"Human Gina," he calls me. For Pete's sake, just 'Gina' would be fine. I understand the concept of a last name is a bit odd with these guys and 'Booj,' for instance, is usually accented with a lot of overtones deep in the subsonic range, but I can't hear them. And I can't pronounce their species at all. It's a deep, guttural rumble and yes, the pitch matters. Booj's whole name, if you pronounced all of its meanings consecutively instead of concurrently with the overtones, would be a paragraph describing his parentage and education.
Maybe I should hold out for Terran Swedish Female Space Rigger Engineer's Mate First Class Gina Rassmussen but ask him to translate that into subsonics. I wonder if he'll let me put my hand on his thorax while he says it.
Angrood has been drinking a lot. A lot a lot, and whatever is in these drinks - it isn't alcohol - is having a definite effect on him. He's getting loud.
Tentacles - can't remember his name at all, it's something with clicks - waves languidly. "Human Gina, the" undecipherable "is becoming enraged. I will give nine-to-four, two thousand credits right now."
Yes! That's enough to pay every cost between here and Earth, fuel, food, even the new clothes!
"But the" undecipherable "is likely to kill you. It is young, entering mating rut. Its blood is up. You will cover the bet beforehand."
Ooh boy. That's a lot.
"I offer my share of the ship as collateral."
"Your share is worth only one thousand, five hundred."
Damn. "And one thousand hours -" a moment's debate while our translators agree on units " - indentured service, to begin upon recovery from injuries incurred during the contest. Personal sovereignty to be respected at all times, of course." No whoring off the debt.
"Of course." Tentacles considered briefly. "You agreed fairly quickly."
"I make up my mind fast. And I'm a little drunk." Liar. This stuff has no effect whatsoever on humans. It tastes like herbal tea.
"Deal." Tentacles makes the sign of acquiescence, witnessed by the various personal data devices around us. We don't need to shake hands, there are countless records to review if anyone ever dare contest the terms of the agreement.
Okay. The wager is on - lots of side bets going here, too - time to get the show on the road. I slammed my mug down on the bar, which rang like a bell.
"Angroood! I challenge...!"
Angroood doesn't need more than that. Like I said, a lot a lot. He bellows a sound that rattles my ribs, erupts out of his lounger and comes bounding at me.
These folks in this system, this system of dozens of Jovian moons, some even from the Jovian primary itself, are low density creatures. Their gravity is low - the Jovians themselves are literally floaters in their native environment and don't venture out into the main portion of the spaceport. But the biggest rocky moons aren't even as big as Mars and only have an atmosphere because they orbit in a "smoke ring" of gas around the planet, constantly shedding and picking up air as they go. The gravity is really, really light.
So Angroood is about four meters tall, maybe three meters across and if he weighs fifty kilos, I'm a hobbit. He's dense, but only in the intellectual sense.
Don't punch don't punch fighting Jovians is a matter of delicacy. Due to the lower gravity of their homeworlds, their evolution hasn't invested much in skeletons. There isn't a lot of muscle. Angroood is more like a caterpillar; his structure is provided by pressurized chambers.
He's a balloon animal, so to speak. And if I punch him hard in the right place with my dense little human fists I could, uh, pop him.
Angroood punches. Give him credit: for what he is, he's pretty strong. The enormous haymaker is telegraphed from over the horizon but he's fast for his density. A big ol' farmboy, I think, tryin' to show these fancypants spaceslickers a thing or three. I let the punch land just to get the measure of him.
BOOMF. It's like being hit in the face with a mattress. And I go flying because in low gee, you get hit, you go flying. Them's physics. Angroood had set his grippers so he stayed put, but I took it and went with it, giving a bit of a boost to absorb the shock and put on a show. I hit the far wall on my shoulder and new wagers are shouting back and forth before I even reach the floor. I can hear Booj raising his bets; I had arranged for ten percent of his take, which he thought was a little on the heavy side. If things keep going this way, he won't mind because he's still making one hell of a lot of money on this bout.
Don't punch don't punch Get under the flailing arm, grab hold of his...belt? Necktie?
Angroood roars.
Please don't let this thing I'm grabbing be his penis
and wind up a handful of skin and wrench and lift and shake and after that it all kind of dissolves as taekwondo gives way to jujutsu, because I don't want to kill Angroood. Just, you know...mess him up a bit.
Five minutes later, Angroood slaps the ceiling. He can't slap the floor because I'm holding him over my head, thumping his cranium on whatever hard surface avails. The ceiling fan was an early casualty, in case you're wondering.
"Do you yield?"
Incoherent cursing which my translator, either out ignorance or decorum, does not translate.
THUMP
"I yield!" Loudly, for the various recorders. Hot damn, shoe money tonight! Drop his big balloon body and where's Booj?
"Booj! Where's the tentacles guy? He owes me a hell of a lot of money!"
"Human Gina, I am looking. This person," he indicates an amorphous blob at his almost-an-elbow, "says" undecipherable "left via that portal almost thirty seconds ago."
"Oh, that mother" undecipherable! "I'm gonna kick his ass, Booj."
"Get our money first!"
Now we can punch!
<originally written as a response to a writing prompt on Reddit>
