Roxie & The Galactic Ring Hunt

As we follow the adventure of Roxie Vega, her old nemesis, Dana, is back in the picture. And she has a dangerous mission for our heroine.

I don’t know why I keep hanging out in this casino of degenerate aliens. The place smells like desperation, the bar is sticky, and the other patrons are rough and rowdy. I’m one of the few female-identifying life forms, and not to toot my own blaster, but the most attractive. I don’t need the cracked bar mirror to tell me what I already know. With my thick dark hair, smooth human skin, and blue eyes, I don’t have the rough edges of my down-on-their-luck drinking partners.

Not that I’m rolling in luck right now, but at twenty-something years old, youth is helping me hide the ravages of stress. Unlike poor Zilda. She’s three barstools over and needs to have a tentacle lift or something. Globs of goo run from her six rheumy red eyes and get caught in her whiskers as she cries over the last of a Neptunian Beer.

Taking a swill of my icy vodka, after a shudder of alcoholic reflection, I know why I keep visiting the Big Rig Fuel and Casino.

The booze is cheap, and Doran, the four-armed bartender, will let me run a tab.

I nod at him and point to Zilda. He gives her a fresh drink, and she smiles at me with all three of her mouths.

I consider going over to chat with her, but then I’m distracted by the bugle of a horn from the static-filled TV in the corner. The 55,000 running of the Kentucky Derby is about to go off! My skin flushes red, and my fingers tighten on my betting slip. Endorphins flood my system, and I feel that rush, the one that makes me feel alive. Okay, I may have a slight gambling problem.

Crossing my fingers, I focus on the screen as my race goes off. My last ten bucks are on horse number nine. Holding my breath, I see the favorite pass my longshot at the wire. My stomach drops. I’ve lost. The high I was on just seconds ago plummets into a pool of depression. I’m so broke. And my vodka glass is empty.

I hardly notice that Dana the Damalian, a canine alien (who might be prettier than I am), slides onto the stool next to me.

“Wipe that scowl off your face.” She elbows me. “Rosie Rathburn, I have a job for you.”

Am I desperate enough? My stomach flips, and my brain screams to get up and leave. Dana’s jobs have a way of costing more than they pay.

Without meeting her hypnotic eyes, I throw my betting slip onto the littered floor. “I’ve gone straight. Only legal work.”

I mutter an internal diatribe for strength. I’m not that desperate, I’m not that desperate, I’m not that desperate…

Dana puts her paw on my arm. “How’s that working out for you? Not so well, I bet.”

My shoulders slump. “What ya got for me?” I am that desperate.

She points to her claw. “My ring is missing.” Dana has matted fur on her finger in place of her trademark red gem with a gleaming black center.

I wrinkle my brow. “So?”

In stupider times, I ran illegal drugs for Dana in my garbage hauler. Too many close calls later, I finally quit the smuggling business. Young human women don’t do well on the Intergalactic Penal Planet of Cattaz. No one does well on Cattaz unless they like torture.

She shrugs. “I want it back. I’ll pay you double your normal rate if you find it.”

This is totally suspicious, but I think of my empty wallet. She drops her tongue out and pants a little. She knows when she gives me those puppy dog eyes, it’s hard for me to say “No”.

With a sick feeling in my stomach, I say, “Okay. For you.”

Dana scrawls some locations on a stained napkin. “These are the last places I’ve been. I need the ring by tonight. Or no payout.”

She’s been all over the damn galaxy. The laundromat at one end, and the Martian Martial Mud Coliseum at the other.

“This is mission impossible!” I'm regreting this already.

Dana sashays away. Her tail flicks at me in dismissal.

With a sigh, I decide to start with the laundromat. It’s just across the road and maybe Dana slipped her ring into a pocket. Wouldn’t it be great if it was that easy?

I slink out of the bar without paying my tab.

***

The laundromat is gloomy and stinks of chemicals. The Oberonian owner pins his horns when I approach the low counter.

He waves a pudgy hand. “No more today! Full up.”

I flash him my best grin. “I’ve just come to pick up Dana’s clothes.” He relaxes. My smile does that.

He waddles over to a row of slinky bodysuits. “Not done.” He shrugs.

“Can I just check the pockets?”

The owner’s eyes flit to a pinboard filled with posters and notes.

My picture is there.. It’s not the most flattering. I’m in one of my mini-dresses, looking messy and crumpling a losing betting slip in my hand gazing forlornly into the smoky air at the Big Rig Casino. There’s a warning scrawled at the bottom.

From your local business black list: Do not serve. Non-payment.

The blood rushes to my cheeks. Maybe my gambling and drinking has gotten a bit out of hand lately.

He bears his fangs. “Get out.”

Snarling back, I lean over the counter, grab the clothes, and run. I hear the owner’s enraged squawk as a bullet bloodies the tip of my ear. Thankfully my legs are long, and his aim is bad. I hightail it back to my ship in the parking lot and toss the outfits in. I’m assuming the guy won’t report me. What’s he going to say? Someone stole some dirty clothes?

Mentally crossing my fingers, I check the pockets. Nothing. Disappointment spreads through me like spaceship oil through a hole in the engine.

Sighing, I rev up the garbage hauler and head for my second-best guess. The Martian Mud Fights. Dana is one cool dog, but who doesn’t cheer and jump around at a sparring match?

It takes me an hour to get there, and I’m stopped at the door by an enormous octopus-like guard.

“Pay the entry fee,” He slurps in a liquidy voice.

He wraps eight tentacles around my arm when I try and push by him.

Wiggling doesn’t free my arm and I don’t have a dollar in my pocket. My brain fires through lies…

I’m a cop…

I own the place…

I’ve come to clean the air ducts…

Nope, nope, nope, finally I land on one that might work:

“I’m here to fight!”

He blubs a lip doubtfully at my slender frame, but then lets me in.

It’s mayhem in the huge warehouse. A roped ring is filled with gelatinous mud and hundreds of spectators scream with bloodthirsty glee. The noise makes my ears ache instantly. A freakishly muscular human girl is pounding on a squat Oberonian female.

My spine tingles. If I had a few bucks, I’d put my money on the Oberonian. They might be slow, but they’re tough. Clenching my own fists, I watch the human throw her contender out of the ring. The crowd roars and drinks spill everywhere.

Another bet I would have lost.

An announcer calls out over the crowd. “Sandy Storm had conquered Oberzilla. Who’s next to take on our champion?”

I can see the doorman pointing at me, so I meld quickly into the sweaty crowd. I hunch down and check out the layout of the place. It’s very basic. The ring, a bar, the spectator pit, and a balcony with comfy chairs set above the crowd. For VIPs. Like Dana.

Dropping to my knees, I scan the floor under the balcony. A few people stumble over me, but most are too busy checking out the latest challenger.

I see something red winking in the corner, jammed under a floorboard. I scoop it up and am about to hightail it when I notice something. Is that a button in the middle of the red gem?

I bite my lip. Staying out of Dana’s business is a good way to stay alive.

But I AM a gambler.

Using the tip of my nail, I push the black dot, and a hologram pops up on the wall of the arena. It's a list of names with contact info. Squinting, my stomach tosses like I've picked a horse guaranteed to win. This is a list of Dana’s top-secret clients. The most notorious criminals in all four galaxies.

A slow grin spreads across my face. She’s going to pay me more than double my rate to get this ring back.

I’d bet on it.

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