Broken Bow - Diane Carey [36]
The flavor of the old West was palpable.
“This place reminds me of somewhere,” Archer commented, glancing at a mammoth carpet-haired beast of burden with legs like tree stumps and the smell of a pig farm. “If it were a desert, I’d swear I’ve been here before.”
“And I’d worry about your taste in vacation spots,” Hoshi murmured, flinching from a slimy individual who passed by on their left.
Alien insects came to investigate them—large insects the size of birds on Earth. They hovered, and one perched on Hoshi’s head for a moment, but became quickly disinterested.
“They don’t seem harmful,” Archer shored her up.
Hoshi shivered. “Jellyfish don’t seem harmful either. But don’t stick your hand under one.”
“Look—this must be the Plaza.” He led the way to a vast, cavernous thoroughfare of bridgelike walkways that crisscrossed each other well into the sky and for miles in three directions from where they stood. The concourse was poorly lit, just enough to walk by. As Archer looked out over the incredible complex, he began to worry for his other crewmen. This wasn’t the kind of place anyone wanted for a first venture into the galactic wilds.
“Shouldn’t we call the captain?”
Travis Mayweather’s question was fraught with doubts and misgivings. Quite normal.
Malcolm Reed, on the other hand, blithely followed their alien contact into the trade complex, climbing to the fifth level with a quiver of excitement in his stomach. Around them chattered a cacophony of strange sounds and a sea of deep-green lighting.
“Maybe we should wait,” he said to the ensign.
Mayweather hunched his shoulders and called to their very odd guide. “How much longer?”
“It’s not very far,” the alien called over his—was that a shoulder? “I promise you.”
“Are you sure his name was Klaang?” Reed asked again. “Couldn’t it have been another Klingon you saw?”
“It was Klaang. I’m certain. I’ll show you exactly where he was.”
The alien’s confidence was encouraging. His unwillingness to describe where he was going, however, was not, and Reed had his doubts. They kept moving.
“I think somebody’s following us,” Mayweather said, glancing behind them.
“Nonsense. You’re just uneasy.”
“Then why are the shadows moving in my periphery?”
“They’re alien shadows. They probably have arms as well.”
“Funny, sir.”
“Of course.”
“Look at that!” Mayweather pointed ahead of them as the lights changed—literally—to red.
Alien music pervaded the air just above the comfort range for conversation. In an archway off to one side, two mostly undressed alien women squirmed and writhed to an unusual rhythm. It almost sounded Eastern European, but Reed dismissed that as coincidental. Between the women was a thin lantern with dozens of butterfly-type creatures flitting around the light.
As he and Mayweather watched, rapt by the sight, the women squirmed closer to the lantern. One of them tipped back her head and emitted an eight-inch tongue that snared one of the butterflies.
An instant later, the second woman did the same. Were they competing?
Only now did Reed and Mayweather realize they had been joined by a gathering of other spectators to watch the butterfly dance. The crowd seemed to run the course from arousal to disgust. Rather familiar, at the moment, Reed noted.
Ah, yes, a brothel. What a shock. If he had been sketching out the most stereotypical mecca in all literature, this would be at its center. Didn’t anyone do anything subtle anymore?
“Would you like to meet them?” the alien man offered, waving a large narrow paw at the women. “I can arrange it.”
Mayweather grimaced. “Was this where you saw Klaang?” he persisted.
“No, no, not here. I’ll show you where. But first, you should enjoy yourselves! Which one would