Lipstick Overkill, 1

CHAPTER ONE

John Sebastian felt like the third day of a two-day vacation. His head was spinning, his feet were numb, and his stomach was resisting any persuasive arguments in favor of calming down. It was as if his body was having its revenge on him for getting just a little too drunk last night. OK, a lot drunk. But it had been worth it. After three days of scraping the hull and applying three coats of a new polymer-based paint, exhausting himself in the process, he’d had to get drunk just to get away from the paint fumes. It had definitely been worth it.

If only he could remember it.

He opened his eyes to find himself sprawled on his bunk. Strange. He thought he’d been standing up. He tried to do that and was rewarded for his trouble with another spinning head (since when did he have two?) and another urge to wretch. Deciding against standing, Sebastian opted instead to simply lean against the bulkhead, which was as far as he’d made it in his efforts to set himself upright. And while upright might not describe his current state, at least he wasn’t lying down in a dead sleep. Although he could probably use another eight or ten hours of it, as tired as he was from painting the ship. And his exhaustion had probably made him a little more vulnerable to that last glass of -- what was that concoction Mumo had made him drink? All he remembered Mumo saying was, “It’s green.” And then the lights had gone out.

Sleep was definitely an attractive state of being, but it meant moving again. Sebastian didn’t think he was up to getting down from his lean. Besides, where would the wall go if he weren’t here to hold it up?

The door opened loudly, and in walked the object of Sebastian’s musings. Thaurig Mumonakalannasathalakhathoth -- a rough, bearded hulk of a man -- strode in and stopped just inside the door. Feet firmly planted a precise meter apart (this was public knowledge since Mumo made sure everyone knew it), he put his fists on his hips and gave the appearance of a squatter staking a claim on the land. Actually, Sebastian probably looked more like the squatter, which was probably what he would have been doing if he weren’t already half-leaning into a fully prone position.

Mumo “tsked, tsked” into the room, leaning down and looking into Sebastian’s eyes. Sebastian tried to look back, but all he saw was Mumo’s nose, looking rather bulbous and protruding a bit further than it normally did from the giant’s face. Sebastian almost started laughing, except that seeing Mumo’s nose without the rest of Mumo’s face was both startling and fascinating at the same time.

“John,” Mumo began (though how he was talking through his nose John could only guess at), “you don’t look so good.”

Sebastian regained enough of his sense of self to say, “I don’t feel so good.”

Mumo stood up again, and suddenly his nose was back on his face, which comforted John Sebastian greatly, as he had no more desire to continue a conversation with a large bulbous nose. Mumo tilted his head to one side and looked at Sebastian speculatively. “I think somebody fibbed about how much liquor they could hold.”

“I told you I could hold it. I never said I could drink it.”

Mumo let loosed a bark of a laugh and reached out to pull Sebastian up to a full sitting position. “Well, I can’t have a pilot seeing double while he charts a course. Suppose I’ll have to give you time off to recover.”

“Especially since you created the situation I have to recover from.” At least he didn’t smell paint fumes. In space, no one can hear you stink.
Mumo laughed again, this time a full rich tenor from the belly. “I suppose I did at that. Hmmm. For what it’s worth, the paint job looks good.” He looked around the cabin, again taking on that speculative air, then looked back at Sebastian. “Can you stand?”

Sebastian looked up slowly at Mumo and wondered if he heard right. Stand? Didn’t you have to have feet and legs for that? He looked down and saw that indeed he did have feet and legs, but couldn’t tell where they’d come from. He made a few tentative attempts to move them, and was surprised to find that they were indeed functional. “Give me a minute. I think so.” He tried moving his legs again. “Maybe more than a minute.”

Mumo nodded. “Good. You get yourself together then. I’m going to plot us a course around the Karoomza Nebula.” He stood up and moved toward the door. “We have a delivery to make. And then there’s someplace I think you need to go.”

Sebastian nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again, before it registered what Mumo had just said. “Waitaminit. You can’t plot a course. That’s what you hired me for.”

Mumo stopped at the door and turned around. “No, John. I hired you because the navbot is a lousy drinking partner.”

* * *

The Karoomza Nebula is a bright red ball of gas that never formed anything. It had tried to be a star. It had tried to be a black hole. It had tried to be a supernova. It had a tremendous ego, and so would not admit to itself that it could never be anything more than a bright red ball of gas. Deep in the heart of the Karoomza Nebula, gases of other colors and temperatures came into contact with each other and exploded in bright flashes of light that played over the balls of dust and rock that lazily lumbered in a roundabout fashion through and in and around the nebula. On the outskirts of the nebula lay a slightly less-than-minor navigation route that was mostly taken by elderly tour groups looking for one last hot flash before losing the last bit of gas.

At the rear of the cargo freighter Y’mo’yto, a mixture of ions and prions and various elements and chemicals spewed forth from the freshly-painted engines in a frothy mixture that seemed to spread in slow-motion. The freighter changed course in the black depths of space, now beginning the fifth month of a trek through space that was starting to seem very much more than long enough.

* * *

Liberty Lovejoy had been in space long enough to know she was tired of being in space. She sat behind her desk and gnawed on the tip of a pencil, a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches untouched on the corner, her platinum blond hair swirling around her head in a style that her best friend Robbi had called “devilishly murderous”. It was a style that she personally didn’t much care for, but it helped with her image of the professional proprietress of the establishment. Along with the tight skirt and the micro-mini sleeveless halter top. She sighed, wondering for the quintillionth time how she’d gotten roped into owning this place. It wasn’t anything like what she’d planned to do with her life. She had been perfectly content to stay on Earth, happily unaware that beings from outer space existed, ready to put her cosmetology license to good use.

If only that stupid ship hadn’t dropped in the water right in front of her...

Exxo and Syssyk had been desperate, and had persuaded her to help them save their planet. Conned her. Convinced her to go gallivanting around space facing all sorts of danger and mayhem that no sane human woman had a right to face. She sighed again. So long ago, that had been. Ten years, now? She wondered if Linnom was still in prison. The lonely freak deserved whatever he got. Vanity had gotten the better of him, something she was constantly on the lookout for in her own life, especially here in this place. She stood up and moved to the glass-encased bookshelf on the opposite wall. The keys to the Beagle, her ship. The one they’d given her in gratitude for simply doing what had to be done and saving their planet in the process. The jar of Glamour Grease (which was so inappropriately named), the mirror wrapped in tinfoil (had to remember to remind Gav again not to unwrap it, maybe should put it in the safe...). Books from various worlds in various languages, some that she knew, some that she didn’t, all gifts from some grateful soul on some desperate planet that she’d somehow managed to help. She thought about the non-functional dimensional key hidden in the lead box in the safe behind the portrait of the lemon. She still hadn’t figured out why Gemmon had liked that painting. Then she realized that all of these things were leading her back to the same thought: What on Earth (well, it was still an expression) was she doing here?

The door behind her opened, and Robbi walked in. Her attire and hairstyle were completely opposite Liberty’s: dark hair cut close, polished black boots reaching up past her calves, denim pants slung low around her waist, and a navy blue long-sleeved halter top that opened to a V at her neck. She stopped when she saw where Liberty was standing, noticed the uneaten PB&J sandwiches. “Uh-oh. Reminiscing again?”

“Robbi, what are we doing here?”

Robbi sauntered in and dropped into the only overstuffed chair in the room and draped one leg over the arm. She liked the fact that it didn’t match anything else in the room. It gave the chair character, Robbi thought. She leaned into the puffy back to study her best friend. “We’re making money. And we’re keeping a promise.”

Liberty grimaced. “It was a promise that we never should have made, and you know it.” When had she started feeling old? She was barely past thirty, but her experiences had aged her emotionally and mentally to the point that she felt lifetimes older than thirty. “Gemmon was just looking for a way out.”

“Gemmon lost his touch. He admitted as much. Besides, with his mother being sick, it only made sense for him to leave. I just wish he’d have taken that stupid picture with him. I mean, really, a lemon?” Robbi looked out through the picture window behind the desk. “It’s not a bad setup, actually.”

“It’s not what we started off doing. It’s not what we’re good at.”

“Oh, this is more of that ‘I want to be Liberty Lovejoy, Intergalactic Space Babe, saving the universe’ thinking again.” Robbi said it tongue-in-cheek, knowing that Liberty had never really liked the reputation that had come with the nickname. It was too sexist, for one thing. And despite the fact that Liberty enjoyed the more… titillating aspects of the reputation, it was only because she had fun playing the part. Being sexy. Being a mystery woman. Being an Intergalactic Space Babe, whatever that was. All these years and they still hadn’t come up with an decent definition for the title. Well, decent may not be the right word…

But that had all started years ago, when they were carefree college co-eds with nothing better to do than gallivant around the universe.
Liberty picked up the keys to the Beagle, thinking fondly of Exxo and Syssyk, wondering how they were faring on Puscha. Everything had been simpler then. Mint juleps still made her nauseous, but the sight of a Maxine Fabuloso hairbrush or plasticene go-go boots still made her smile. But the smile was hollow. “It’s been way too long, Robbi.”

Robbi heard the fatigue, saw the way Liberty stood. “You want to get out of here, don’t you? Permanently, I mean.”

Liberty nodded. She turned to face her partner, her best friend, the woman who knew her better than her own mother. “I want to pull the Beagle off her blocks and just go again.” Her restlessness was worse than it had ever been. She hadn’t been to Earth in nine years, since she’d gone back for Robbi. “I want to go home for a while. And then I want to go see Exxo and Syssyk and maybe go cause some trouble somewhere.” Not that they hadn’t caused their share in the time before they had landed here.

Robbi tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, tongue pushing against her left cheek, then looked at the woman she considered a sister. “Ok. Let’s go.”

Liberty knew Robbi meant it. That was the best thing about her. Robbi never really considered herself first. Being the youngest of five Riggs children, she had learned at an early age not to be so focused on her desires and goals that she wasn’t able to change the direction of her life. Despite being slightly older, she went where Liberty went. Most of the time, anyway. It was like she was the big sister looking out for her. Best friends were like that, Liberty supposed. She didn’t suppose a lot in her life, which was a small matter of pride for her. Supposing only led to a lot of ifs, and those became what ifs, and those turned into disasters of epic proportions. She supposed Robbi didn’t do a lot of supposing either.

“It’s not that easy, Rob, and you know it.” Liberty sat back behind her desk, twirling the pencil while she thought about her options. “I need to find someone who’s a better match for this place. Someone who knows this business.”
Robbi turned toward her, grabbed a sandwich. She took a big bite and grinned lopsidedly. “Someone who likes to get drunk and make money.”

* * *

Hoping to get the opportunity to get relaxed very soon (with the aid of local mature libations), Mumo stood near the aft cargo compartment, watching as the cargo hauler bots made quick work of unloading the medical supplies from the ship. Even beyond the personal benefit to his own small fortune, Mumo knew the supplies -- the anti-coagulants especially -- would come in handy on this planet. Juraq and its sister planet Juran IV had been hit hard with civil unrest complicated -- perhaps exacerbated -- by low food production. In the aftermath of the war, a lot of civilians had populated the aid camps. Refugees had swarmed in from the outlying cities after peace had been negotiated. Mumo knew that the Unified Non-Aggressive Worlds would put the supplies to good use. Which was good, since humanitarian aid seemed to be the only thing the UNAW was good at. Give them a famine, plague or drought any day. But all the gods help them if they should ever be faced with a clear threat like Linnom would have been or Sammad could have been. They’d probably relieve themselves in their shorts. The thought made Mumo smile to himself. Yes, he thought, diplomats should know their place in society: on the lower end of the food chain.

He made his last notes on the work tablet as the bots finished unloading the last of the cargo pallets. Clean machines, they were. Definitely not local issue. Probably shipped in from Fruach or Tau Ceti. The twin suns of Juraq were low on the horizon, their orange light reflecting off the hoods of the cargo bots as they lined up the pallets for transport to a nearby warehouse. Light treads wrapped around wheels, the bots were made to be all-terrain vehicles. Mumo just hoped the tracks hadn’t scratched the ramp. “John,” he called up into the cargo cabin, “would you do me the favor of checking the floor?”

Sebastian had had the same misgivings when he saw the bots come in, and knew what Mumo was talking about. “Sure thing. Let me get the empty pods secure, and I’ll take a look around.”

Mumo nodded to himself. “That’s fine.” He checked off the last item on his list, and sighed, another job completed on time and without mishap.
“It’s almost time to get drunk, my friend.”
John came out onto the ramp and completed his inspection of the areas where the cargo bots had been. “We got drunk yesterday, remember?” Was it yesterday? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember yesterday, which is what made him think that’s when he got drunk.

“Oh, that was nothing.” Mumo waved a meaty hand dismissively through the air. “That was getting slightly drunk. Well --” he corrected himself, “ -- in your case, mostly drunk. I’m talking about being in such a blissful state of life-high that you won’t care that you’re stinking drunk.”

“Life-high?” Sebastian knew he heard it right. Thought he heard it right. What had he heard? “What does that mean?”

“Being high on life!” Mumo enthused.

Sebastian made it down to the bottom of the ramp shaking his head. “OK, whatever. It doesn’t look like they scratched the paint, Tharuig.”

Mumo spun around, startled. “John!” He looked around briefly. Only the bots were around. Fortunately, they were paying attention only to their cargo. “I told you not to call me that in public.”

“OK, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” John held up his hands in surrender. “But you still haven’t told me why.”

“Nor will I.” Mumo started back up the ramp, putting his checklist away. “That’s a tale only for the stout of heart, which I am not.” He took a deep breath and willed the memories away. He took another breath, and forced himself to be his usual good-natured self. “Why don’t you check the outside of the ship to see how the paint job is holding up while I do a systems check? Then we’ll go into town and see what the local establishments have to offer.” Now he needed to get drunk more than ever.

* * *

On the edge of the Karoomza Nebula, a small asteroid sliced through space silently, careening through vacuum without any purpose. As it slid through space, it quietly collided with another asteroid, both bouncing off each other with a spray of minerals and dust and ice. The impact sent both asteroids in new directions, dragging with them debris from the collision. The debris passed near a certain point on the outer edge of a particular gas layer of the nebula.

* * *

Sebastian made his way around the outside of the ship, wondering what had gotten into his friend. That name seemed almost a curse to him. Oh, well. They both had their secrets. They’d both learned to live with them. Mumo didn’t like his first name, fine. John wasn’t about to pursue it because he understood completely (having a middle name of Leslie). He didn’t want his own secrets being brought up. Bad enough that he tensed every time he saw the color pink or a pair of ballet slippers --

What was this? He spotted a blemish on the outer ring of one of the engines. Stepping closer, he saw that the paint had been literally baked off by the wash from the engine. Strange. He thought there had been enough time elapsed for the paint to adhere and harden so it wouldn’t do that. He reached into his pocket for his comm unit. “Mumo, everything checks out, but the paint’s burned off of the rearmost portion of the engines.”

“I had a feeling they might do that.” Mumo sounded almost -- embarrassed.

“Why do you say it that way?”

“Well, I seem to recall dropping a bit of our refreshment into the paint.”

The green stuff? No, couldn’t be. They didn’t have any of that until they were done. What had they been drinking? Had the alcohol or carbonation or whatever it was been enough to change the melting point of the paint? “Well, it doesn’t look like it’s doing it anywhere else on the ship. Probably just got too hot for the paint to handle.”

“Quite. I wouldn’t worry about it, John. Let’s lock up and go partake of the local hospitality.”

* * *

Liberty decided to take a walk around the building and stretch her legs. Out of her office and down the corridor was her bedroom, where she collapsed onto the feather-lined bed in the middle of the room. It was big enough for four Libertys, which made her wonder if she should gain a little weight just to make the bed happy. She sighed. Weight, fashion, weight, hair, fashion... what a load of tripe, she thought to herself. No one knows I can even add two and two, all because of how I look. Well, as they used to say on Earth, “sex sells”. Which annoyed her considerably. Of course, looking the way she did, everyone made the assumption that she was not as smart as she really was, which made it a lot easier to do what she did -- be the intergalactic heroine and save the day.

Well, at least that’s what she used to do.
She changed into her favorite outfit: a flannel running suit that hid just about everything. It was the most comfortable thing she had in her wardrobe of plastic and silk and rayon and polyester and a couple of fabrics that she couldn’t pronounce. She made her way out of the residence/office section of the “Palace” -- there was a misnomer if she’d ever heard one -- and through the secondary doors at the back of the main building. Stopping on the top step leading into the garden, she took a deep breath. Even if it wasn’t the freshest, it wasn’t recycled either. Stretching her legs against the railing, she set off through the garden.

A plethora of earth fauna was here, brought in by Gemmon to make her and Robbi feel more at home. Rose bushes, daisies, sunflowers, cacti, even some strawberries and grapevines. All tended by a man Liberty had quickly discovered was the angriest man in the galaxy. “Hey, Lovejoy Babe, watch out for the canker lilies!”

Liberty stopped abruptly, wondering if she’d stepped on anything. Jelouse was always changing things around in here. The path never was the same twice. She saw the old man coming up to her waving his spade in her general direction with one hand, a bag of fertilizer in another, and a water can in the third hand. “Good morning, Jelouse.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s good about it? Barbie dolls tramping all through here, think you can go anywhere you want? Think you own the place?”

Liberty smiled slightly. “Jelouse, I do own the place.” Even if I don’t want to, she didn’t add.

“Well, well, well... Now you’re gonna get uppity with me, eh?” The Tralaxian stood at his full height, which put him at eye level with certain parts of Liberty’s anatomy -- and she was suddenly glad she was wearing the flannel outfit. He shook his spade at her nose. “Listen, girlie, you watch your Ps and diphthongs, or I’ll give you what not. I work tirelessly, endlessly in this place to keep some semblance of order -- order! -- here. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to be fighting all these beastly plants that were never made to grow together.”

“Jelouse, I didn’t bring them here. It was Gemmon’s idea.”

“Gemmon, shmemmon. That lout never had any sense in any bone in any body that he had. It’s a wonder he was able to put his pants on in the morning.”

Liberty smiled. “Well, I know you’ll manage to keep this place up. You always do.” She turned and started for the far end of the winding path, calling back over her shoulder, “And if you ever get tired of one or two of these plants, you could always dig them up.”

Jelouse flustered and sputtered, his lime green skin turning a darker shade that was closer to jade. “Dig them up? Dig them up?! How dare you suggest a thing. Why, if it weren’t for these plants --” the rest of his tirade was lost as Liberty rounded a Pruf-fern and exited the garden.
Past the garden wall, she saw a rather disheveled figure on the corner. As she neared the corner, she realized it was Jex. “Jex, what are you doing here? Wait. Don’t tell me.”

The little mongrel of a man smiled wider than his face should allow and said, “We’re assembling another protest for Thursday. I’m scouting the area to pick a good spot.”

“I asked you not to tell me. Now you’ve spoiled the surprise. Guess you won’t be able to have the protest if I already know about it.”

Jex smiled even wider, if that were possible, and hooked a three-fingered hand around her shoulder, pulling her close. “Libby, Libby, Libby --” no one had called her that since junior high, but somehow it felt right coming from this toothless owl “-- we have to do it anyway. You know how the game goes. We protest. We get money from the bureaucrats. You get publicity. Everybody wins.”

“Jex, do you know how much money I have the casino put into the Health and Education Fund every year?” It was almost a scam, she thought. “Where does that money go?”

“Cigarettes.”

Liberty was startled. “Excuse me?”

“We buy cigarettes with it.” Jex was really getting jazzed on his story now, Liberty could tell. “See, the money we get from you we buy cigs and other junk with, start up new social programs that teach people how dependent they should be on us, then with these protests, we get money from the local civic council to start up programs to get them undependent.” Jex was almost gleeful. Then -- in the midst of his gaity -- he realized to whom he was speaking, and quickly got a look of sheer panic on his face. He looked around quickly, hoping no one else had heard. “You won’t...tell anyone, will you?”

Liberty patted Jex on the head lightly. “Don’t worry, Jex. You’re secret’s safe with me.” She headed off across the street. “For now.”

Jex suddenly didn’t feel very gleeful.