Page 11 of Warped
CHAPTER 11
A t approximately the same moment Binx is having the biggest orgasm of her life, and Rek is filling her with a sizable orgasm of his own, a group of men are walking through the door of the dirty, noisy club where Binx and Rek first met just a few short hours before.
Two of the men are dressed in black suits with black ties. The first one, Mikkelson, is a big man, but his partner, Lundgren, is bigger still, his pale skin tinged with blue. They both wear dark sunglasses, which they keep on even after they enter the dim confines of the club. The shades are not to protect their eyes, but to hide them. The faint red glow of the augmetic implants tends to startle ordinary civilians. Sometimes that is useful, sometimes not. Hence the shades.
The third man is smaller, of average build. His bespoke suit is gray, and his silk tie costs more than all the other men’s clothes put together. In fact, it costs nearly as much as their eye implants. His own eyes—ordinary human eyes which are the same gray color as his suit—survey his surroundings with disgust.
Then there’s the last man. The Psi-hound.
Of the four, he is the smallest by far. Frail too. His thin shoulder blades protrude against the fabric of his T-shirt, and his joints are knobby and fragile looking. His head and face are devoid of hair. Even his eyebrows and lashes are gone.
They are, to say the least, an odd-looking quartet, but in a club filled with smoke and booze and half-naked gyrating women, they fail to attract much attention. Nobody gives them a second glance as they stand by the entrance, scanning the room.
The man in the gray suit wrinkles his nose as if he just smelled a fart.
“Bianca would never hang out in a shithole like this,” he says.
It is Mikkelson who answers.
“If the Psi-hound says this is the place, then this is the place. What’s the matter, Stan? Worried that little girlfriend of yours isn’t as innocent as you thought?” He grins. “I doubt it’s the first time you slept with a whore.”
“Watch your mouth,” the man in the gray suit snaps. “Don’t forget who you work for.”
Mikkelson’s smile turns cold.
“I answer directly to the Board of Directors, Stan. You might be higher than me on the proverbial corporate ladder, but when it comes to this mission, I’m in charge. Hell, you’re lucky the Board even let you live after a fuckup like the one you made.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that bitch would go snooping through my personal messages like that?”
Mikkelson just shrugs.
“Well she did, and now we’ve got to find her before she tries to tell anyone else about what she learned. The only reason you’re here, Stan, is because you were banging her, and the Board thinks you might be able to persuade her to come peacefully once we catch up with her. Until then, I suggest you keep your mouth shut and let us professionals do our job. Capeesh? ”
Stanley’s face burns. He starts to say something, then changes his mind and adjusts his tie instead. The expensive silk is like a security blanket, reminding him of how much money he has, and therefore how superior he is to everyone else in the room.
Satisfied, Mikkelson turns his attention to the Psi-hound.
“Alright, so she came to this dive… then what?”
“Hard to say,” the small man answers in a voice barely audible over the pounding music.
His big, lashless eyes are staring hungrily at one of the dancers on a platform nearby. The front of his pants is tented with an erection. It is the only part of him that isn’t small.
“Can’t get a lock,” he says. “Too much noise .”
Mikkelson knows he isn’t just talking about the music.
“Let’s fix that,” he says.
The four men make their way to the bar at the back of the room. When the bartender finally comes over, it is Mikkelson who does the talking. Options are presented. Two of them. The first involves a sum of money. The second involves a gun. Both are displayed, to let the bartender know that business is meant.
The bartender, being wiser than he looks, chooses the money.
He picks up a remote from behind the bar and kills the music. Then, using the PA system, he informs everyone that the club is closing early. The announcement is met with drunken protests, but once the lights come on and the dancers have retreated back to their dressing rooms, the crowd quickly disperses. Soon, the establishment is quiet and still.
“Thank you,” Mikkelson says.
He takes his phone out of his pocket and taps at the screen. A holographic image projects onto the surface of the bar. A miniature depiction of a woman with fair skin and long black hair. Her blue eyes glitter like a pair of sapphires. Her curves are obvious, even under her conservative office wear.
“Have you seen this woman?” Mikkelson asks. “We have reason to believe she came here sometime in the past couple hours.”
The bartender raises his bushy eyebrows and frowns.
“We get a buncha folks in here. All kinds. Can’t expect me to remember ’em all. ’Course, if you were willing to gimme a little more cash, it might jog my—”
“Lundgren.”
The big man takes out his pistol and aims it at the tip of the bartender’s bulbous nose.
“We already discussed the options available to you,” says Mikkelson. “You chose the money. Are you changing your mind?”
“N-no!” the bartender blurts. “P-please!”
“Very well then. The woman. When was she here?”
“’Bout two hours ago. She was wearing a long trench coat, which I thought was funny. Pretty girl like that, you wouldn’t expect her to cover up her body. Anyway, she ordered a drink, then she sat down at that table where your little buddy’s sitting right now.”
Indeed, the Psi-hound is already at Binx’s table, sitting in the exact same chair where she sat a few hours before.
“Did she meet anyone?” Mikkelson asks.
“I didn’t see. I swear. Things got busy for a minute, and when I turned around she was gone. She was a real looker. Wouldn’t be surprised if some fella took her home.”
Stanley’s face reddens, but he says nothing.
“Got security cameras in this place?” Mikkelson asks.
“We do, but they don’t work. Rats chewed through the cables a while back.”
“Great,” says Mikkelson, and he turns to look at the Psi-hound. “Well?”
The little man doesn’t answer right away. He just sits stock still at the table, giving no indication that he heard Mikkelson speak. After a full minute, he finally says something.
“What did she order?”
“A Shirley Temple,” says the bartender.
The Psi-hound smiles faintly.
“A Shirley Temple. How interesting. Please make me one, exactly as you made it for her.”
The bartender prepares the drink. It only takes him a few seconds. A glass of ice. Some lemon-lime soda. A splash of grenadine. A cherry. He carries it over to the Psi-hound and sets it on the table in front of him. Then he quickly retreats behind the bar again. There is something about that small, frail man that frightens the bartender even more than the big guy with the gun.
The Psi-hound lifts the drink and holds it up to the light like a connoisseur studying a fine wine. He sniffs it, takes a sip.
As the sweetness of the drink suffuses his tongue, he lets his mind unfurl. After a while, images begin to form, cloudy at first, but soon resolving themselves into a greater clarity. A large man stands over him, smiling. A handsome man, with a dark beard and pale blue skin.
“She met a warper,” he says. “They left together for his ship.”
This time, Mikkelson doesn’t just chuckle; he guffaws. He claps Stanley’s shoulder.
“A warper! Damn, that’s rough, man. Bet he’s got his big blue dick down her throat as we speak. Who knows, maybe a pair of them are giving it to her from both ends. They say those warpers like to share their women, ain’t that right, Lundgren?”
The big man doesn’t say anything.
Neither does Stan. He just wrenches his shoulder away from Mikkelson’s grip and glowers.
“It’s a clever move on her part,” Mikkelson goes on. “A ticket on a passenger liner would have been easy to trace. ’Course, she wasn’t counting on us having our very own Psi-hound.”
The Psi-hound takes another sip of his drink and nods.
“The trail will be easier to follow once we’re in the Warp,” he says. “The scent is always much stronger there.”
“That’s good,” says Mikkelson. “But if we’re heading into the Warp, we’ll need company.”
He looks at the bartender again.
“Call those dancers back out here. My friends and I would like to hire a few of them to accompany us on a little business trip.”
“My dancers?” the bartender says. “But they ain’t for hire!”
Mikkelson smiles coldly.
“Mister, everyone’s for hire if the price is right.”