Zipper
A few people have asked me why I'm the only human who has ever set foot on the planet Zipper. There are a few reasons why such as the heat, the odd economy, and the lack of casinos, and they are all valid when all is said and done; but the main reason why is that the sentient species which controls the planet, the Zipperdelians, are near impossible to keep up with
For the decade I've lived here, I've even found that they can be as hyperactive as a two-year-old on sugar, and can test anyone's patience, but I've both adapted, and learned to love the species for their speedy, laughing manner of seeing the universe. I might not have come here willingly, but I've adapted, and adapted well. I even gained a very beautiful mate out of it - and I wouldn't want to give her up for anything.
For what was known about them at the time I met my Zipper, the Zippedelians were still strangers to the galactic stage, and very unknown to the wider universe beyond their sphere of influence, racing. A species of arthropod, with a unique symmetrical body shape that was built around threes, they are known for their construction of high speed racer, ranging from barely taped together ground and wheeled vehicles, to the high speed, high fragility of a cock-pitted star-jaunter. If it was speedy, there was a large chance it'd been influenced by or built directly by one of the Zipperdelians and their enterprises.
Of course, a lot of the races of those days were only quasi legal, and thus, while immensely skilled in the construction of high speed vehicles, they did not have many chances to actually race them. If there was anything a Zipperdelian liked more than building a fast vehicle, it was the chance to race them, no matter how dangerous it seemed to be. And a sad Zipperdelian, was not a happy sight.
In fact, it was how I had the pleasure of meeting my first Zipperdelian, in a bar out on the fringe of Pax-Terra space. I had the pleasure of meeting her, a four foot tall alien gloomily sucking on a drink in the back section of a Dive. She had a drained cred-chit in hand, and a picture in the other - displaying an old vehicle, highly customized and with a masterfully done detailing on the sides. I found it immensely pretty if gaudy, but had an artistic eye for matching shapes and colors anyway.
I had ignored her, at first. I'd ignored everything but a drink and something hot and not-rations to feed me. I had enjoyed a nice synth-meat meal and downed a nice glass of milk (rare and pricey, but nothing is quite as good as fresh from the Yakkanaow Milk), and had sat back to enjoy a smoke. Being just off my rotation and ready to move on from the life long delight of soldiering, I took my time to admire the flashing lights and strange sights of the bar.
A tall Chikkik danced out in the crowd beside (his? her?)partner, a Nikkok. A scaled hand held a slippery, slime-coated hip, and the two moved together, in a dance that reminded me of a courting black widow. I passed them on, for while they might have been pretty, scales itched and slime ruined my uniform.
In a round about manner, I looked back at the Zipperdelian, who had finished her drink and laid her head back down on the counter, and just stared at the picture held in her tri-hand. Her eyes, all six of them, were focused on the image, and looked puffy - though they couldn't really cry (different biologies can be so difficult to try and explain for some people). I chanced a look and caught one of her eyes catching sight of me, and she blinked thrice - then returned to her drink. She was sad, and I was a sucker for sad women, no matter the species, or biological arrangements.
So I did what any soldier after sixteen years of service and honorable discharge would do, and I ordered her a drink. I ordered her something mildly alcoholic, but sweet, and biologically compatible. After double checking, the drink was sent over, and she looked at it in surprise, then to me, then to the drink again.
I think she was shocked.
Now, as a forewarning to anyone who might be thinking of trying the cuisine of other species, I recommend that you first build up a tollerance for something you can eat, and avoid anything that is outside of your classification range. While those Yellow-Banded Cthrukta may smell and look and taste delicious, after you are done eating your body will see fit to trying to get it out of your system any way you can. The same goes for drinks, such as the one I sent to her, which was the Zipperdelian favored 'Ghost-Racer'. Sometimes we soldiers could get ahold of it on ships and use it to polish our weapons - as well as windows, boots, and armor. It also worked as a powerful de-icing agent. Avoid drinking alien drinks - it's worse than the food, no matter how tasty it might be.
She was surprised, it turns out. So surprised was she, she got up and came over to sit beside me, not bothering with names or introductions, just sat, leaned on me, and showed me her picture. She didn't feel like talking, I didn't feel like listening, but I could tell she loved her tacky orange and yellow and green and pink ship, which held rude sayings along the side, all having to do with sexual suggestions that were down right crude.
I fell in love, and wasn't even aware of it.
She pointed to the ship and drank more from the extended tube, though knew better to offer me any. I wouldn't like the trip to get a new stomach. We both looked down before I glanced up at the musicians playing on stage, the heavy, heady thumping, pumping, pulsing beats tingling my senses. Of course, that could have been the vodka. I was always weak against a good drink of vodka. Alcohol was not a uniquely human discovery; but it was, without a doubt, a very human trait to learn to enjoy.
The music built in tempo. The bar was already hot and I began to sweat, my scent peppery. I caught her tasting the air around me, and took her hand up into mine, to count the six fingers, the eighteen joints, and the soft slickness that was between each finger. I held her hand and stroked it, trying to help her relax. She returned in kind, her hand coming up to touch my cheek, over the stubble of my jaw and up to feel a scar that ran from the corner of my eye up into my scalp.
An old injury; I'd been lucky enough to take a shiv across the face.
She looked at me, six eyes gleaming, a ring of eight gem like growths glowing beneath the red tinted light up above. They held other senses than sight for her, such as heat and things I had no clue about - senses I couldn't grasp. Evidently, she used them all to see me, because she drew me in, and clung to me, a savior in the dark, someone who took enough time to slow down and see another racer broken down, in need of a jump.
I was thoroughly drunk by this point.
She took my hand up, and tugged me from my seat, and out into the lobby, the long corridors woozy, but not yet falling over. She walked with me, her thorax drifting side, with small stickers and images etched into her chitinous rear. I wouldn't have put it past her to have advertisements etched on her, it was their culture, it leant them strength from those who had gone before and succeeded, and she was one who didn't like to lose.
We walked for about twenty minutes, enough to get some blood back into my alcohol system. I was a bit more clear headed by this point, though was still quite inebriated, when she passed by and paused before a lift. She entered, drug me with her, and pushed me against the wall. Her jaws parted and found my mouth, in a kiss - sharp teeth gripped my cheeks, but didn't bite. Her kiss was sloppy, but less an act of war than sharing company. A kiss was intimate, no matter the species - something that had made more than a few biologists scratch their heads to figure out why.
Me? I think the universe likes romance, and biology loves a hand up.
The elevator gave a loud 'ding' when we arrived in the lower section of the station; about sixty floors down from where we'd been. Our kiss broke before the door opened, though I bled from where she nibbled on my ear. Either the minx was attracted to me, or was using me - but I didn't have the means to care about which was which for the moment. She lead me into a garage section - slid a card through the door, and pushed me onto a work bench, and straddled me.
She was no more than fifty kilograms, but she knew how to use her weight, and pushed against me again. Her body was warm and slippery, I felt around her and fumbled with my belt, but she stopped me, and just held me close. I felt conflicted, confused, but knew better than argue with a Zipperdelian when it came to what one of them really wanted, or didn't want. I liked having my fingers and other important extremities.
We made love on her work bench - and like their racing, they did it fast and hard and to the limit. I was used and abused, and she scratched me with long claws and sharp teeth - but I didn't resist. She used me, and I let her. We both needed it.
She held me for a half hour - enough time for more blood to enter my sense of awareness. The lights were buzzy and made my brain itch, but I couldn't complain. She sorted her hands through my short hair and across my face, chest, and hips - just learning me, knowing me, touching me.
And after a moment, a long moment, she held up the picture again, and sat up. She looked to it, then to me, and I could see the pistons firing. I cocked my head and she grabbed me, lifted me up a bit and lead me out - though she did pause to grab a wrench and screwdriver. I was worried for a moment. This, of course, was pushed away by intrigue and curiosity, and I followed her through her shamble of a garage. I passed a burned wreck of a racer, and past her into the halls, towards another section of the station.
We walked for a time, and she paused beside a door, and leaned against it - her screwdriver put to work at the lock. I opened my mouth to protest, but her tri-hand lifted to push into my mouth, silencing me before I could speak any further. I grunted, and found her tasting pretty sweet on the tongue. She tasted like a rose smelled, and I liked it.
The door read: "Vehicle Lock Up". I didn't recognize the symbol on the left side.
In silence, I put my weight against the door as she twisted the lock, and heard a loud pop, as the door was forced open. Inside, several vehicles rested, gleaming all sorts of colors, many garish and bright, all a vehicle that looked like it belonged to one of the Zipperdelians on station. She hurried her way through the garage section and took a long look about, before making an excited chittering sound - for she had found what she was looking for.
It was as ugly as sin, yet had the same passionate 'put together' feeling that any child might have put together on his own. I had no doubt it could run exceedingly well, but was worried about the internal capacity. I stared at it for a few moments, and then walked over to join her. She smiled, toothily, and gave me a very wet kiss. It distracted me - her mouth tasted like heaven - and I didn't see the wrench that hit me upside the head.
I knew only darkness, for a few hours. When I woke up, we slid out into the binary star system that was the home-world of her most interesting, curious species. My head ached, but she kissed me once to make me feel better, and showed me where we would land. It was a desert, mineral rich world - where higher mammals had never evolved - and lizards stayed small. It was a very pretty world, because I liked sand. I fell in love with it, just like I'd fallen in love with her.
Maybe it was my concussion.
And that's how I ended up living on the Zipperdelian homeworld; and why I'm the first and only human to set foot there.