"Black Hole" by Sally Catlin

So we was sittin' in this grimy little spaceport bar, me an' Helori Engeni-- a ships' engineer, an' a darn good one too, even if she was female then, but I didn't hold that against her, seein' as I'd known her since the second time she was male, an' anyway you can't tell with tenglorians unless they're actually hittin' on you, an' she hadn't tried that with me yet, then.

But that's another story. As I was sayin', we'd been workin' t'gether fer a few months on the S. S. Yellow Grapefruit, free-lancer that sometimes hired out as a courier fer those two-bit pre-nuke planets that wanta feel important. We'd just gotten off a run between Helgamryth an' Ot-- you won't of heard of them-- Grand Poobah of Ot had married half-a-dozen of the Massive Helg's sisters, an' we were deliverin' the blushin' brides.

So we're two weeks out of port an' we hit this gas cloud that's about ten times thicker than Computer thought an' we get shook around a bit, there's a leak in one of the q-vapor conduits, right out inta space. Stars, that's just a half-hour repair, Helori can suit up an' we won't even hafta stop, but we need bi-glossarian heknapelt t' fix it with, an' of course the Captain's one of these real smart boys that knows better than t' give free access t' the parts store t' a couple of tech types, so first we gotta go get the Captain t' unlock the spare parts.

So we page him, but he's not answerin', an' he doesn' open his cabin door when we bang on it. None of the crew know where he is an' we en' up searchin' the ship. All this time, min', pressurized q-vapor is leakin' out an' gettin' adulterated in the gas cloud.

So finally we go down t' the secure hold an' ask the cargo, but they deny knowin' anythin', until Helori notices there's only five of them there. By now it's comin' nice an' clear t' all of us what's goin' on, so we head back t' the Captain's cabin an' pound on the door 'til I get the lock hacked. Turns out he's gotten stuck on one of her tail-spines durin' the rattlin' we took an' he's too pink t' open the door. So the medic-- it's a vilimid an' it's takin' all this in slither-- patches him up, an' no harm done, but meanwhile the conduit's been leakin', an' by the time we get it patched we're down t' one-quarter pressure.

So we straggle in t' Ot a week late with shields down an' on gravity brakes, an' we all go t' smile at the weddin', an' the next mornin' the Grand Ot comes slimin' in, all six of his tentacles almost purple, an' tries t' strangle the Captain. Turns out her royal hussy's a great one for pillow talk, an' we hafta skive out of there, without refuelin', before he challenges the Captain to an Otchun geldin' duel, which wouldn' be fair, min', seein' as he was human, after all, an' only had one t' lose.

So by the time we've limped inta this random station for repairs me an' Helori have come t' think it might be wiser, in the long run, t' ditch that spacer, an' we give him notice an' put the word around that we're lookin' for ships. We're sittin' in this grimy little spaceport bar waitin' for someone t' take the bait, an' the barkeep comes over an' Helori orders an Isotope Six-ring Cantiblaster.

After he's fetched the benzene an' deuterium from the safe he says "You know, I've always thought that sounded more like a spaceship drive than a cocktail." An' Helori grins, because that's half the reason she drinks the damn' fizzy things, an' starts babblin' on about how when her pet FTL design finally gets a patent that's what she's goin' t' call it.

So I try t' stay out of it an' sip my jovian ale, but then she says that neutronium-based Hawking reactors really won't have a future once Ganshlior-Glatirudiae super-compressors are perfected, an' I hafta' bust in t' inform her that any tech with an inherent risk of uncontrolled temporal shear won't ever be useful t' anyone but physicists, an' we really get inta the discussion.

By now the poor barkeep's half lost, an' he throws his paws up an' says, "Hey, go easy on me. I may not be a total idiot, but I only have two heads. So what you're saying is that this Gertrude starts up faster and is less likely to blow then a Harry-thing? Sounds good to me."

I shake my head. "The Ganshlior-Glatirude's less likely t' blow, sure, but nothin' that basically wants t' smear you across th' fifth dimension by generatin' a black hole out of tachyons is anythin' that I want anythin' t' do with."

Helori's pointedly ignorin' me. "Elegantly stated, sir. Once that one minor safety problem's solved the Ganshlior-Glatirude, or `Gertrude' as you so colloquially call it, will take over the ship drive industry fast as sunrise, and you'll be glad you got in on it this early." Damn, Helori gets posh when she's female an' drunk on aromatics.

Now all this time this captain-type's been watchin' us, sippin' on his overpriced pink Gavrian pinosh, which I happen t' know is made out of rotten arthropod piss, n' matter what the ads say about `butterfly dew'. So I'm sort of watchin' him out of the corner of my eye, because it's obvious he's thinkin' about offerin' us a job, but he's kinda nervous, swaggerin' and Freudian flightsuit aside-- he's listenin' t' us talkin', an' you can tell he's only understandin' about one word in five. Finally he gets his courage up an' comes up an' sits next t' Helori, an' sort of leans over an' says, "So, this Gertrude-- is she cute?"

Me an' Helori decided it's long past time t' give up the starship racket, an' we started a freelancin' repair business on the stations. She did hardware an' I did software, an' we did fairly well for ourselves, an' were glad of it when the fizz-bipper got cheap an' all the independent captains went bankrupt. Sure, it's less glamorous than spacer work, but the job security's a lot better. People'll always need their sewers debugged.