Beach Party - Part 2 of 4: Hang Ten

Unlike the other drinking establishments on the Promenade, the Castaway was situated on the beach itself, near the steps to the Boardwalk, for which Stalac was grateful, already aware that his presence was, to be delicate, unconventional for most people not used to seeing a Horta. He slithered inside, recognising the Polynesian furnishings from Terran films, and prepared to have to raise the volume on his voder unit to get the attention of one of the staff.

But one of them came around from behind the bar to meet him. It was a rotund human male, with a belly even bigger than Captain Hrelle’s, with receding blonde hair, a jowly face and a broad nose and grin, dressed in white slacks, a blue T-shirt and a black cap. “Hello there, Little Buddy! Welcome to the Castaway! I’m Jonas Grumby, your Skipper on a Three Hour Tour of the finest drinks available at Party Beach! What can I do for you?”

Stalac paused, not accustomed to such a casual acceptance from someone not part of the Surefoot, but then he supposed it was the sign of a good proprietor. “Hello to you too, uh, Skipper. I was wondering if I could order a round for my friends? And, uh, if someone could deliver them as well? I’m a little too lumpy to work as a drinks tray.”

The Skipper bellowed with laughter. “Sure, Little Buddy, no problemo! What can I get you?”

Stalac considered what he knew his friends liked. “A Pina Colada, an Ice Vesper, two Panther Pilsners, and a Buzz Beer.”

“Sure, sure! So, which one’s your poison?”

“Me? None of them, as alcohol has no effect on me. My biochemistry is silicon-based rather than carbon-based like yourself. I ingest minerals, and none are intoxicating.”

The Skipper frowned now. “Really? That doesn’t seem fair! You have a right to get hammered just like everyone else!”

The Horta rumbled with some amusement. “I cannot argue that, never having experienced intoxication, but perhaps it’s for the best that I remain sober, to assist my friends and keep them out of trouble-”

“No!” The Skipper slapped his thigh, his eyes bright with joviality. “I won’t accept that! No one leaves the Castaway unsatisfied!” He pointed a finger at Stalac. “Give me a couple of minutes to come up with something! If I can, then you pose for a holopicture with me to put on our wall! If I can’t, then your friends get free drinks here for the rest of the day! What do you say?”

Stalac considered the offer. He genuinely did not believe that there was something out there that was intoxicating for his people; his race’s attributes were too radical for such a notion. And he was certain his squad would appreciate the free drinks. “Challenge accepted.”

*

Zir glanced around the space where her squad had been. An hour ago, they were all together, prepared to spend the day lounging about, sunning themselves and enjoying the sea air. Now Peter was off on a Bumpers Call, Astrid probably the same, Urad was stuffing his huge maw somewhere, Tori disappeared, and now Stalac was gone, ostensibly for drinks… but more likely wanting to get away from her-

“Hey there.”

She barely moved her head, glancing over her sunglasses at the silhouette of a young human male, who had swaggered up to her. “What?”

She couldn’t see the grin on his face, but could hear it as he asked, “Have you got a medikit? ‘Cause I scraped my knee falling for you.”

Zir ground her teeth. “Sorry, you’re going to have to take care of yourself. Fortunately you look like you have a lot of experience doing that.”

He stood there for a heartbeat, before turning away, muttering something nasty just loud enough for her to hear. Zir looked away. Yeah, you’re quite the catch yourself, asshole. Please come back sometime when you can’t stay so long.

This was annoying. She experienced similar reactions in the infrequent times she ventured forth from the grounds of Starfleet Academy in San Francisco to tour other parts of Earth. Only the presence of her best friend Stalac served as a buffer from unwanted attention-

“Hey there.”

Her hands gripped the arms of her deckchair until they turned a darker shade of olive. Finally she looked up at a human male who appeared old enough to be her father, clad in swimgear that left nothing to the imagination, and was a skin tone strikingly similar to the colour of those suspicious-looking frankfurters favoured by Tori and Urad. “What?”

“You’re Orion, aren’t you?” he asked.

“No. I’m just green with envy at anyone you’re not talking to.”

He laughed, and took a place beside her unbidden, reclining on his side; closer now, she could see every curl of grey hair on his chest and arms, and even ones in his ears, reminding her of some sort of bear-like creature suffering from hair loss. “My name’s Dave. I’m in real estate.”

“Amazing,” she lied.

“Yes. Do you come here often?”

“One too many times, in fact.”

His face creased, as he tried to work out what she meant, before pointing out, “I didn’t catch your name.”

Zir kept looking away, wondering why he wouldn’t take the hint like the others. “I mailed it to your home, you should go get it before we go any further.”

Dave laughed, before he leaned in, leering. “So... how’d you like to be my personal love slave?”

Her head finally turned towards him, and she raised her voice as much as she could without actually shouting. “DID YOU JUST SAY YOU WANTED TO RAPE ME?”

Heads around them turned in their direction, and the man drew back, startled. “What? NO! I never said-”

“Yes you did! You said you wanted me to be your slave! As in, I’d have no free will over whether or not you put your filthy hands on me! That’s rape!”

Now he was looking around anxiously, protesting as much for the benefit of their audience as for her. “NO! I mean, I never intended for it to be taken like that!”

She leaned in towards him, baring her teeth. “How the hell else can it it taken, you creepy pervert? You really think the notion of innocent women being treated like property, made to service the filthy desires of dirty old men like you is an appropriate pick-up line? You think because I’m Orion that I would enjoy being your so-called ‘love’ slave? That’s not love, dickhead!” After a pause, she demanded, “Is there a reason you’re still here? Or are you waiting to get your balls fed to you?”

The man struggled to help himself back to his feet and stumble hurriedly away, barely avoiding tripping over other beach patrons.

Zir forced herself to try and calm down. It didn’t work.

“Friend of yours?” asked a more familiar, if not much less unwelcome, voice.

Zir turned the other way, looking up at her fellow Squad Leader. “Definitely not. What do you want?”

Gamma Squad Leader Jexa-Naku stood there, in a modest-looking swimsuit customised for her Grazerite body, including the tight-fitting cloth cowl covering the two slightly curving ram-like horns on either side of her furrowed head, and carrying a tall thin glass with a shocking pink tropical drink topped with a tiny umbrella. “I came over to make sure you were okay. We Surefooters have to stick together, after all.”

“Yeah, right.” Her clashes with Jexa-Naku had been ongoing almost since they first stepped onboard the starship. She rubbed Zir up the wrong way in all possible ways: the other female’s snide remarks about Zir’s Orion origins, the unctuous behaviour Jexa displayed towards their superior officers, the constant references to her relative on the Federation Council, and the apparent resentment she had for Alpha Squad’s accomplishments. “But thank you anyway.”

Jexa-Naku made a show of glancing around. “A pity none of your friends bothered to stick around to offer you support. Did they have better things to do?”

“They had other things to do. We’re not all joined at the hip like some.”

“You could have fooled the rest of us. Alpha Squad are the ones who keep to themselves, acting like you’re better than the rest of us.”

“Thank you for checking up on me, Jexa. You can go back to your fun.”

The Grazerite harrumphed, twitching her bovine snout and departing back to the others.

Zir ground her teeth and stared out at the waves, contemplating whether or not to return to the ship and spend the rest of her shore leave there.

She also contemplated if she had overreacted with Jexa – and if what the other female said about Alpha Squad keeping to themselves had any merit. It was possible, she conceded. Perhaps in her next Counseling session she should ask-

“Excuse me, Ma’am?”

Zir was smacked from her thoughts at the sound of the new male voice, one she recognised as another member of Gamma Squad: their Medical Cadet, Niles Angstrom. “What do you want?”

He was a slight figure, for a human, with pale skin pinkening quickly in the sun, a slim nose, crinkly copper hair and a hesitant expression as he replied, “I- I wanted to ask you something-”

That did it. She bolted to her feet, drew up mere centimetres from his face, her own expression taut and challenging. “Let me guess: have I ever been arrested, because it must be illegal to look this hot? Are my boobs warp cores, because they look like they’re about to breach? Would my clothes look better on your bedroom floor than on my body? Come on, Stud, let’s hear what you got.”

Angstrom started, his mouth opening, and closing, before he finally replied with a sheepish, “Um, is there a reason the Orion High Tongue doesn’t have words for ‘apology’?

She blinked, taking a step back, trying to work out how that could be turned into a cheesy pickup line. “Excuse me?”

“The Orion High Tongue doesn’t seem to have words for ‘apology’, ‘sorry’, ‘mercy’ or any other related terms, but the Orion Base Tongue does.” He elaborated, “I’ve been comparing the two language matrices, but I can’t work out why the High Tongue would have fewer words, as it’s meant to be employed by the aristocracy-”

Zir held up a hand to stop him. “Wait- why are you studying Orion languages? Aren’t you a Medical Cadet?”

Angstrom paused, as if afraid the wrong answer might reflect on elicit a violent response from her. “Oh, uh, I’ve been specialising on Orion medical history; it’s quite an extensive subject, something not many people are aware of. There are Federation texts about it, of course, but a lot of the nuances are literally lost in translation, so I’ve been working on original texts.” He smiled. “And you know how demanding Commander T’Varik can get with regards to attention to detail. I can’t submit the latest paper without some reason for it.”

She stared at him. Was it true? Was he really asking her a genuine question, rather than trying to hit on her? But why didn’t she know that he was studying Orion languages, something she could have helped him with sooner?

Maybe because she had never made a real effort to get to know the other squads better? she told herself.

Then he held up an apologetic hand. “Look, it was selfish of me to come over and interrupt your shore leave with Academy business. I’m sorry, I’ll go-”

“No. No, don’t. Please.” She breathed out, certain her embarrassment was heating her more than the sun above. “I’m the one who has to apologise. My reaction to you was uncalled for.” She held out her hand.

He accepted it, before awkwardly offering, “Should I- Maybe another time-”

Zir indicated the deck chair next to her own. “Sure… or we can talk now, if you like? I don’t mind.” She smiled as he accepted, and she calmed down somewhat. “To answer your question, the reason there are no words like ‘Sorry’ in the High Tongue is because among the aristocracy of Orion, apologies would be seen as a sign of weakness, so they don’t need them. Slaves who use the Base Tongue, on the other hand, need a lot of words for ‘Sorry’, if they want to avoid too heavy a punishment for failure.”

“Oh.” He seemed to pale at the notion. “That makes… sense.”

Zir heard the unspoken unease behind his carefully-chosen response… and didn’t blame him. “I have to admire you for trying to pick up both Tongues of my people’s language.”

Angstrom smiled. “Thanks. I tried to tackle the Trader’s Tongue as well, but there were so many contradictory rules and statements in it, I couldn’t begin to grasp it.”

She nodded in understanding. “It’s designed not to be understood by outsiders. It’s more an argot, a code between businesses.”

“Oh. Do you know it?”

She smiled slightly. “Yes. My father traded in kivas, and he taught me so I could help out in the store.” Thoughts of her father, whom she hadn’t seen in years since fleeing Orion space, sobered her present warm feeling, but she pushed it aside.

He nodded in comprehension, and looked to her with genuine regard. “Thank you for helping me, Ma’am.”

“Call me Zir. We’re not on duty now, are we?”

“No, we’re not,” he agreed. “And I’m Niles.”

She smiled. “A pleasure to meet you, Niles.”

*

Something was wrong, Urad decided.

He had been doing his best, going through the qualifying rounds with the other contestants, easily lifting weights at twenty-five-kilo intervals, and winnowing out those unable to keep up. Twenty became sixteen, then twelve, and so on, and so on…

And now there was three, Urad included of course: one was a beefy Klingon, someone who seemed more muscle than anything else, and an obvious rival for the title and the prize.

But the other? A Ferengi? Urad had never met one in the flesh before, but everything he had read and heard about them said that all of their strengths lay in their ability to lift other people’s money, not weights. This one, whose name was apparently Tuba, had some muscle on him – his pink tank top and shorts and those oversized gloves didn’t hide much – and his limbs looked like they had a little bit of muscle on them, but… certainly not enough to keep up with the likes of Urad and the Klingon! Were Ferengi heavyworlders, like his own people? He never read-

“Ready, contestants?” the competition host asked the three of them.

“Yes, let’s get going!” Tuba declared exuberantly.

“Suq Qu’maj!” the Klingon bellowed.

“Yes,” Urad punctuated curtly, starting to feel the effort he had been putting into this. Now they were on the 375-kilo hurdle; the weights sat before them on the mats, challenging them to do their best.

“Then assume your lifting stance,” the host declared. “Ready… and… LIFT!”

Urad crouched, grasped the barbell, rolled his neck, breathed out, and raised it up- oh Gods, he was lifting a mountain!

The barbell rose up in an arc towards his chest, as he lifted with his knees, straightening up with a shudder that ran through his body, before finally lifting the weight up over his head, to the applause of the crowds.

On his left, the Klingon lost his grip, and had to dart backwards as the weights landed back onto his mat, with the sickening sound of the concrete underneath the padding cracking making some in the audience react. The Klingon cursed loudly and stormed off in a huff.

Urad was gasping, as he held up the weight long enough to qualify, before stepping back once and dropping it with more control than the Klingon had. He glanced to his right-

And Tuba was still holding his up, with what looked like hardly any effort on his part. He was grinning with those jagged, crooked teeth of his, his bulbous salmon-pink head glistening in the Sherman sun, as the crowd went mad for the apparent underdog.

Urad massaged his aching biceps. What was going on?

*

Peter decided he hated the ocean. Hated it with a passion one should only reserve for the fiends who wiped out one’s family and stole their True Love.

When he fell off the board for the sixth time, and Brad rescued him and dragged him and the board back to the beach, he considered giving up and going back to Alpha Squad. He could always lie and say that he’d done it, and get the likes of Astrid and the others off his back.

But then… he’d look up into Brad’s deep blue eyes, feel those hands as they held Peter up effortlessly, and listen as the other man asked, “Are you sure you want to keep doing this, dude? You seem like you might need to get some practice lessons on the Holodeck?”

Then Peter would find some resolve, deep down somewhere… probably below the waistline. “I’m not- I’m not giving up on you- THIS! I mean, I’m not giving up on this!”

*

The wine was rich, and not synthehol-based, something Astrid wasn’t accustomed to, and it was starting to get to her head.

As were Salazar’s questions. The man had started out in casual, conversational mode, but now was beginning to make her feel more like she was being interrogated, especially about her last few years in Starfleet, and the time before. He was in the midst of trying to get her to talk about Charles Michel’s current plans, when she asked, “What did you say was your reason for being on Sherman’s?”

“Hmm? Oh, my family had secured real estate here for development, and-”

“No. No, you said they had secured a shipping deal for quadrotriticale grain.”

He paused. “Yes. The real estate involves-”

“You’re lying. Who are you? A reporter?”

Salazar stared at her, seemingly pensive, before asking directly, “You were a part of the Michel Dynasty from infancy up until the age of twelve, included in their social calendar, family announcements, you appeared in images and visuals in all the media. Then you simply vanished.”

Her heart was racing, and her face felt like it was on fire. “I- I joined Starfleet Academy-”

“That was when you were sixteen, years after. Then there were rumours going around, about your mother being sent to Tharsis Prison on Mars, at the same time that you dropped out of the Michel Family’s lives. Why? What did she do? What did you do?”

Astrid felt like she was going to throw up, and she rose to her feet. “Good day-”

Now he bolted up as well, reaching out to her with his hand.

She lifted up her own hand to deflect it, but her coordination was off from the wine, and he pressed… something… onto her neck. She felt it clamp onto her skin there, and tried to reach for it, to cry out for help.

Only she couldn’t do either. She froze in place, fully aware, fully terrified, but completely immobile. What- What was going on?

Salazar studied her for a moment, before ordering, “Sit down.”

She sat, unable to prevent herself from obeying.

He took his own seat, reaching out and finishing her wine before reaching into the pocket of his jacket, his demeanour all business. “Try to stay calm, and don’t try to fight it. Your current immobility is due to the Corvallen synaptic clamp now on the base of your skull, overriding your higher motor functions.” 

As he set out on the table a small black device and flexible headset visual recorder, he continued. “Don’t worry. I’ve used it enough times to know the effects will wear off once I remove it.”

Now he seemed to regard her, with a look of undisguised disdain. “Remarkable… somehow you’ve managed to become an even more arrogant, stuck-up, privileged little bitch than when I last saw you at that charity function; it took all of my self-control to not just smack you in the face today when you kept going on about the Pacifica Yacht Show and skiing in Aspen with your family.

Of course you never really recognised me; I wasn’t a guest at the function like I claimed. I was a waiter, an anonymous functionary. None of you rich bastards see people like me, or care, so long as we stay silent and servile.”

He smirked. “Now look who’s the silent, servile one?”

Stop it, stop it, whatever you’re doing, stop it, please, please-

Then he fitted the recorder headset over his right eye and ear, before leaning in. “Listen very carefully, because we don’t have much time, before the Clamp causes you irreversible neurological damage: when I signal you, you will state your name, and tell me what happened between you, your mother, and Charles Michel. You’ll remain calm, cool, collected, showing no signs of duress. And you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If you try to resist, it will cause you pain, and increase the potential for injury.”

No. No, you can’t do this to me someone has to help someone has to see what you were doing to me help me help me HELP ME-

Salazar leaned back, adjusted the recorder. “Now, Ms Michel: start talking.”

And she did.

*

Tori had seen the commotion on the beach, and peering closely over the edge of the Boardwalk, she recognised Urad as one of a handful of contestants lifting massive-looking weights over their heads, to applause. Tori smiled; of course her friend would get involved in something where he gets to flex his muscles. Or eat.

The rumble of engine sounds caught her attention, and she turned around to see Bixmyx and his gang ride up to her, practically surrounding her as she declared loudly, “What did I tell you pack of dipshits about riding on the Boardwalk?”

Bixmyx dismounted from his bike. “The Black Knights live by their own code, Chickie.”

“Black Knights? Who the stroke are the Black Knights?”

“Us, Baby Doll!” He turned, to display the name festooned on the backs of all their jackets, as the others nodded and made sounds of solidarity.

Tori frowned. “It says ‘Black Knits.”

“What?”

“You’ve spelled it ‘Knits’, not ‘Knights’, you Nimrods!”

Bixmyx frowned too now, then made a show of trying to look behind at his own jacket, succeeding only in rotating in place like a dog chasing its own tail.

Tori threw up her hands in defeat. “Get out of here, Biscuitmix, before someone calls for your keepers! I’ve got places to go, things to do-”

“No, wait!” Bixmyx drew up to her, making a show of slicking back his helmet of hair before announcing, “You have the supreme honour of winning the heart of Buzz Bixmyx! And when you win the heart of Buzz-”

“Wait wait wait wait wait WHAT?” She was certain she was being pranked by one of the other squads. “Stroke off!”

She started to move off, but Bixmyx cut her off. “Hey, I’m being serious, Baby Doll! I even wrote you a poem!”

“Listen, Pigdicks, you call me ‘Baby Doll’ again, and I’m gonna show you a new way to ride your bike! I’m only here to hear David Meowie sing! You and everyone else here can kiss my ass!”

Tori tried to dodge him, but he cut her off once more, before dropping to one knee, arms outstretched, as he intoned, “My love is built on a thousand black sandcastles made of something that is not sand / It cuts through the torment of my soul like a screaming jackalope / Your beauty is like a Phalanx rising from the ashes / Let me touch your-”

She kicked him in the stomach and sent him hurtling back into the nearest member of his gang, who toppled to one side, knocking into the next one, and then the next one, sending all of them going like dominoes.

Nearby, a child laughed and announced, “I LIKE CLOWNS!”

Then Tori climbed over the Boardwalk rail and leapt down onto the sand, before making her way through the bemused crowds.

On the Boardwalk, Bixmyx helped himself back to his feet, looking out at the crowds on the beach, not seeing the object of his affections, but nodding to himself. “Okay, Baby Doll, you want me to prove myself? I’ll do it! Love has made me an unstoppable Juggalo!”

*

In the Castaway, Stalac was tapping one extension of his uneven perimeter to simulate impatience. “Skipper, while I appreciate the opportunity to sample any number of different metals and minerals in your possession, I should repair to my friends, with or without the drinks I came in here for-”

“Hold on, little Buddy, I’ve go one more here for you.”

The human returned from the room behind his bar, carrying a small box Stalac’s senses recognised instantly as common lead. “Ah… thank you, Skipper, but I’ve been eating base metals like that since I was hatched…”

“My final offering is not the case,” the human informed him, dropping to one knee and setting the box down. “But what’s inside.” He carefully removed the lid and set it aside, and for a moment Stalac wondered if he had something radioactive inside, reacting with alarm – not for his own sake, as his Horta physiology wouldn’t be affected, but for the sake of the Skipper and the surrounding Carbs.

Then his alarm melted into curiosity, as the Skipper tilted the box towards Stalac, as Stalac perceived the jagged hunk of black metal… floating within the confines of the box, rising until the Skipper nudged it back down again. “What… is that?”

“A traveller brought it in a year or so back,” the Skipper explained, smiling at Stalac’s reaction. “She said she found it on Luna, in the wreckage of some early Terran exploration vessel that crashed there, some vessel that used this metal to propel itself instead of rockets or impulse engines. She called it Cavorite, and it apparently has negative gravitational mass. Allegedly.” The skipper smirked at the notion.

“Really?” Stalac asked distractedly, mesmerised. He has never encountered or even read anything about something like this. “Why- Why did she give it to you?”

“Oh, it was a trade-off, she needed some mercury for fluid links in this blue box she had. Anyway, I’ve never had a use for the metal except as a novelty, but now…” He tipped the box completely, letting the piece of Cavorite float towards the Horta.

Stalac remained transfixed. He should take it, take it back with him to the ship for study. It would make a fascinating paper. A fascinating study.

But it smelled irresistible.

Perhaps he could sample a little bit of it, and save the rest of it for study-

He rose and clamped down onto the Cavorite and dissolved it whole.

Oh dear.

The new, unfamiliar material coursed through what passes for his arteries and veins.

The Skipper rose and chuckled. “Well, Little Buddy? How does that make you feel?”

Stalac tried to process the sensations. Hortas had more or less the same range of emotions and feelings as the Carbs he lived and worked with. He knew happiness, contentment, anger, fear, hope, joy, anger, despair, frustration, envy, curiosity (lots of that), depression, contemplation…

But this?

“I feel... pretty…. Oh so pretty… I feel pretty, and witty, and gay. And I pity, any Horta who isn’t me today…”

His voder unit took on an uncharacteristic musical tone as he rumbled and rocked in place. “I feel charming, oh so charming! / It’s alarming how charming I feel! / And so pretty / That I can hardly believe that I’m real!”

*

At the restaurant, Salazar was putting away his recording equipment. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Ms Michel…” He glanced up at her, smirking. “Or whatever you should be called now. Frankly I’m amazed Charlie Boy even let you keep the name.” 

He reached out and took her wineglass, quickly finishing off the remains. “You know, you were the talk of High Society the summer he banished you; there were all sorts of nasty rumours about you – even that you were a shapeshifter planted in the Michel household to obtain corporate secrets.

But the truth has turned out to be… rather sad, actually. Charles Michel really did a number on you. So did your mother, and the authorities he bought. I almost feel sorry for you… especially knowing what will happen if this information is made public.”

He shrugged. “I suppose I could try to make a deal with Charles Michel to keep his dirty little secret out of the news, but knowing how that man operates, I think it’d be safer for me just to offer it to the news agencies. Nothing personal, sweetie, I hope you understand.”

He rose, looking her over, before leaning in and murmuring in her ear, “When you recover, you’ll want to report me to the local police. Don’t bother: most people won’t even have heard of a synaptic clamp, and when used properly, it leaves no neurological trace in its victim, I have witnesses downstairs that will swear we were having a nice, pleasant conversation up here… and I even have a recording of your opening up to me about your tragic past.” He patted her cheek. “You’re not the first person I’ve used this on. And I’m still around.”

He drew in closer, licking her ear as he added, “Be thankful we’re not in my hotel room. I’d have taken more from you than just your secrets.” He removed the clamp and pocketed it. “Adios, puta.”

Astrid sat there after he left, seemingly staring out into the Marina, desperate to try to move her arms, her legs, a finger, to make a sound, to do something, anything of her own free will. Damn it, work work work WORK WORK WORK-

Finally she felt herself trembling, shuddering almost violently. At first, she feared that Salazar had been mistaken, that she was undergoing a bad side effect of his device and she was having a seizure. Then she realised she was sobbing.

Her first attempt to rise to her feet resulted in her making the table shake, and her wine glass tip over, roll and land with a crash to the balcony floor. She straightened herself up, wiping her face quickly as she heard someone coming up the steps, as the barman appeared. “Ms Michel, are you okay? Do you require assistance-”

He was reaching for her, but she drew away, holding up a hand to stop, forcing her voice to serve her again. “N-No- No thank you- have to- have to go-” She caught her breath, her thoughts racing ahead. “My- my friend left without- without telling me where he was staying. I was supposed to meet him there. Can you- can you be a dear and look it up through his credit record at the bar?”

Part 3 of 4: Wipeout