Here’s Chapter 1 of my space opera with werewolves.
The Prologue is available here.
CHAPTER 1: AWAKENINGS
The room was not a room to elevate the soul.
Louis the XIV, to pick up a name at random, would not have liked it,
would have found it not sunny enough, and insufficiently full of mirrors.
(Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul,
Pocket Books, New York 1990, p. 24)
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
On board the Aranui, Kyle dreamed he was home with Amaranta Sweetlips and the girls. It felt comforting to revisit his childhood through dreams. Before the liver implant forced him to stop, a dose of Xetor was enough to induce those memories. Now, he depended solely on chance.
As always, his dream shattered when a dozen pounds of mewing fur landed heavily on his stomach.
“Uff! Wolfram! Couldn’t you let me sleep just once?”
His mind was wrapped in thick fog. Something about the metallic, stretched quality of the light told him it was afternoon. He tried to sit, propping himself up on an elbow, but a splitting headache immediately forced him back down. “I was thinking of staying in bed for a—” he started to say, but nausea propelled him quickly out of bed, stumbling towards the ship’s cramped bathroom.
Bad mornings had become the norm since he’d lost his job a few weeks earlier. Another sharp cramp gripped him as he reached the bathroom door. Sweat formed on his brow as he clung to the doorframe.
Damn… What happened last night?
Maybe it was a fever. Hastily, he felt around his neck for the reassuring presence of his amulet. God forbid he had fallen asleep without it.
Another painful cramp twisted his stomach, and dizziness overtook him. He collapsed onto the floor, barely raising his head in time before retching violently.
“Miaow!” Wolfram’s mewing carried a note of concern.
“I know, I know—you want your breakfast. As soon as I’m done dying, okay?”
Slowly, the cramps eased, and the nausea receded. Gathering strength, he counted to three and pulled himself upright. He flushed the toilet, rinsed his mouth with the foul-tasting Dabih City water, and nearly gagged again. Frustrated, he tapped an icon at the mirror’s edge repeatedly. Nothing happened—the floor slot that usually released cleaning droids remained stubbornly shut. Sighing, he cleaned the mess as best he could with toilet paper and a washcloth, then stood numbly beneath the shower’s scalding spray.
Dragging himself to the galley, Wolfram close behind, Kyle surveyed the chaos: dirty dishes piled high, food debris covering every surface, garbage strewn across the floor, and a fridge nurturing new lifeforms. A dusty cabinet hung ajar, revealing the forgotten remains of a servo droid he’d never bothered to repair.
He opened a broken cupboard and pulled out one of the last few cans.
“Bad news, old boy. We’re nearly out of emergency rations. If we don’t find a gig soon…” He placed the opened can next to Wolfram’s grubby bed, then ordered a triple coffee from the battered Cookomat.
“FINALLY!” a crisp, metallic female voice greeted him sarcastically. “WELCOME BACK TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING!”
“Oh no!” Kyle moaned, covering his ears. “Not so loud! Are you trying to split my skull?”
“WHAT AN EXEMPLARY CAPTAIN! WHILE YOU NURSED YOUR HANGOVER, I’VE BEEN BUSY DOING WHAT YOU SHOULD’VE DONE. WE’RE BROKE AND JOBLESS, IN CASE YOU FORGOT.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault we had trouble on Nashira!”
“REALLY?” the ship’s voice mocked. “IT’S NEVER YOUR FAULT, YET WE’RE ALWAYS IN TROUBLE. YOU DRANK AWAY OUR LAST CREDITS, DIDN’T YOU?”
A hazy memory stirred in Kyle’s mind.
“Are you crazy?” he protested weakly. “I was looking for a hire! Made some good contacts, and with a little luck—”
“DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A FOOL? STOP BLATHERING AND LISTEN: WE’VE GOT A GOVERNMENT CONTRACT.”
Kyle nearly choked on his coffee.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE! WHILE YOU WASTED TIME, I CONTACTED ARAL MOHS.”
“Oh, great! You miserable heap of scrap, Aral and I fell out years ago. He’d never respond—not in a thousand years.”
“WELL, HE DID,” the Aranui declared triumphantly. “HIS VIDEO MESSAGE ARRIVED JUST MINUTES AGO.”
“Damn! Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Kyle hurriedly stumbled toward the bridge, half-running, half-walking. Settling into the engineering seat amid displays of ship diagnostics, he gulped down the last coffee.
“Put it on, quick!”
“Kyle, you silly moron…” The visual had not yet materialized; only transmission codes blinked on the screen.
FROM: ARAL J. MOHS
TO: KYLE TOKALAU
Subject: Still alive
“I thought you were dead or locked away in some Imperial prison!” Aral’s familiar face appeared, handsome as ever, in a pristine Space Force captain’s uniform.
Kyle smirked bitterly. Aral was precisely as he remembered from their fighter pilot days.
“No kidding! Good to hear from you,” Aral continued warmly. “Weema will be thrilled! She’d never admit it, but I know she’s missed you as much as I have. So many changes, Kyle. We’ve got three kids now—two girls and a boy. What about you? Let me guess: still wild and unattached? Trust me, friend, you’re missing out! We’re not getting younger; it’s time to settle down. Enough partying!”
Kyle swore softly. “Always the critic, huh?”
“Listen, Kyle—you need a proper job, and I can help. The government is privatizing freight runs to border garrisons. Many freelancers are scrambling for work, but I can vouch for you. Assuming you still have your piloting chops, the job’s yours. If you’re even a fraction of the man I remember, come to New Xanadu within a week.”
Aral glanced away briefly. “That’s it. Budget cuts restrict our subspace calls. Come visit—we’ll catch up over dinner.”
The message ended, replaced by the pulsating Horitzò Inc. logo.
“SHALL I SEND A REPLY?” the computer asked.
“No. Too expensive from here.”
Kyle leaned back, memories flooding him—mostly unpleasant. Aral was more of a rival than a friend: a colleague, betrayer, and girlfriend-stealer. Still, Kyle was desperate. Word of the Nashira incident had spread, leaving him stranded professionally. New Xanadu offered fresh opportunities.
“Can we reach New Xanadu in five days?”
“FINALLY!” the computer exulted. “I FEARED WE’D ROT HERE. YES, BUT WE’LL NEED EXTRA FUEL.”
“Chart the cheapest route and prepare a systems report.”
He turned. Wolfram stared expectantly, his single blue eye glinting intelligently; the other, a mismatched yellow bionic replacement bought from an Optalidon III merchant after a nasty fight.
“Cheer up, kitty! Once I’m employed, you’ll get a proper eye.”
“WE’VE GOT A PROBLEM,” the Aranui announced gravely.
Kyle felt his stomach twist again. “What’s wrong now?”
“THE HYPER-STRING GENERATOR.”
A series of nightmares flashed through Kyle’s mind: missing Aral’s offer, endless unemployment, customs inspectors—and, worst of all, begging Amaranta Sweetlips for a loan.
“Again?” he groaned. “I installed a replacement six months ago.”
“A THIRD-HAND, BARELY COMPATIBLE PIECE OF JUNK RIDDLED WITH VIRUSES THAT PLAGUED MY CIRCUITS FOR WEEKS.”
“It was all I could afford,” he snapped.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT A DECENT ONE EARLIER. NOW WE’RE STUCK ON THIS DISGUSTING PLANET!”
“Shut up!” Kyle growled. “You sound like my mother.”
He wondered bitterly who’d thought intelligent ship computers were a good idea.
“Another word, and I’ll sell you for scrap,” he threatened.
Silence fell.
Gritting his teeth, Kyle headed to the engine room.
This isn’t fair—not after such a promising start.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd, 666 GE
Few human buildings remained on Bageechaa. Besides the small spaceport and a modest tavern, only Madame Salgado’s Emporium stood as a reminder that the distant moon of Gienah VI had once flourished as a bustling mining settlement. That prosperity vanished during the Great and Terrible War and the subsequent K’rell invasion, forcing the few surviving colonists to flee. In their absence, the jungle swiftly reclaimed its territory.
Madame Salgado had recently returned to Bageechaa, determined to revive her former enterprise, but success was elusive. Her dusty shelves offered little to attract the scarce visitors. Twiglet Skunks was an infrequent customer, though she didn’t expect much. Today, she’d found a box of second-hand hyper-dimensional wirings and a chocolate Krugg bar, only slightly past its expiration.
Approaching the checkout, Twiglet saw Jiali Salgado perched behind a counter on a stool too tall for her human-sized legs. Twiglet guessed the seat was intended for the haggard Palernian, who occasionally helped on busier Saturdays. An outdated holo-vid displayed news in the background, Chancellor Volker Chang’s smiling face filling the screen as a voice-over recited his recent speech to the Imperial Senate.
“Don’t you think Chancellor Chang is charming?” Jiali asked absently, eyes glued to the screen.
“I’ve no idea, Madame Salgado,” Twiglet replied. “Human aesthetics aren’t my expertise.”
“Oh…” Jiali turned slowly, momentarily confused, until she remembered to look downward. “Twiglet! I didn’t hear you come in,” she said with barely concealed disdain. Her cobalt blue hair was tied into a tight bun, and her face was a tapestry of wrinkles, deepening around her eyes. “What do you have for me this time?”
“Mag Moor roots. Perfect for anti-aging creams.”
Twiglet opened her backpack, revealing a small bundle. Madame Salgado grabbed it hesitantly, still uncomfortable dealing with the two-and-a-half-foot-tall, green-skinned alien. Twiglet was well aware of the shopkeeper’s poorly disguised prejudice, which she found absurd. To restore her shop’s pre-war success, Jiali should have been eager to serve all customers, not just the humans who now made up a fraction of Bageechaa’s residents. Still, Twiglet maintained a cordial relationship with Jiali Salgado—frequent trades between them kept her from complete poverty. Recently, the shopkeeper had developed a keen interest in medicinal herbs; few residents of Bageechaa could afford genuine doctors, let alone rejuvenation treatments.
Twiglet was about to promote the extraordinary mushrooms she’d discovered deep in the jungle—she’d soon need more supplies—when she realized Jiali’s full attention had returned to the holo-vid.
Time to play along, Twiglet thought.
“Anything interesting on the news?” she asked casually.
“Humph! Nothing new: Chancellor Chang claims an economic recovery is imminent, another liner vanished in hyperspace, robberies, murders… just the usual.”
“And what about the imperial family? Or what’s left of it, anyway.”
“Princess Virginia?” Jiali’s expression soured. “Dark times await us.”
“Why? Isn’t she about to come of age?”
“She’s already twenty-one, and Coronation Day is merely months away. Since her parents died, she’s done nothing but indulge herself at taxpayer expense. Frankly, I doubt she’s fit to rule.” Jiali leaned conspiratorially closer. “Instead of addressing poverty, economic collapse, rising crime, and the ever-present K’rell threat, she’s more interested in changing lovers than we are in changing clothes.”
“Come now, Madame Salgado. That’s just gossip.”
“Gossip? Hardly! Galaxy Today reported that over seventy percent of Milky Way citizens believe her irresponsible behavior endangers the monarchy. And do you know what else I think?”
“Please, enlighten me,” Twiglet said patiently, having heard these sentiments countless times.
“In troubled times like these, we need a strong leader to restore greatness to the Empire…”
“Someone like Chancellor Chang, perhaps?”
Madame Salgado caught the note of irony.
“Why not?” she snapped defensively. “Of all the fools in the Senate, he’s the only one with real backbone. If they’d let him work without endlessly questioning his every move…”
“Maybe, Madame Salgado, maybe,” Twiglet conceded diplomatically. Privately, she distrusted Volker Chang—not because he was human, but perhaps due to his perpetually artificial smile.
The news ended abruptly, replaced by holographic Alshain flying flowers and an enthusiastic voice promoting Alshain as a planet “where anything is possible.” Realizing it was nearly sundown, Twiglet gathered her modest purchases and postponed mentioning the mushrooms.
“Goodbye, Madame Salgado. Always a pleasure.”
“Hm, Twiglet… wait!”
“Yes?”
“Almost forgot—two humans came by looking for you.”
“Humans? Looking for me?”
“Two off-worlders. It might’ve been cops, though they didn’t look it. Arrived on yesterday’s shuttle, asked a lot of questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Oh, the usual: who’s living in the forest and how long they’ve been there. But I sensed that wasn’t their real interest. When I told them to stop wasting my time, they asked specifically if any mahjitans lived on Bageechaa.”
“What did you tell them?” Twiglet asked cautiously.
“Those men gave me the creeps.” Madame Salgado attempted a reassuring smile. “I’ve seen plenty of oddities in my day, but these two were… stranger. I said Bageechaa has too many aliens to recall each one. I’m getting older, after all, and my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
Coming from Jiali Salgado, this admission was astonishing.
“Thank you, Madame Salgado. I owe you one.”
It was growing dark, the sky painted in shades of gold and purple. Twiglet took a path bordered by enormous fungoid trees, a route leading her home deep within the jungle in less than two hours. Crossing Bageechaa’s forests was notoriously perilous—not just because of the hostile terrain or frequent accidents befalling travelers, human and alien alike. Strange magic seemed to envelop the entire moon; or perhaps, Twiglet mused, it wasn’t magic at all, but an instability—a hidden flaw working its way to the surface.
Twiglet felt the subtle tug of that instability as she moved from St Ghastly Grim’s Gate—the moon’s tiny spaceport—toward Agaricus Cove. Miraculously, the black gravel path remained clear of encroaching vegetation despite its infrequent use. The fungoid trees above dripped remnants of last night’s rain onto fern leaves already heavy with crystalline droplets. The air felt fresh, charged with vitality. Vividly colored flowers bloomed invitingly, their fragrances drifting through the morning mist as though tempting unwary visitors to stray from safety into the jungle’s embrace.
The dense underbrush teemed with life, most lethal to occasional passers-by and other creatures. A beautiful striped yanaatjie landed gracefully on the petals of a crimson anemone, which abruptly snapped shut. Nearby, a mutant tarantula, nearly as large as Twiglet’s head, shifted to a vivid yellow to blend seamlessly into the foliage. Its delicate web stretched across the path, glittering with tiny droplets and forcing Twiglet to duck carefully beneath it. A green tree rabbit struggled helplessly in the web’s sticky threads, but the spider appeared indifferent to its plight.
Twiglet suppressed a shudder as she crouched lower. Despite more than ten years of traversing Bageechaa’s green hell, she’d never grown entirely comfortable with its dangers. Yet today, her usual caution was heightened by the unsettling news she’d received from Jiali Salgado.
Who were those humans, and why were they looking for mahjitans?
Twiglet knew she was the only mahjitan on Bageechaa. Were they looking for her specifically? And why?
A troubling sense of unease settled over her. It wasn’t just Jiali’s words, though Twiglet hardly trusted the shopkeeper. But if the visitors had friendly intentions, why hadn’t they mentioned her by name?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shriek of terror.
“Yaw! Yaw! Uyariy! Yanapaway!”
A blurred, frantic shape burst from the foliage, pursued closely by the snapping jaws of a glykz. Twiglet reacted instinctively, her tongue darting with lightning speed, capturing the fleeing creature’s furry body. With practiced precision, she cracked open its thick exoskeleton with her powerful jaws, savoring the slightly acidic blood as she swallowed.
After discarding the inedible remains, Twiglet continued along the path. From the lower branches of a nearby tree, a tiny fairy—the creature she’d just rescued from certain doom—waved enthusiastically, offering a heartfelt farewell.
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
Like many establishments near the spaceport, the Onkalo was ideal for conducting illicit business.
Kyle had come to meet his previous employer, a minor figure in Dabih’s criminal underworld. As he exited the taxi, he drew the plush collar of his outdated jacket tightly around his neck. The weather was foul—cold, windy, and rainy, with forecasts predicting a storm of unusual severity.
Checking his blaster’s charge, Kyle crossed the muddy alley leading to the club entrance, where he was immediately assaulted by deafening noise. Inside, the dim, smoky room overflowed with an eclectic crowd. Some patrons wore gas tanks and anti-gravity units simulating their native environments, while others eagerly inhaled the noxious air through open helmets. Humans and humanoids mingled freely with furry, scaly, and wrinkled aliens, their mixed conversations—Basic and alien tongues—merging into an indecipherable din.
Kyle sat at the bar and ordered a beer from a servo droid, surveying his surroundings as he drank. In a corner, an X-rated film featuring Spica V jellyfish played on a flickering holo-screen. Opposite, an arched doorway opened into a larger hall hosting Onkalo’s main attraction: cyber-boxing, complete with enthusiastic betting. Kyle had little interest in the matches; his meager funds didn’t permit even the smallest wager—not with the urgent need for a new generator for the Aranui. Besides, he suspected that Rosie Gallows, the club’s manager, and her associates in the local mob regularly rigged the outcomes. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to glance into the arena, as his ex-boss often frequented it.
Inside, darkness prevailed, broken only by flickering holograms. The scoreboard glowed brightly, indicating the current champion: a T. Rex avatar victorious in the last fourteen bouts. As Kyle watched, the dinosaur sank its enormous teeth into the neck of a wounded Shandaloon multiped, which had already lost three of its eight legs. The crowd erupted into cheers as the multiped’s agonized roars faded into silence, leaving its body in a pool of shimmering blue blood.
The holograms vanished abruptly, lights illuminating the hall as applause filled the air—a cacophony of hands, claws, feet, and appendages of every shape imaginable. Amid the excited spectators, Kyle searched in vain for his former employer. Meanwhile, the real victor—a battered yet sturdy humanoid synth controlling the T. Rex avatar—emerged triumphantly from his glass booth. Nearby, servodroids struggled to extract the lifeless body of a furry alien from Ophiucus, blood dripping from its mouth and ears.
Abandoning his search, Kyle turned toward the bar as anticipation built for the evening’s highlight match. Two new contestants prepared for battle: a Lycoperdon from Pluteus IX, its jagged fangs and black-greenish scales gleaming menacingly, and an unusual, youthful-looking human synth. Short and slender, with enormous blue eyes set in a perfect oval face, his head was shaved clean to facilitate the insertion of the cortical probes.
“Kyle Tokalau! At last! Is it you?”
Rosie Gallows, owner of the Onkalo, surged toward him, enveloping him in a smothering embrace of sweaty, grayish flab. A humanoid from Delta Canis Major, Rosie was so large that she relied on concealed antigrav generators in her belt to hover inches above the ground.
“Aargh… Rosie… missed you too!” Kyle gasped, struggling to free himself. Once released, he forced a wide grin. “Rosie… you look great!”
She laughed heartily, baring a set of sharp fangs. “And you’re still the same charming liar.”
She seized his arm, examining him with lingering appreciation. “Kyle, darling, I’ve heard you’re in trouble. I didn’t expect you to show your face here again.”
Kyle’s gaze fell on Rosie’s chubby fingers, each adorned with glittering rings worth enough to buy dozens of generators.
“Unless,” she continued suggestively, “you’ve finally reconsidered my offer.”
She punctuated her words with a flirtatious gaze, her lacquered claws digging lightly into his skin. Kyle suppressed a shiver.
“Rosie, I’m… truly flattered,” he stammered uneasily. “But, as you pointed out, I’m in trouble. Maybe we can discuss it another time? Right now, I need to see Felix Nagatomo.”
Rosie’s lips twisted into an annoyed pout. “Felix? Really? You’d rather meet that old pirate than spend time with a gorgeous lady like me?” She turned sharply to a nearby servo droid. “Robbie! Contact Room 114. Tell Mister Nagatomo that Captain Tokalau is here!”
“Yes, Madam!”
Turning back to Kyle, Rosie forced a smile. “See? I never miss an opportunity to help an old friend.” Her smile shifted into a conspiratorial whisper. “Of course, we could be far more than friends. I could make you wealthy if you’d only—”
“Excuse me, Madam,” the droid interrupted politely. “Mr. Nagatomo will see the captain now.”
Rosie shot the droid a murderous glance.
“Thanks, Rosie!” Kyle quickly seized his chance to escape. “Sorry, but I really must go. We wouldn’t want to keep Felix waiting, would we? See you later!”
Without waiting for a reply, he hurried toward the back of the club and climbed the spiral staircase.
Back at the counter, Rosie spat furiously, “Robbie! You useless heap of scrap!”
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd, 666 GE
When Twiglet arrived home, night had fallen.
Her house rested at the heart of a small lake, its irregular form highlighted by the reddish glow of Gienah VI. She paused a few yards away, standing completely still, listening intently. Only distant animal cries and the closer chirping of a monstrous insect disturbed the quiet night. Satisfied she hadn’t been followed, Twiglet located a particular flowering bush, its sweet fragrance unmistakable even in darkness, and carefully slipped beneath it.
A narrow tunnel, softly illuminated by the eerie luminescence of bioluminescent fungi, led her deep beneath the lake’s surface, eventually emerging into her living room.
But something felt wrong.
At first glance, the house appeared as peaceful and silent as ever. The familiar aroma of resin gently seeped from the home’s organic walls. Yet beneath it, a harsher, more intrusive smell abruptly assaulted her senses.
Someone had violated her sanctuary.
Someone large, fat—and distinctly unwashed.
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
Kyle stepped off the staircase onto the first landing and entered a dimly lit hallway filled with unpleasant odors. He passed several closed doors, from behind which came muffled laughter, alien chatter, and occasional groans.
As the corridor turned sharply to the right, Kyle nearly collided with two tough-looking humans approaching from the opposite direction. One of them cast him a casual yet unsettling glance, causing the hairs on Kyle’s neck to rise. He slowed his pace, shaking his head. It was past time to leave this wretched planet. He couldn’t believe how edgy he’d become after just one beer.
Shortly afterward, he located room number 114 and pressed the doorbell. He realized the floor beneath his feet vibrated as the door slid open. The noise from downstairs had escalated into an overwhelming roar.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd 666 GE
“Who… who’s there?” Twiglet asked weakly.
Her only answer was a series of heavy thumps and muffled grunts, abruptly silenced when she found the light switch—a gentle yellow glow spread through the room, illuminating a massive, black-bluish k’rell. The oversized creature sat awkwardly on the floor, his neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle to avoid hitting the ceiling, surrounded by overturned furniture and shattered kitchenware.
Twiglet exhaled sharply, relief washing over her.
“Uful’lan! Look at this mess you’ve made!”
“Ssorry, Thwigleth! I didn’th mean tho sscare you!”
“What on earth are you doing here? How many times must I tell you not to make my living room your campsite?”
The k’rell’s orange, bespectacled eyes widened with embarrassment. He wrestled helplessly with his leathery wings, which seemed intent on causing further havoc.
“Humph! Thwigleth… Ssorry, it’ss jussth… I had a terrible day,” he muttered sheepishly. “I mean… do you have ssomethhing tho eath? I’m feeling a bith hungry…”
Twiglet set her backpack onto an already cluttered sofa, wincing as something crashed to the floor. Her heart sank when she recognized the broken shards as the only piece of china she’d refused to barter.
“Of course!” she said, holding back a sob. “I picked up some chocolate bars. Somehow, I knew you’d show up.”
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
As soon as the door opened, Kyle regretted coming.
Felix Nagatomo sat at an oval table cluttered with empty jugs and food remnants, flanked by two of his underlings—a skinny blonde woman and an insectoid alien from Alphard VII. A third companion, a scruffy, pockmarked human, greeted Kyle by aiming a laser gun at him, swiftly relieving him of his blaster. The insectoid toyed idly with a deadly-looking crossbow. The room reeked of stale sweat and alcohol; clearly, the group had been drinking heavily.
Nagatomo flashed a slimy grin.
“Captain Tokalau! Come, come in!”
Felix Nagatomo appeared ageless—rumor had it he was nearly eighty, sustained by frequent rejuvenation treatments. His medium build, nondescript crew-cut hair, and neatly trimmed mustache made him seem harmless, even dull. Yet Kyle knew better. Underestimating Nagatomo was dangerous, often deadly.
Kyle stepped cautiously forward, struggling to conceal his anxiety.
“Sit down, and tell me what you’d like to drink. You remember my associates, don’t you?”
Kyle nodded stiffly. The blonde woman, wrapped in a shimmering, skin-tight jumpsuit that accentuated her thin frame, regarded him coolly, offering only the ghost of a smile that never reached her cold, gray eyes.
“Felix, let’s not waste each other’s time,” Kyle began firmly.
“I couldn’t agree more, son!” Felix replied cheerfully.
Gritting his teeth at the condescending tone, Kyle pressed on. “Good. Then, I’ll skip the pleasantries. I’m here for the five thousand credits you owe me for the Nashira job. I know there was some trouble with port security, but—”
“I heard all about it. Believe me, Kyle, you have my sympathies. I’d have done the same in your position.”
Kyle blinked in surprise. “So… I’m getting my five thousand credits?”
“Oh, Kyle,” Nagatomo sighed theatrically, feigning disappointment. “I thought we had an understanding. Those five thousand credits were merely an advance against the losses I suffered.”
“Hold on!” Kyle protested angrily. “We’ve already discussed this, and—”
“Yes, you had no choice,” Felix interrupted, casually dismissing Kyle’s concerns. “Nevertheless, you cost me an entire shipment of precious Nyar eggs—worth at least ten thousand credits!”
A strange, rasping sound broke out—Kyle realized with disgust it was the insectoid’s laughter. Meanwhile, the woman ran her tongue slowly over her lips, observing Kyle with amused detachment.
“Felix,” Kyle said, fighting to maintain his composure, “running into patrols is a risk in our line of work. No captain bears responsibility when goods are confiscated.”
“I agree,” Felix conceded easily, spreading his hands in mock sympathy. “But times have changed. With the Galaxy hurtling toward chaos and the authorities becoming more aggressive daily, who would trust you again? After all, you were caught like an amateur.”
Kyle stood abruptly, frustration boiling over. This was pointless.
“Don’t be hasty, Kyle!” Nagatomo urged, adopting a conciliatory tone. “I still trust you. I can even help you—provided, of course, you demonstrate a little… goodwill.”
“Explain,” Kyle growled warily.
“I could offer you some new jobs—in exchange for security, naturally.”
“Security?” Kyle narrowed his eyes. “And how much would this ‘security’ cost me?”
“Money?” Nagatomo feigned astonishment. “Who said anything about money? I was thinking more about a deed of assignment for your ship—the Aranui.”
