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   Chapter 10 No.10

Black Sunrise By Christina Engela Characters: 5538

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:01


The door rolled closed as he stumbled through the side door into the small lounge of his abode, and with admirable poise, fell headlong over the coffee table. Swearing and cursing, he rolled over and crawled to his bedroom, giving himself a minus 7 for style.

* * *

The night had passed pleasantly for Cindy-Mei. She had attended the welcoming banquet, a boisterous affair with native quasi-Hawaiian music and topless dancers. She thought the men were rather nice, brown tans and flowing black hair. Muscles galore. Shiny white grins that wouldn't look out of place on a movie star.

The food was nice and made a change from what she had on the trip here. After a nightcap at the pool bar, she'd had enough. She picked her clutch-bag off the countertop and rose from the stool. Her tube-top and wrap-around skirt had caused her to receive quite a bit of attention from the male population all evening, and even from a few of the womenfolk. A man sitting at the bar almost twisted his head off trying to follow. As she breezed past she heard him go 'Ow-ow-ow' as his wife dug her nails into something delicate. She felt a naughty little giggle coming on.

Back in her room, she let the feeling of safety and anonymity blanket her again. It was her new cocoon. She enjoyed attention, but she was still not used to it. She doubted she ever would be. Sure it was nice to be at the receiving end of male attention, but the old doubts were still there, still not exorcised. The little voices were still there, warning her that sure, the guys were nice and they were friendly, but they sure wouldn't be once they found out. Even when she tried to be honest w

a little.

"Here's ta the scaly devils of the uni v'herse, " he slurred. "An' this bloody music – if I hear any more violence I'm gonna get violined – put on something newer!" The computer switched to a random selection of American swing, jazz and soul from the 1940's. "No, no – not that! A lot newer!" And on came the glitter-rock of the 1970's.

Fred twitched his leaves with mounting discomfort. Rock music again – and not even the good stuff! It had got to the point where he'd had enough. Not just of the music, or Johannsen, or the rec-dec – or the ship, but just enough of it all. Extending some of his lower branches to the deck, Fred the Arborian shifted his pot out of the mounting on the little artificial rockery by the fountain, and using his lower branches like legs, began moving towards the door.

Johannsen turned round to see the cause of the movement and, eyes wide, nearly toppled off the stool. As it was, the glass slipped out of his hand and crashed into smithereens on the deck plating. It was a sight that stung him back to sobriety. Shit! All that hard work for nothing!

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