Waste Management by Suzanne Church
I stormed into Luna's Wake. The customers lurking at the back tables ignored me. They knew better than to mess with a woman on a rampage. I stepped in some Drip ooze and my shoes squeaked with every stride as I approached the bartender.
"I need a drink, Naike." I slammed my credit chip on the counter.
"What'll it be, Lorna?"
Why do bartenders always wipe the glassware with those white towels? "Whatever Tanker hates!"
"Trouble in paradise?" Naike looked down as he spoke, feigning interest when we both knew that he didn't give a crap about my problems. Too bad, I'm gonna tell you anyway.
"Tanker's broke! What did I ever see in him? Artists! They're a bunch of losers."
Naike nodded.
"Heard of any work off-world?" God, I need to get off this rock. I tapped my credit chip on the counter--a mass of sticky glass-rings. Naike gave me a stop-that-it's-annoying-me look. I kept right on tapping.
"Nothing lately," he said. He put a purple foaming drink on the counter. It sloshed, adding another stain to the mess. "Ten credits."
I handed him my chip. "Take an extra for yourself."
"You're too generous."
Blow it out your ass. "No problem."
I took my drink to a table near the window, watching sheets of water pummel pedestrians. God, I hate rain. I needed a job, any job, off Forbi. Tanker brought me here, saying it was a great place for creative people. In reality, it was a piece of space garbage inhabited by scum-lords and losers who couldn't afford to go anywhere interesting in the universe.
The sign on the shop across the street blinked on. Gidder's. Buy, Trade, Sell. Want to buy my loser boyfriend?
I sipped at the purple drink. I couldn't stand another night with Tanker in that tiny unit. I gave up my own place the night he gave me a key to his. No point wasting credits. But now that I'd hit the wall with him, I had two options: find another microscopic, dive-of-a-unit run by a scum-lord like Drevik, or take the next transport cruiser off-world.
I downed the rest of the purple drink and slammed my glass down. A Drip two tables over rippled in shock at the noise. All Drips are scared of their own shadows, although they barely cast shadows through their translucence. The jelly-like wigglers have no backbone, literally. I mumbled, "Sorry," then left the bar. No point making an enemy, even an oozing blob.
I walked through the downpour, feeling the burn and itch of the acidic rain through my shirt. I passed the job board, but didn't see any work for engineers. By the time I reached Tanker's apartment complex I was soaked.
Drevik, our scum-lord, stood outside our unit, pounding on the door. "What do you want?" I said.
"Tanker's account's pretty damned low."
"I'm aware of that."
"If he doesn't make rent--"
"I know. You'll eat him."
Drevik clenched his hand and his forearm muscles bulged. "Until I choke on his scrawny flesh."
"Well don't eat me. I'm getting out of here."
"You need another unit? I've got one in the next building. Rent's four hundred. Nicer than this hole."
"That's a bit steep for me, Drevik."
Drevik sniffed. Carnivores have a tendency to sniff at you, deciding whether or not you're worth eating, I guess. Drevik was a Braklez, a native carnivore of Forbi. Most of the time they leave humans alone. They have some kind of don't-eat-sentient-creatures code, or so they whine to the interstellar cops. But they are permitted to eat you if you don't make rent.
Drevik sniffed at me again, inside my personal space. I took a step back.
"How much do you make?" he asked.
"Four twenty a month. Why?"
"You're an engineer, right?" He stepped closer.
I stepped back. "Yeah, why?"
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