed; the Dragon was a petite little Cambodian girl, with attractive almond-shaped eyes and a nearly perfect face. She was also one of the most skilled dominatrixes in the entire System, and our highest-priced attraction. Even when not dressed for work she tended to pour out torrents of abuse at the slightest provocation. When all done up in leather, however, she was absolutely intolerable. The Dragon seemed to instinctively know what really hurt and what did not. Even worse, she didn’t seem to care.
“I’ll get right on it,” I assured her. “Just give me a few minutes to-”
“You will do it now,” the Dragon declared flatly, her eyes flashing behind the black mask. “And this time you will do it right, to my entire satisfaction.” She fingered her whip threateningly.
Jeanine was standing just behind the Dragon; she was an ex-male with seven fully functional vaginas inset into various parts of her anatomy, and the nearest thing that the Dragon had to a friend. I met her eyes and she nodded slightly, then placed her hand on the Dragon’s leather-clad shoulder. “All right,” I agreed. “I’ll go make my walkaround, then get right on it. I have to do the walkaround, for safety reasons. You know that, don’t you?”
The Dragon looked at me suspiciously. I was technically the captain of the Henhouse, as the only certified pilot and able spacer. The dominatrix knew this, though it pained her deeply to be reminded of it. “All right,” she agreed at last, placing her black-gloved hand delicately over Jeanine’s. “But this time, you will fix it properly!”
“Yes, ma’am” I agreed humbly. Then I climbed the drop-shaft just as quickly as I possibly could. I got quite enough abuse just being the Pussy Pilot, thankyouverymuch.. I didn’t need any help from the Dragon.
“Hey Marvin!” Marilyn called out as I tried to sneak past the bar. “Wait up a minute!”
I sighed and complied, even though the first elevator-load of guests was already making its way down to our level. “What?” I asked, probably more abruptly than was necessary.
Marilyn pouted her lips. She was a living replica of Marilyn Monroe, and the effect was impressive. “It’s nothing,” she said softly. “Just that you’re due for a pill. And that I was hoping you could play something special for me tonight.”
Oops! I’d forgotten all about the pill. The Rooster’s Roost sold a lot more than just alcohol, much of it in the form of various traditional powders to be inhaled. There were hallucinogens, amphetamines, downers, and a thousand different aphrodisiacs of varying qualities and potency. As our customers grew more and more inebriated, they tended to become quite sloppy with their drugs. Anyone who worked anywhere in the Henhouse had to take a special pill once a week lest the second-hand effects render them hors de combat just when they were needed most. I smiled at Marilyn with the flexible corners of my beak, then took the proffered pill and followed it down with a cup of cold water. “Thanks,” I said. “What do you need me to play for you?”
“’Happy Birthday’” is all,” she explained modestly. “Just at midnight. It’s for a very special customer, you see. I’d use a recording, but…”
“Right,” I agreed, nodding sadly. I had a love-hate relationship with the piano these days. I’d always been a moderately talented pianist, and loved the instrument deeply. Indeed, Beauregard had spent a lot more time listening to my piano playing than checking out my piloting credentials before hiring me. On the other hand, I’d never exactly aspired to be a whorehouse pianist, and even worse it was because of my musical abilities that Beauregard had inserted the chicken-thing into my contract. The only good thing about it was that it earned me some extra pay that I needed very, very badly. “I’ll take care of it for you, Mar” I said with a smile.
“Right at midnight!” she insisted. “Please?”
“Unless I have to be somewhere else,” I promised. “You know how that goes.”
She dimpled, just exactly like her namesake. “Sure,” she replied. “We all understand, Marvin. You work so very hard!” Then she threw me a kiss, and I sort of melted inside. There were probably a thousand Marilyns working in the bordellos of the System, I thought to myself as I dropped down through the boudoir level and into the tiny control room. Maybe more than a thousand. But ours was certainly the sweetest.
Interplanetary safety standards required that certain automatic readings be verified manually at least once a day, and I usually took care of this chore right after docking. The Henhouse was equipped with the two widely-separated duplicate control rooms required by the same law, but I almost always took my readings in this one. That was because the duplicate control room was in the Henhouse’s other half, which nowadays was almost never occupied. It was taken up with various storerooms, tankage, air plants and the like, along with the now-defunct and derelict gay bar. Indeed, probably no one ever visited the other half at all except me on my standard monthly checks. The last time that I’d visited the other control room, everything had been covered in a thin film of dust.
Today everything checked out quickly; the machines’ readings agreed with my own down to three decimal places. The intercom rang just as I was finishing up. “It’s the Dragon,” Jeanine whispered into the phone. In the background I could hear a woman’s voice screaming incoherently in rage, along with the sound of things crashing and breaking. “She’s supposed to be trussing up her first client right about now, and I think she’s a little upset at the delay.”
“Right,” I agreed, allowing my head to collapse up against a bulkhead. “I’ll be right up.”
Our star dominatrix was indeed a little upset, I could tell when I climbed up the single flight of stairs to The Dungeon. Various bits of porcelain and plastic littered the normally spic-and-span floor, and the Dragon herself was exercising her whip, making it snap and crackle in a blood-curdling fashion as I stepped in.
“The damn thing is still squeaking!” she declared angrily, not deigning to face me. “I am supposed to be humiliating five of the most disgustingly inferior creatures I’ve ever attempted to train! How can I possibly work amidst all of this clamor? I am an artist, not a mere whore!”
I cocked my head and listened. Sure enough, there was a faint, intermittent “squeak, squeak, squeak” emerging from the Dragon’s main air vent. One of the air system’s primary blowers was located just behind her wall, I knew. I’d fixed a very similar problem with a squirt of oil just last Tuesday. Somehow, though, this squeak sounded a bit different than that one had. I twisted the lock nuts on the access panel ninety degrees, then swung it open.
There was dust and dirt everywhere; what a mess! The electro-filter had failed utterly, and so much crud had built up that the motor was overheating. “Geez!” I muttered under my breath. “What a lousy time for this happen!”
The Dragon turned imperiously towards me and raised a single elegant eyebrow behind her black mask.
“Look,” I said defensively. “This is gonna take maybe an hour. There’s no choice; the air system is the air system, after all. I can’t just put it back like it was.”
“All right,” she replied.
I let out a relieved sigh. She might be so far around the bend that there wasn’t any looking back, but at least the Dragon understood about the need for air in space. “I’ll have to replace the filter,” I explained. “Then, once I clean up the crud around the motor, everything will probably work just fine. There’s a spare part up in storage.”
“I understand,” she replied, turning her back once more. “What more can one expect from an insignificant worm such as yourself?” Then she turned to Jeanine. “Come,” she directed. “We will relocate temporarily into Christine’s old room. I am an artist; I can improvise.” Then they both were gone, and I was able to work in peace at last. It was very difficult to get anything done with the Dragon looking over my shoulder, very difficult indeed.