This Crazy Infection Read online

are greeted by an empty lobby.

  “This sucks,” Myrha moans, and flops onto one of the couches.

  The hostel is smelly and wooden, likely made from the trees of this world, and nothing is slick and shiny, metal and plastic, and screens and noise. It’s depressing, really. One of the other guests, a big burly man with a beard, timidly rings a bell on the desk and—

  POOF.

  Streamers burst into the air and fall limply to the floor.

  “Welcome!” a man jaunts out from the staff door.

  He’s a short little man, layered with fat and sweat, and sporting a rather spectacular bald spot. A thick cord hangs around his neck, and disappears down a baggy flowery shirt. The flowers are dancing. Myrha has to close her eyes at the sight; she had thought such shirts went out of style decades ago. Apparently this man, with his nasally voice and bulbous nose, had missed the memo.

  “This is Lieval’s prime resort: The Starry Resting Place!”

  This is nothing like a resort, let alone any sort of suitable resting place, but the words tickle at her memory. The name must be straight from a Turobeck poem: if I cannot have a love, if I cannot have a ship, then cast me into that vast abyss: the starry resting place. As a lover of poetry (and Turobeck in particular), she can appreciate a fellow fan; but this hostel is really less than deserving of a name from a Turobeck poem.

  “My name is Bartin and my wife Werna and I will be happy to assist you with your check-in, not to mention your luggage,” he then shouts to the staff door, “Werna!”

  He chuckles weakly at them, “My apologies, she’s a little hard of hearing.”

  They all stare blankly at him.

  He clasps his hands together and surveys them, “Now, who’s first?”

  She is so not staying two weeks here, free vacation or not.

  Myrha jumps up from the couch, “I’m out of here.”

  “Wait, wait, wait! You only just got here. Surely you want to at least spend the night.”

  Myrha places her hands on her hips and stares him down, “Listen buddy, I was promised a world of beaches, babes and barbeque and a stay in a luxurious resort. Instead, I get this.”

  She gestures around the lobby in a long, annoyed fashion. Instead of looking insulted, the man squeals in delight and rushes out from behind the desk.

  “Oh, you must be our lucky winner!”

  He takes her hands in his and vigorously shakes them.

  “It’s so wonderful to meet you. We’re so excited to have you here. Please, let us make you comfortable.”

  She tugs her hands free, “I told you: I’m leaving.”

  His face falls, “But…but you’re already here.”

  “And I’m wishing I wasn’t! I have a mind to sue your ass over faulty advertising. You promised me a first-class vacation and here I am in this dump!”

  She stomps her foot for a good measure and the other tourists stare. Let them! The in-flight entertainment had been dreadfully pathetic; they’re in need of a good show.

  “Please,” he practically whines, “your poetry was exquisite! It was a masterpiece, a wonderful homage to the grand Turobeck and yet a startling show of individualism, creativity and innovation. It would be an honor to have you at least dine with us.”

  Well, a dinner does sound good, but she isn’t quite in the mood to be poisoned by whatever slop this man is calling nourishment. Also, she’s not terribly impressed by his attempt at flattery. Horny slug-aliens have fed her better lines. Literally.

  “I’ve got to catch the shuttle,” she turns on her heel.

  Hands in the pockets of her cargo pants, she stomps down to the shuttle, luggage plate tucked against her side. The android stands next to the refueling station, hands on hips, as the shuttle’s fuel canisters refill. The captain of their oh-so-lovely jaunt wipes his brow as he slumps against the shuttle’s side.

  “So,” Myrha says, “when are we leaving?”

  The android levels her with a flinty gaze, “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow? Why the fuck are you waiting so long?”

  “The captain needs his rest.”

  To be a fair it was a rather long flight. Still, being stuck here overnight isn’t something she’s keen on experiencing.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Is your departure ticket for tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “Then you cannot come with us. You will have to wait two weeks until we return.”

  Myrha strides up to her and tries to loom over her, which is hard because the android is taller than she is. She tries out her best pissed-off-tower-of-raging-angry-customer glare.

  If androids could feel disgust, this android would be surveying her like she is a rather large, annoying fly just waiting to be squished. Maybe the android doesn’t like her attitude (she has a loud mouth and is proud of it), her purple hair, or her midriff shirt. Whatever it is, the android has to deal with it, because Myrha didn’t sign up for any of this shit.

  “Listen. I am not staying on this radioactive planet for two weeks. I am leaving with you whether you like it or not!”

  “That isn’t possible.”

  “Fuck you and your impossible.”

  “You don’t understand,” the android says sharply, “your ticket will not pass through the scanner because of the wrong date.”

  Myrha looks at her blankly.

  The android looks just a bit smug.

  “When you boarded you had to show your ticket to the scanner on the shuttle, did you not?”

  She tries to recall the moment she boarded. It’s all a little hazy, as she had been desperately trying not to throw-up or pass out or run away screaming at the idea of soaring light-years through space on a tiny shuttle. Speaking of which, she had done it. And with only a little bit of help from some second-rate alcohol. Fuck yeah. She should celebrate…or something.

  The android continues to stare at her.

  Oh, right.

  She vaguely remembers waving her ticket across some sensor, which had then blinked green. The shuttle doors had gone transparent and let her in.

  At her look of comprehension, the android continues, “If the ticket doesn’t match the passenger or the date, the shuttle will not let you board.”

  Myrha raises her wrist and waves her untiphone in the android’s face, “You see this? This has my departure ticket on it. At ports, passengers can usually get their tickets cancelled or changed, right? So can’t you do something like that?”

  “I am not a concierge android,” she responds rather icily.

  “By Jupiter’s moons!” The captain suddenly cries, “I have a captaincy override. If she wants to leave that bad, I’ll let her on.”

  Myrha grins smugly at the android (who looks rather blank; gorgeous, but expressionless), and then she prostrates herself before the captain because hello, she knows who to suck up to and when.

  The lobby is empty when she returns so she taps the bell loudly and in annoyance until someone comes to book her a room. Myrha knew her pride would sting when Bartin enters, looking horribly smug.

  “You’ve decided to join us?” he asks.

  “For one night, until the shuttle leaves.”

  His smugness instantly disappears.

  She points to her prize package on her utiphone, “Now give me the best room you’ve got.”

  The ‘best room’ happens to be a small nook on the second floor with a rotting balcony overlooking the ocean. Like the lobby, the wood in the room gives off a noxious odor…something like stale sweat. Gross.

  Also, she’s missing a bed.

  Myrha puts her hands on her hips and blows hot air past her lips. She’s pretty damn sure she’s supposed to have a bed. Stomping around the room she examines the nightstand and dresser, the only pieces of furniture in the room. Even when she looks under them, she cannot find their pods. They’re like relics of a past era, found in some grandmother’s attic. Or maybe they were rescued from a dump. She honestly can’t tell.


  She’s also missing a lamp. And most importantly, a bathroom.

  This must be a joke. Some form of cosmic joke. She slams a fist in the wall, because if she doesn’t punch the wall she’ll probably find Bartin and slug his ugly face and it’s relatively impolite to maim your host (not to mention the last time she did something like that she spent a long, uncomfortable night in a holding cell while Officers laughed at her idiocy). She feels slightly better after taking her aggression out on the wall, but then the wall does something strange: it squeaks.

  Backing up quickly she surveys the wall with a critical eye. On Earth, she spends a lot of her time hanging out in bars and cheap hotels (which, of course, are still classier than this hovel), and she’s encountered more than a few sneaky aliens hiding out where they shouldn’t be. Sometimes, they’re criminals on the run; other times, they just want to watch tourists get naked.

  She taps the wall again. It squeaks. But it sounds more like a rust-squeak than hiding-alien squeak. A strap sticking out of the wall catches her eye. Standing on tip-toe, she yanks on the strap and yelps as something falls down on her. She darts out of the way and with a rusty clanging noise, the bed is revealed.

  She gapes at it. She has never seen a bed come out of a wall before. Usually the furniture is already laid out, and if a guest wants to change the placement, all they have to do is just pick up its pod.

  Phenomenally glad she already released her anger on the squeaky-wall, she marches down to the lobby and slams her hands on the counter. Bartin, doodling on an artist pad on his utiphone, jumps.

  “Bathrooms,” she demands with false-sweetness.

  “Communal facilities on the first floor,” he