Bearing a Grudge

Nick was entangled in a blood feud, but not the way he thought.

(A genre I aspire to: Humorous science fiction. This is just the beginning of a 7,000 word short story. Any comments/suggestions are welcome.)

     Marthurizan Zekawa, Warrior 2nd Class, stood silently while the six Zambolians argued over who would have the honor of beheading the pale, hairy alien with his open hand still extended, continuing the affront. Zekawa fingered the haft of his ancestral battle-ax, hoping, when the ritual was over, he would be the chosen avenger.
* * * *
Six weeks cooped up in a tiny control cabin with an eight-foot axe-wielding Zambolian had pushed Nick Watson to the point where his IQ was just south of a banana slug. Four Margoolie Grandees had given him the judgment of a fully mature snail. Combined they made Nick an accident that had already happened.
With most of his life spent at speeds that outran light, and the lives of most everyone he knew, it was no surprise Nick usually drank alone. Nor that he'd cultivated a fondness for the fiery Margoolie Grandé, a gurgling concoction of seven intoxicants. The drink could turn a man comatose faster than a knock on the noggin and provide a bigger headache the next day.

     A roughly handsome man with steely eyes and weathered skin offset by tousled hair and the impish smile of a teenager, he had the appeal of a favorite shirt, the one you can never bring yourself to take to the laundry.   

     Nick wasn't one to bear a grudge. Clearly, not everyone is of the same mind, he thought as he sat on the middle stool at Krotsky's bar, working on his third Margoolie Grandé. He stared at the eight-foot Zambolian warrior standing over his left shoulder, a huge battle-ax hefted aloft. The blade, exactly 28 inches away, was on a track to slice right through Nick's neck.

     The bar door opened and a tall man entered, dressed in Spacewayer traditional blue-on-white. The man was Carchanian by species, the term "man" attesting only to the fact he was bipedal and male. Ringed tail swaying as he purveyed the bar scene, he'd be mistaken for a raccoon if it weren't for the extra set of optics — and that he was at least a foot taller than anyone in the place. Above the new arrival's breast pocket was a nametag that read, "HI, I'M BOB".

     When Bob arrived in a bar, he was everyone's next-to-best friend within ten minutes; in twenty, he was leaning on that friendship to convince his new acquaintance to invest in the "deal of a lifetime." Nick, probably because his funds were always better invested in his ship, had remained friends with Bob for close to a decade.
Dimly-lit, decorated solely with mirrors and signs provided by purveyors of alcoholic beverages and other legal and semi-legal mood enhancers, Krotsky's was home to a wide variety of sentient life forms because: a) it was on the first floor of the spaceport hotel, and b) spacefarers were more tolerant of other species.

It also helped that Krotsky had a battery of Gagonian Zappers installed in the ceiling molding, capable of turning any fracas into a frozen sculpture for the authorities to sort out at their leisure. The habeas corpus clock didn't start ticking until the mélange was unfrozen. As no one wanted to miss their ride out while waiting for the police to decide whom to thaw next, fracases in Krotsky's were rare and tame by galactic standards.

     Bob spotted Nick and judiciously picked the bar stool on the far side of the ax-wielding giant. One eye targeted the warrior, one the ax, the other two — the middle ones — focused intently on his friend. "I'm here," he said. Like all Carchanians, Bob had what could be called an economical style with words. Nick had another name for it – cheapspeak.

     Nick didn't mind the four eyes or the ringtail or even the famed Carchanian stinginess. What bothered Nick most was their parsimonious use of words because, as a spacer who spent weeks, sometimes months, without human conversation, talk, even bar talk, was a valued commodity. No, to be honest that wasn't why the Carchanian's tightfisted talk bugged him. It was the theory, okay, prevalent myth, that Carchanians ate words or, if not ate, at least words were a major source of energy for them and why they spent so few in conversation. For Nick, this was just another form of stingy.

    Nick dwelled on this point every time Bob walked in the room — for maybe three seconds. Then he remembered that he trusted Bob with his life. Not in theory, but in practice. They had saved each other's hind quarters numerous times and Nick knew, whenever he needed him, the Carchanian would be there, at the ready.

"Don't look. Big sword over your head."

"Been there all day."

"Nervous?"

"Was, three Margoolies ago."

"I'll catch up."

Bob's nostrils flared and his mouth went into a tight grimace as he spoke. "Whew! Who's your friend?"
    
"Zambolian. Had to make an emergency landing on Montag VI. I offered to shake his hand, which, I'm guessing, insulted his forefathers, his wife, his God or his procreatal appendage, if he has one under that diaper. Maybe all four. Whatever, it's a blood feud now. That ax has my name on it," said Nick, taking the final swig of this Margoolie Grandé.
    
"Montag VI! Why's he waiting?"
    
"He's not waiting; he's delivering my death blow right now. Fortunately for me, Montagian space is in the middle of a time anomaly. Everyone there moves very, very slow relative to us, no matter where in space they are. Weirdest thing I've ever seen."
    
Most believed a Carchanian's middle eyes were the only real ones, the outside optics being for show or intimidation. At the moment, all four of Bob's eyes were riveted on Nick, assurance he was paying attention. It was the mention of Montag VI that had grabbed Bob's interest: a mythical planet to most, peopled by a giant race called the Zambolians; a tale spacefarers told to crowds in bars and parents used to threaten unruly children. No one anyone knew had ever been to Montag VI; only a few had ever seen a Zambolian first hand, but that was enough to feed the myths.
    
"How slowly?" asked Bob, economically referring to the aforementioned, up-and-coming ax swing.  
    
"Seconds in his time frame, but I'll be seventy before it separates my head from my neck. Meanwhile, he's always there. I've heard of karma, but this is ridiculous."
    
True to his Carchanian heritage, Bob could put a business twist to the worst of situations — especially if he wasn't the afflicted party — a skill he referred to as "objective financial spin." Nick called it the greed gene.
     
"Bars will pay appearance fee," said Bob. "Free drinks rest of our lives."
   
 "Our lives?"
    
 "My idea," Bob said, and used his right outside eye to signal the bartender to add another drink to Nick's tab.