“Arm.” JC held out his arm, pushing the sleeve up towards his elbow. A zap, and the barcode tattooed on his skin was scanned. The porter checked the id on his terminal. A sly smile crossed the porter’s face as he looked JC up and down. “Yeah, you’re just what he wanted,” the porter said. JC didn’t take the bait, and the porter scowled. “Room 315,” he said, pushing JC into the elevator, keying the floor. JC saw the porter grab his own crotch and leer at JC right before the elevator doors closed. As the elevator moved up, JC swallowed. It never got easier. It never would. But right now, in this place and time, there was no help for it. He was a Trick. He didn’t want to be, but with the limited chances for anything on this God’s forsaken rock, there wasn’t much else he could do. He’d been stuck here, on Oasis, for ten years, five of them as a Trick. Someone like him never got away. The elevator doors opened and he walked out, moving down the corridor to room 315. He caught his reflection in a hallway mirror, the porter’s words echoing in his head. Just what he wanted, JC thought with a shake of his head. No way would the Treat be what he wanted. They never were. JC found the right room, lifting his arm again and scanning his bar code against the reader. The door slid open, and JC walked inside. “Yum.” The voice came from behind JC, and he turned, his heart sinking. The Treat was naked, fleshy, old, and even from this distance, JC could see he was hard with desire. “Just what I wanted,” the man said, moving across the room to JC. He placed meaty hands on JC’s shoulders, pushing him toward the large bed in the corner. JC swallowed again, seeing the manacles attached to the headboard and the drugs on the nightstand. JC shifted away, turning to face the Treat. “I’m glad you’re happy with me,” he said, trying to make his voice as sexy as possible without revealing his revulsion. “And I’m ready to give you what you want, but…” He moved to the nightstand, pointing to the electronic wallet placed there. “Business first.” The Treat’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know that I’ll get my money’s worth?” he said. JC took the Treat’s hand, placing it on his own crotch, letting the Treat feel his cock and thanking the God’s again for the hardening elixir he’d taken before coming over. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” he said, pushing the Treat’s hand away after a quick feel, then showing his bar code again. “It’s 300 for an hour, a thousand for the night.” This was always the dicey part of a Trick and Treat transaction. More than once in his career, the Treat had refused to pay and had just taken JC once he’d arrived. Of course, JC had always complained to his Trick agency, but nothing ever happened to the Treat. They’d just end up paying the agency, and JC wouldn’t see a bit of the fee. JC had adjusted his own bar code so a portion of the fee was automatically deposited in his personal account before it slipped into the agencies coffers. JC relaxed as the Treat picked up his wallet, punched a few buttons, and scanned a thousand credits onto JC’s barcode. JC waited for the beep before speaking again. “And you can use what you want, but I don’t do drugs,” he said, looking down at the array of dope in front of him. The Treat shrugged. “Your loss,” he said, pushing JC onto the bed roughly. He covered JC with his body, pulling one arm up and anchoring it into one of the manacles. “You’re mine, and I can do what I what, right?” He didn’t wait for JC to answer, but lifted himself off, ripping off JC’s clothes, the material tearing under the Treat’s fat hands. “Yeah, just what I wanted,” he said, his mouth moving to JC’s hard cock. JC flinched at the feel of the Treat’s wet mouth, but the Treat thought it was in pleasure, not the revulsion that JC was actually feeling. JC twisted, trying to get away, before catching himself. The Treat paid for this, JC thought. I have to submit. JC moved his hips, fucking the Treat’s mouth, his mind moving far away from what was happening on the bed, thinking of the day when he’ll leave this life, this planet, this world… Suddenly, the Treat seized up, then slumped across JC’s thighs. JC thought the Treat must have come, and was happy for that. No need to blow him now, he mused. But when the Treat didn’t move off of JC, reality set in. The Treat was dead. JC heaved the Treat off of him, the fat man sliding with a thud to the floor. Feeling a bit of panic, JC twisted, undoing the maniacal attached to his wrist, and jumping off the bed. He knelt down, feeling the Treat’s wrist. Yes, he was definitely dead. JC’s hand moved to the alarm on the wall, but stopped before calling the security forces, a nugget of an idea coming into JC’s mind. He was bought for the night. As far as the security forces and the agency thought, he was here, in this room, until 8 am tomorrow. It just might be his only opportunity. JC grabbed the Treat’s electronic wallet, checking the balance. He moved to the Treat’s phone, pressing the redial and just as he thought, was connected to the agency. Doing his best to imitate the Treat’s voice, the said he was keeping JC for the rest of the week. Then JC scanned more money into his barcode. Now all he had to do was wait. A rumble started in JC’s stomach, and he moved to the kitchen area, hoping that the Treat had something to eat here. Luck was again with JC, and he found meat and cheese and even milk in the cooling unit. JC quickly ate the fresh food, the taste of the milk as sweet as honey on his tongue. A glance at the clock showed that it was past 11, the time when the porter shift change should have happened. JC looked though the drawers of the kitchen, sighing with relief when he found a knife. With some difficulty, he pulled the Treat into the bathroom, laying the dead man on the floor, and maneuvering his arm over the toilet. JC swallowed, then ran the knife along the Treat’s arm, slicing off the skin where his barcode was located. Blood spurted out, making JC gag, but on he sliced, trying to make as smooth a cut as possible. After a time, the flap of skin was removed. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped the Treat’s arm, then flung the dead man away from him. He rinsed the skin in the sink, putting it to dry on another towel before finally succumbing to nausea and retching into the toilet. He stood in the shower for a long time, letting the hot water cleanse him of his sick and the blood and his own nerves. He leaned against the tile, shaking. If caught, JC would be killed. But he was dead anyway…why not try for this slim chance at life? After drying off and finding his own clothes ripped, JC pulled on some of the Treat’s, tying the pants with a rope when they slid down JC’s hips. He put on a long sleeved shirt, rolling his left one up until his barcode was exposed. JC picked up the flap of skin he’d cut from the Treat, positioning over his own barcode. As he thought, the back was sticky and adhered to JC’s own skin. The edge looked a bit ragged, though, and JC panicked a bit. He rummaged through the rest of the Treat’s belonging, finding some decorated bracelets in his bag, and putting them all on his left arm. They covered well enough, JC thought. He looked around the room. Grabbing a bag, JC stuffed the electric wallet, the rest of the food, and after a pause, the drugs into the bag. Never pass up something that could be sold, his mind told him. Covering up the drugs with a few more items of clothing, he zipped the bag and moved to the intercom. “Elevator to three, please,” he said. “Yes, sir.” Moving to the door, he ran his left arm over the scanner, sighing with relief as the barcode opened the lock. One more test, JC thought. He rode the elevator down, then walked to the porter’s desk, seeing that yes, there was a new one on duty and not the same one who’d scanned him in. The God’s were really with him, as the porter’s attention was being held by a female Trick being scanned through the doorway. JC walked quickly, running his barcode against the scanner and moving outside. He’d made it. Well, he’d made it out of the hotel. Taking a deep breath, JC heaved the bag onto his shoulders and walked through the crowded streets. ************************************** “For the God’s sake, keep your fucking shirt on,” Justin yelled. The customs man glared, and Justin just laughed as the gangplank opened. “Luther, how long have I been coming to Oasis?” he asked the scowling man. “Five years, give or take.” “And in those five years, have I ever done anything wrong?” “Not that I ever caught you at,” the man replied. “And you never will,” Justin returned, strolling down the gangplank and letting the customs investigators board his ship. He smiled as they passed, sensors and guides and poking sticks ready to prod every part of Justin’s ship. He reached down, getting a cheroot out of his leg pocket, leaning against a support strut and lighting the slim cigar. Justin had never been found with contraband, and he never would. Not that Justin never brought contraband to Oasis. Just the opposite in fact. But the customs agents had no idea where, or rather, how to look for it. He squinted through the smoke, surveying the docks of Oasis, thinking again that he really, really hated this place. Built a hundred years ago as a place of Utopian values, it quickly degenerated into a planet of commerce, where money can buy anything and anyone. It was run by a group known as The Committee, who took a slice of everything, unless it was smuggled in under the customs radar. That’s where Justin came in. The Committee knew he was smuggling, knew that he got goods past the customs agents somehow, but had never been able to catch him with goods. Justin’s runs to Oasis were always profitable, but the atmosphere here was…oppressive. Security guards on every corner. Identification porters at every door. And those fucking barcodes. Justin knew if he stayed on Oasis for more than 48 hours, he’d been required by the security force to have one tattooed on his arm. Justin always managed to stay just under the limit. But worse than the barcodes was the traffic in human life. Justin despised the Tricks, those who sold their own bodies for a few credits. Shaking his thoughts from them, he looked out again at the docks, his eyes caught by the sight of a man walking toward his ship. He was young and oh, yes, what a face. High cheekbones, full lips. Justin’s eyes dipped, noting the too big clothes fitting the slim frame. A new fashion, perhaps, because the clothes were expensive looking, and the jewelry on the man’s wrist was costly. Justin straightened up as the man approached. He watched as the man’s eyes gawked at the Fancy, a look of trepidation on his handsome face. “She’s stronger than she looks,” Justin said, startling the man a bit. “I’d like to hire you,” the man said without any preliminary introductions. “And I’d like to leave now.” Justin chuckled. “Well, I can’t just up and leave,” he said, walking down the rest of the gangplank and standing close to the other man. A shiver of appreciation ran though Justin as he looked at the prospective hire up close. He was more attractive than he’d first believed, and the stirring in his groin made Justin realize how long it had been between sex for him. “I have money,” the man said, holding out his electronic wallet and showing Justin the balance. Justin’s eyes widened at the amount, and realized that something was wrong. People don’t show how many credits they have, especially not to a ship’s captain you want to haggle with. Justin looked more closely at the man, noting the skittish look in his eyes, and a funny smell coming from him, like…meat, but bad meat. Justin was not an altruistic man. If there was something illegal going on here, it didn’t mean Justin wouldn’t do it, but rather, would do it for an exorbitant fee. “Let’s go on board,” he said, moving off and letting the man enter The Fancy before him. Justin’s eyes were drawn to the slim hips moving in the too-big clothes, and his mouth watered. The customs agents were done, scowling at Justin as they left the ship. Justin saw the man blanch at the sight of authority, but they didn’t stop and question him, so he relaxed. “Now,” Justin said after they sat at the table in the galley. “How much are you willing to spend of that fortune you’ve stolen?” The man’s eyes widened. “No, it’s mine,” he said, pulling up his sleeve. “I can prove it.” He ran the wallet’s barcode reader against his arm, and it beeped in the affirmative. Justin was less interested in the results than he was the arm displayed. The skin didn’t match. It was darker and hairier and the smell…Justin’s mind clicked the pieces into place. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, moving from the galley into the cockpit. “We’ll discuss my fee after we’ve taken off.” The man blinked at Justin, following him to the controls. Justin shoved him into the vacant seat next to him. “Strap in,” he ordered, flipping switches and revving the hyper drive. Justin adjusted the radio, speaking into the mic on his headset. “Oasis Base, this is the Fancy. Change of plans. Taking off in three.” “Negative, Fancy,” came the response. “You haven’t cleared customs officially.” “Not delivering anything this trip,” Justin said as the ship rose from the ground. “Leaving in two. Open the doors or I’ll blast them.” “Negative, Fancy.” Static on the radio sounded before the voice came back. “You’re not clear for take off.” “Open the fucking doors or you’ll have the roof on your heads,” Justin warned, turning on his blaster guns to warm up. Bright sunlight poured into the docking bay as the doors opened. Justin’s hand moved the throttle, lifting the Fancy higher off the ground until it cleared the building. He looked at the man next to him with a smile. “Hold on,” he said, boosting the hyper drive. Soon, Oasis was behind them, and the black sky of space surrounded them. Justin adjusted on the autopilot and turned to his passenger. “I’m Justin Timberlake. Owner and Captain of the Fancy.” He patted the arm of his chair. The man swallowed. “I’m, uh, Frank Marshflower,” he said. Justin laughed. “No, you’re not.” He reached out and tugged the man’s left arm toward him, pushing up the sleeve and pulling off the decaying skin, holding it up like a pelt. “This is, or was, Frank Marshflower.” He tossed the skin into another chair. “So, who in the God’s name are you?” “I’m JC,” came the man’s reply. Justin frowned, a sick thought entering his mind. “JC…what?” The man shook his head. “Just JC,” he replied, confirming Justin’s worst fears. “I’m a Trick.”