Tales from the Rift: In space no one can hear you laugh!

By Bruce Levine

In the far future, where interstellar travel and trade with alien races is routine, will they still tell ghost stories? In Tales from the Rift the answer is an emphatic yes! Colson Metter, a human trader, finds himself in a ghost story telling contest led by shape shifting bartender with seven aliens for the prize of prizes. As each contestant tells a tale of the supernatural humorously wrapped in the customs and foibles of its society, Colson must find a way to  cheat the contest. Losing would cost him his life!

Dripping with wit, humor, and satire, Tales from the Rift is a comic tribute to the passion lives, and loves of the denizens of  the far flung galaxy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce Levine
• Release date: May 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386910039

Bruce Levine

Dr. Bruce S Levine is a retired veterinarian in Southern Clifornia. He lives with his wife ,Joan, and is a co-mion to their pets.

Book preview

1.

Every starhopper and planetgrub Colson Metter ever met has asked him why he sailed the Rift. The money's good, was the Human trader’s standard answer.

It wasn't the whole truth but Colson knew those pitiful beings could never understand the reason he’d become a Rifter. Yes, it was a lonely life, crossing the vast, empty ocean of space between the two spiral arms of the charted galaxy. And sure, it was hard to endure all those long, solitary voyages aboard Goliathan freighters, where companionship was abandoned in favor of consumables and cargo space. But what was to them an immense, forbidding void, was to Colson a temporary reprieve from the noisy, overcrowded worlds they called civilization.

But the tranquility of the void was wasted on the Rifter this run. Even the strains of The Moonlight Sonata flowing from the chip deck did little to soothe the Terran's troubled mind. He had to leave Alten III in a hurry. The nightly parade of laser ladies and strong drink had eaten up half his commissions. And when scimitar play broke out over that unbeatable Serulian poker hand he dealt himself—Well, he hated running off without his winnings but he had this overpowering urge to continue breathing.

Unfortunately, that still left the problem of his creditors. With representatives on nearly every galactic world, they’d soon be calling to collect. He needed two hundred thousand credits and he needed it fast. The Quasorian mob was not in the habit of renegotiating its loans.

Metter gazed through the Full Boat’s viewing portal as the flashing beacon of the orphaned moon competed for attention amidst the sea of stars. Soon he would be in Orph's place, his last hope for hustling up the needed cash.

There was no establishment in the galaxy quite like Orph's. Superficially resembling any number of watering holes on any number of worlds, there was still something magic about the Rock's pub. Colson had long ago lost track of all the wheelings and dealings he'd accomplished inside those ersatz plaster walls. He couldn't count how many small fortunes he'd won and lost at card games in its backroom. And there was that night cycle he closed the bar with that voluptuous Galvanian urn dealer... Well, something interesting always happened at Orph's place. Metter prayed this time it would be lucrative.

Shutting down the chip player, Colson ignored the last notes of Beethoven echoing their death throes through the bridge as the digital displays silently assured him the ship's navigational system had already laid in a course to the Rock. He dialed the viewing screen to infrared and watched the molten rock core that powered the isolated waystation blaze like a fireball on the monitor. Increasing magnification, Metter scanned the Titrinium alloy dome on the moon's northern pole and counted six ships clustered around the solitary structure. A quick glance at the long-range detectors revealed yet another schooner a few parsecs out. Orph's place ought to be jumping tonight, he thought. The Terran chose an empty docking port and turned control back to the ship's computer.

From the bridge locker, Metter gathered a waist pack, his wallet, a deck of cards, and the gold neck chain bearing his lucky pendant. He glanced remorsefully at the bottle of Xaotian whiskey on the second shelf. He’d bought it on Alten III as a gift for a friend. It was two hundred years old and no doubt magnificently smooth but in his present financial straits, he might have to sell it next planetfall to raise a little cash.

Colson was already at the Full Boat's airlock by the time he heard the thud of robotic refueling cables against the ship's hull. Hurrying down the main hall of the waystation, he ignored the corridors leading to the Rock's communal areas, exercise rooms, and sleeping quarters, and headed straight for the plasticized swinging doors of the Transgalactic Saloon and Game Emporium.

Metter felt at home the moment he stepped into the tavern. The Rotian erotic etching and freighter holos perched above the well-worn booths seemed like old friends.  The same old synthchestra machine blasted out the same old tunes from the same old tiny dance floor in the corner. The nearwood bar top, pockmarked and pitted by five centuries of hard drinking Rifters, diffusely reflected the dim red overhead lighting. The saloon looked exactly the way it did when he first sailed the Rift eighteen years ago. Nothing ever changes at Orph’s place.

From the center of her circular bar, Orph flashed Colson a fanged toothed smile. Well, if it isn't my favorite human! Her four hands already occupied with mixing drinks, she sprouted a fifth and waved to the Terran across the room.

Nothing ever changes, that is, except Orph. The bartender was continually altering her appearance. One moment, she possessed fins and was covered in fur, the next claws and scales. The only constant features were the flattened ivory ovals of her twin eyes.

She was sporting a pointed snout and feathers by the time Colson reached the bar. Orph, you're looking lovelier than ever, he told her.

The saloon keeper beamed and ran a blue tinged tentacle through the leathery wattles on her scalp. Always the gentleman, Colson Metter. Always the gentleman.

Through the centuries, many a Rifter has questioned Orph about her constant state of metamorphosis. A gal's got a right to try a new look, was the stock answer she gave the curious.

Only the Cryptans, that enigmatic race who created this isolated waystation, knew the real reason for the bartender's penchant for change. But since no one had ever met a Cryptan, there was never a chance to ask. Their only communications with the rest of the galaxy were mysterious requests written across the faces of moons and asteroids. The notes simply stated the goods they desired, listed the coordinates for dropping them off, and outlined where to find the item they were exchanging in payment. The hanging gardens on the third moon of Xtvar, the water generating plant on the desert world of Goosmes, and Telmak VI's rainbow light bridge were just some of the technological marvels the galaxy gained from barter with the reclusive race.

But it was five centuries ago one thousand galactic tons of limestone bought the galaxy what Colson felt was the Cryptan's greatest gift. Nobody knew why they wanted the stuff, speculation ranged from an ingredient for an ultimate weapon to maybe they're just running low on concrete, but past experience made the Galactic Council eager to fill their request. When the explorers followed the given coordinates to the center of the Rift, they discovered the Rock. Cautiously entering the waystation, they were surprised to find Orph at the bar waiting to serve them cocktails. It was Earl Bootman, the Terran member of the expedition, who gave the saloon keeper her name. It's been said her eyes reminded him of an obscure figure from ancient Terran literature.

The frilly, green scaled membrane around Orph's neck fluttered as she pulled a glass from beneath the counter. I’ve heard rumors about you skipping worlds like a muon wind. Anything I should know about, sugar?

Just taking care of business and seeing the galaxy, Colson lied.

The usual, hon?

You know me too well, Colson took the erz-gin and tonic from the bejeweled set of pincers. Sipping his drink, he searched the room for a likely mark. Five other Rifters occupied the bar. A few stools down, a Yestian gulped barkbeer and devoured chips by the pawful. Oblivious to anything but consumption, the monkey-like being flapped her tiny vestigial wings and wagged her long, prehensile tail as she switched from flagon to bowl and back again. Not much potential for profit there, Colson thought. He looked around for a more promising target.

Directly across from him, a Cruug sat sprawled across the nearwood counter, his six arms encircling an army of empty bottles. Lifting his triangular head, the gray furred creature opened his vertical eyelids to reveal a pair of bloodshot orbs. Deciding the teddy bear like being might be an easy mark for Selurian poker, Colson nodded at the drunken Rifter. Perking up his rounded ears, the Cruug curled his grog stained mouth into a flat toothed snarl. Angrily grabbing a half empty bottle, the gray being stumbled off to play the hologame in the corner.

Orph's violet lips rolled into a frown. What’s eating Ze?

Don't know, Colson said. I've gotten similiar reactions from a lot of Cruugs.

Well, no accounting for taste. Don't mind him, toots. You could park your shoes under my nightstand anytime. She blew him a kiss with an eight-fingered hand before wandering over to the Yestian.

Colson chuckled as he watched the saloon keeper refill the orange being's flagon. My, how she loved to flirt. Like everyone, he knew about the vat full of ganglionic tissue and cryonic circuits beneath the tavern that operated the laser projector and force field generators in the bar pit. Still it was hard not to think of this sassy hologram as the real Orph.

Nursing his cocktail, Metter examined the third Rifter, a Gatherer, in disappointment. The mechanical being stood motionless in the far corner of the saloon, a communications cable plugged into a port below its speaker panel. A set of tiny lights blinked above a circular band of camera lens near the top of the cylindrical creature as it collected data. Little chance of improving his fortunes with that one.

I give lift AI, the Yestian said in answer to Colson's unasked question. No eat and plasma drives know know. The creature's orange pelt fluffed as it took another gulp from her flagon. I Gweek.

Colson introduced himself to the small, hyperactive being. Not much on conversation, I'll bet.

All talk hoverball hoverball hoverball. Gweek's tiny mouth twitched into a frown as she gulped another pawful of carb mix. Months all hear scores, statistics players, standings leagues. Look, it even now game watch. I sick sick hoverball!

Maybe I wrote this one off too hastily, Colson thought. Seeing a chance to turn an easy credit, he pushed his own bowl of appetizers closer to the Yestian. Where you bound, Gweek?

Design station undersea Hymentia, Gweek jerked a diminutive thumb in the direction of the Gatherer. But first, drop off Gatherer Core. Let Core bore with hoverball! Why here you?

Colson rested his elbows on the counter and smiled. Just trucking some Felu and Veshman goods to the Calili Cluster...

Hey, go easy on those appetizers! Orph yelled, pointing a long magenta tendril at the Yestian. It took me all day to synthesize those pistachios. They don't grow on trees, you know.

The minuscule engineer jumped up on her bar stool and flapped her wings in annoyance. I customer hungry! she shouted, brushing crumbs off her chest with a tiny paw. You feed me need.

Well, just leave some for the others.

Colson smiled as the bartender returned to washing glasses with her nubile fins. With their high metabolism, Yestians were always hungry. Orph knew her warning would go unheeded.

No no great this swill, the Yestian whispered to Colson. I big bowl haneeti yearn.

Suddenly, the Gatherer's flat monotone filled the room. Galactic Code 1259, Civil Amendment 4057, section 325, subsection 4056a, paragraph 9 strictly forbids interstellar trade in haneeti and other...

Who ask? Gweek exclaimed in a high-pitched voice.

I/we endeavor to be helpful, the mechanical being replied.

Gweek flashed the AI a hostile stare. Help no need, Gatherer.

My/our proper appellation is Mobile Data Collection Unit 0101001A.

Yes yes, know already, the Yestian whined, head in paws.

But beings more accustomed to my/our external casing and output refer to me/us with the shorter designation of MDCU 0101001A.

Shut up and game watch! the orange being told the metallic creature.

Colson, for one, was grateful the Galactic Council had banned the export of haneeti. He remembered with revulsion his experience with the delicacy at a party on Yest. He had to quickly find an excuse to leave. The cries of hundreds of sentient insects pleading for their lives was too much to bear.

Well, time to go to work, Colson told himself as he automatically leaned closer to the engineer. After eighteen years of crossing the Rift, delivering the Pitch had almost become a reflex. Listen, it's a long, boring flight to Hymentia. I've got a whole library of Terran vidplays I'd be willing to part with for the right price...

Gweek squirmed. No hoverball vids. No hoverball.

Nah, strictly tragedies. Hamlet, The Iceman Cometh, Death of a Salesman, Bill and Monica... 

The diminutive creature's face twitched with interest as Colson listed the titles. Yestians always loved a good cry. Abruptly, Gweek's expression turned serious. Much?

Nine hundred, Colson answered.

Nine hundred! Gweek exclaimed, her face twitching. Want offspring pouch husband's too? Price real give.

As Colson haggled with the Yestian, more Rifters trickled into the bar. Upon hearing the rhythmic cadence of multiple legs, the human paused the negotiations to watch a shiny black arachnoid figure march past.

Mabor! Orph's snake-like body writhed in delight. Haven't seen you in a cosmic cycle. Where’ve you been hiding yourself, sugar?

The Beloargian raised his cephalothorax and in one sweeping motion settled into a barstool opposite Colson. I've been trading all over the galaxy in the name of the Empire. The gods now smile upon me and call me home.

Trading? Metter thought with disdain. The Belorgians had raped and looted nearly every world in their sector to obtain goods for barter. The impracticality of sending warships across the Rift was the only thing keeping them from conquering the rest of the galaxy. Colson watched as Mabor ceremoniously placed an empty scabbard on the counter before him. At least the warrior had the good manners not to bring a weapon into Orph's place.

Drooping her pointed ears, the bartender gave the newcomer a mock pout.  And I thought you were just happy to see me. Fretken ale?

Mabor opened his mandibular pincers, then hesitated. No, what I desire tonight is a warm cup of Kelraft.

Sure thing, handsome. Orph said, searching the shelves behind the bar. You drink it blue?

Eight hundred! the Yestian squeaked in response to the Terran's latest offer. Thief! Price high high! For half get Hymentia.

Won't do you much good during the voyage.

Turning his back on Gweek for emphasis, Colson noticed a Dimen standing by the synthchestra machine.  The plant wrinkled its yellow flowered head in dismay as it browsed the selection plate with the tip of a leafy vine. ...Zegu Yostor, the Cosmic Diminutive, Aberrant Sequences, the shrub moved its flower head closer to the selection plate in disbelief. Beatles? Hey Orph, when are you going to get some new tunes in here?

Placing a paw on her double hips, the barkeep grew another foot in height and pointed behind her. If you don't like my music, Shewoosh, there's a nice Bemeian flip joint only six hundred light years that way.

The Dimen reluctantly shaped its leafy body into a rounded bush. Well, I guess I can dance to anything as long as it's rock. It absently tapped the floor with its roots while reexamining the synthchestra selection.

Turning back to Gweek, Colson’s confidence rose as he watched his mark swallowed another handful of nuts and take on a thoughtful expression. Don't know. Six hundred buy food food Hymentia...

Colson could see from the engineer's smile she was hooked. Look, just charge it to the Hymentians as a travel expense. 0f course, if you prefer to spend the next five months talking hoverball with your friend over there...

Colson thought Gweek was about to acquiesce when the floor of the tavern shook. A glance toward the entrance revealed an Amenoetite squeezing his massive body through the saloon's doorway. The huge amphibian lumbered its way to the bar where it slowly settled into a seat next to Mabor.

Orph's bristled cheeks wriggled in welcome as she set a glass before the sluggish being. What's your poison, big boy?

Turning his huge head toward the bartender, the Amenoetite's enormous eyes widened as the condensation from his moisture suit trickled down his gray-green face. Idra juice, please. The behemoth then turned toward the Beloargian. Hi, I'm Goombla.

Mabor silently nodded and took a sip from his steaming cup.

You know, a direct link's been shown between cancer and intoxicating beverages, Goombla said, gesturing toward Mabor's kelraft mug. The Beloargian stared back with hostility. You can't be too careful about your health these days. Reaching into his pockets, Goornbla pulled out an impressive assortment of medicine vials. Meticulously, he swallowed a pill from each one, then slowly washed them down with his juice.

A high-pitched voice brought Colson's attention back to Gweek. You five take?

The Terran grinned. Five fifty and they're all yours.

Deal! the Yestian squealed, swishing her tail excitedly. Collect ship yours before leave. She grabbed another handful of appetizers and leaped from her stool. Biology call. I back quick quick.

You haven't lost your touch, Colson told himself as they sealed the bargain with the traditional Yestian scratch on the back of the hand. Five fifty was two hundred credits more than he paid for all the playvid libraries on his ship. But it was only a snack; what Colson needed tonight was a meal.

Alone again, Colson scanned the barroom for more prey. The unconscious Cruug was slumped over the hologame's control panel. Shewoosh whirled on its roots across the dance floor, its leafy branches snaking back and forth in rhythm to the synthchestra machine. At the far end of the bar, the Beloargian was diligently ignoring Goombla's dissertation on the prevention of chiton sores while the Gatherer stood in the far corner collecting data from the hoverball game replay.

Colson, I swear you could sell dirt to a Retalian miner, Orph said. I wouldn't have given you more than a hundred for a set of oldies like that.

Metter threw up his hands in mock surrender. Just doing my fair share. If I weren't for me, she'd have only squandered it on frivolities like food, clothing, and shelter.

Well, you've got five more victims to choose from, honey. Her featureless eyes swiveled on their stalks to examine a small monitor below a shelf of bottles. Correction, six. A private schooner just docked a half hour ago. Suddenly, she froze and pointed a talon toward the bar's entrance. Eight... eight... eight..."

Colson had never seen such a look of surprise on the bartender's ochre face, or any of her other faces for that matter. Orph, what is it? He turned to see a Wagnali pushing through the bar’s swinging doors. The amoeboid being halted at the entrance, its solitary red eye staring in puzzlement at its reception.

Eight... eight... eight...

Colson turned back to the barkeep and saw her appearance hadn’t changed. Something was definitely wrong! Suddenly, the holographic bartender began to fade. Orph! he shouted but too late. For the first time in five hundred years, Orph vanished.

#

2.

All around Metter, the saloon broke out in chaos. Mabor jumped from his seat. By the gods, what have you done? he shouted at the confused Wagnali in the doorway. The Dimen raced from the dance floor, screeching to a halt at the counter to shake its petals in bewilderment. Gweek stood by the restroom door, twitching vigorously and jabbering faster than Colson's chip implant could interpret. Orph - chitter chitter - What - chitter chitter - How - chitter chitter. The Cruug leaped up from his hologame, his screaming accompanied by the crash of empty bottles on the floor. Spitting the cable from its input terminal, the Gatherer rolled quickly toward the bar. Even the slow moving Amenoetite was already on his feet, a shocked expression on the great amphibian's features.

I/we will inspect the tissue chamber for damage, the Gatherer announced to the room.

The vat! thought Colson. Of course! Something must have gone wrong with Orph's biomass. I'll go with you, he told the mechanical Rifter. But the human barely left his stool when a blinding flash of white light arose from the center of the bar. He stared in astonishment as a dark cloaked humanoid figure appeared in Orph's spot.

Fellow children of the galaxy, the hologram addressed the vacant space before it. I am Hor, Keeper of the Trees. The priest of the forest cult removed his hood, revealing hairless, aquiline features. I apologize for any alarm my appearance may have caused but I am in urgent need of your help.

What have you done with Orph? Goombla yelled.

Shush, the Yestian told the amphibian in annoyance. It recording. No interactive.

Oblivious to the Rifters’ comments, the priest continued. "I was on a planting pilgrimage when my ship’s medscan passed sentence on me. Although I'll be long dead by the time you hear this, with your assistance I may still complete my sacred obligation.

If you see me now, there must be eight of you present from worlds not yet blessed by my order. Forgive an old man's conceit but eight is the number of altars in our sacred grove. I feel a gathering of such a hallowed quantity would be best for deciding the destiny of my last charge.

All eight patrons gasped as a Manna Tree cutting drifted up from beneath the counter. Its metallic green leaves shimmering within the stasis field, the potted sapling came to rest on a shelf near the center of the bar.

Since I will no longer be able to select the soil in which the blessed tree will be planted, I leave it to you eight to decide for me. Choose well, my children, for the Manna Tree grows best in an atmosphere of peace and harmony. I go now to join the Essence. The Holy Gardener bowed his head and faded out.

But what about Orph? the Dimen asked, breaking the silence.

Goombla shook his head sadly. I'll bet that Gardener permanently damaged her cryocircuits. Just goes to show you can't trust anybody these days. The Amenoetite carefully wiped the counter top with his handkerchief.

All thoughts of his present financial predicament vanished from Colson's mind. Orph was gone. He couldn't believe it. From now on, the universe was going to be a much duller place.

Suddenly, the human remembered watching the bartender break up many an altercation in the Transgalactic Saloon and Game Emporium. How the hell did that priest get into Orph's circuits? he shouted to no one in particular. She’s a dead aim with a stun gun.

Bypass busboard, Gweek squeaked. The tiny engineer leaped over the counter and landed near a circuit panel. Me show, she said, loosening a hand screw.

Suddenly, another blinding flash of light filled the center of the bar. Even before the spots in Colson's eyes could clear, he saw Orph had returned, adorned in a pelt of green quills. Hey, get away from there! she yelled at the Yestian. Didn't your Fa ever teach you not to mess with another lady's logic chips?

Gweek quickly jumped back onto the bar top.

0rph! Colson shouted. We were worried. You all right?

Never better, honey. The bartender gleefully erected the feathers atop her head. That's the first vacation I've had in five hundred years. I feel like a whole new woman. Swiveling her head three hundred sixty degrees, she took in the concerned faces of her patrons. Nice to see you all missed me.

It's a good thing that priest has gone to his maker, Mabor said, twirling his antennae. If I ever got my pincers on that holy roller...

Orph silenced the Beloargian with the wave of her webbed hand. Easy, big fellah. I gave him permission to program that message.

You let him do that to you? Colson asked incredulously.

Well, I figured a little charity work would be good PR for the joint. She held a hairy paw next to her circular mouth and added, Besides, the old boy had a really sexy touch, if you know what I mean.

As the other patrons welcomed back the bartender, Colson watched the Wagnali's amorphous body flow up the leg of the barstool next to him. He didn’t have much love for this race of tightwads, but it never hurt to be cordial. While introducing himself, the Terran noticed a globular bulge on the membrane nearest him. I see congratulations are in order, Citizen.

The Wagnali met the outstretched hand with a cytoplasmic extension. "Loubo. Loubo Quu Un. And thank you. After negotiating