“The room was not a room to elevate the soul. Louis 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
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June twenty-third, 666 GE
On board the Aranui, Kyle was dreaming he was home, with Amaranta Sweetlips and the girls. It felt good to still dream of his childhood. Before the liver implant forced him to clean up his act, a fix of Xetor was enough to induce those dreams. Now, he had to rely on pure chance.
As always, he woke up when twelve pounds of mewing fat and fur slammed onto his stomach.
“Ugh… Wolfram. Couldn’t you let me sleep for once?” A thick fog dulled his brain. Something about the quality of the light—stretched and metallic, like the color of a migraine—told him it was afternoon. Propping himself up on an elbow, he tried to sit up, but a splitting headache stopped him cold. “I was thinking of staying in bed for a—” he started to say, but a wave of nausea forced him to disentangle himself from both cat and blankets, and stumble blindly into the ship’s cramped bathroom.
Rough mornings weren’t unusual for him. Not since he’d lost his job a few weeks back. The cramps hit him again just as he reached the bathroom door. He gripped the doorframe, breaking into a cold sweat.
Damn it… What happened last night?
Maybe it was a fever. He frantically checked his neck for the amulet. God forbid he ever went to sleep without it.
The cramping shot sharply through his gut. His head spun. He crumpled to the floor, and before he could even raise his head to reach the toilet bowl, he started to heave.
“Meow!”
Wolfram’s cry carried a distinct note of despair.
“I know, I know. You want your breakfast. As soon as I’m done dying, okay?”
The cramps eased, and the nausea finally subsided. When he felt a little better, he counted to three and dragged himself up. He flushed the toilet, turned on the tap, and rinsed his mouth with the foul-smelling water of Dabih City. Swearing—because that disgusting liquid almost made him gag again—he tapped an icon on the lower left of the mirror. Nothing happened. He tried again and again, with the same result; the floor-level slot that should have released a swarm of tiny cleaning droids remained stubbornly shut. With a groan, he mopped up the mess as best he could with a washcloth and some toilet paper. Finally, he turned on the shower and stood in the cubicle like a zombie as the hot water washed over him.
With Wolfram lagging behind, he staggered into the galley. The room could have served as a perfect model of the universe right after the Big Bang: dirty dishes and leftover food cluttered every available surface, the floor was littered with trash, and the fridge was hosting entirely new life forms. The door to a dusty cabinet hung half-open, revealing the wreckage of a servo-droid that Kyle had never gotten around to fixing.
He carefully pried open a broken cupboard to grab one of the few cans left.
“Bad news, old boy. We’re running out of emergency rations. If we don’t land a gig soon…”
He cracked the can open and set it down next to the cat’s bed, which was barely cleaner than the rest of the room. Then he ordered a triple coffee from a battered Cookomat.
“FINALLY!” a crisp, feminine voice greeted him with a metallic tang. “WELCOME BACK TO THE WORLD OF THE LIVING!”
“Oh, no,” Kyle groaned, covering his ears. “Not so loud, damn it! Are you trying to split my skull?”
“WHAT A GREAT CAPTAIN! WHILE YOU NURSE YOUR HANGOVERS, I’M OUT HERE DOING WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE. WE’RE BROKE AND JOBLESS, IN CASE YOU FORGOT.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault we ran into trouble on Nashira!”
“REALLY?” the ship’s computer laughed. “IT’S NEVER YOUR FAULT, YET WE’RE ALWAYS IN TROUBLE! YOU DRANK THROUGH OUR LAST SAVINGS, DIDN’T YOU?”
A hazy memory stirred in Kyle’s mind.
“What? Are you crazy?” he tried to deny it. “I was looking for work! I made some good contacts, and with a little luck, we should be able to—”
“DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A FOOL? SHUT UP AND LISTEN: WE’VE GOT A LEAD ON A GOVERNMENT CONTRACT!”
Kyle almost choked on his coffee. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“HEY! WATCH YOUR MOUTH. WHILE YOU WERE WASTING AWAY, I’VE BEEN TEXTING ARAL MOHS.”
“Oh, brilliant. You piece of junk, I had a falling out with Aral years ago. He’ll never write back—not in a thousand years!”
“HE ALREADY DID!” the Aranui’s computer chirped triumphantly. “HIS VIDEO MESSAGE CAME IN A FEW MINUTES AGO.”
“Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He scrambled toward the bridge, half-walking, half-running. The room was rectangular, with a row of angled consoles facing a massive main screen. Sitting at the engineering console, surrounded by cargo-status indicators, line-and-grapple monitors, and the routine operations the Aranui handled automatically, Kyle finished gulping his coffee.
“Put it on, quick!”
“Kyle! You absolute moron…” The image hadn’t formed yet; only transmission codes blinked on the screen.
FROM: ARAL J. MOHS
TO: KYLE TOKALAU
SUBJECT: Still alive
>>> NO TEXT <<<
“I thought you were dead, or rotting in some imperial jail!”
Kyle gave a cynical smirk. Aral was exactly the same as he’d been ten years ago, back when they both served as fighter pilots on a Space Force battlecruiser.
“No kidding, I’m glad to hear from you,” Aral said. “I can’t wait to tell Weema! I remember you two were close, and though she’d never admit it, I’m sure she missed you at least as much as I did.”
The handsome face of Aral Mohs flickered onto the screen. He was wearing an immaculate Space Force Captain’s uniform and looked barely older than he had as a young lieutenant. Kyle instinctively ran a hand through his own shaggy hair and three-day stubble.
“So much time, so many things have changed! We have three kids now, did you know? Two girls and a boy. And you? Let me guess… still as free as the wind, right? Listen to your old friend, man, you don’t know what you’re missing! We’re the same age, and neither of us is getting any younger. It’s time to settle down. Enough with the drinking and the partying.”
Kyle swore under his breath. “You just love talking trash, don’t you?”
“…and you need a job, a real one! Lucky for you, I might be able to help. Right now, the government is privatizing freight shipping to the border garrisons. Lately, many independent haulers have been out of work, but I can vouch for you. Hopefully, you’ve still got some of your pilot skills left. If you’re even ten percent of the man you used to be, the job is yours. Ahem… in case you’re interested, you’d better show up soon. Let’s say… in less than a week.”
Aral paused, squinting at something off-camera.
“That’s it, man! Sorry, I’ve gotta run. The CCSF has a tight budget this year, so they’re cracking down on personal subspace transmissions. Drop me a line as soon as you hit New Xanadu. I’d love to have you over for dinner…”
The message cut out. For a few seconds, the screen displayed only the pulsating logo of Horitzò Inc.
“SHALL I SEND A REPLY?” the computer asked.
“No. Too damn expensive from here.”
Kyle leaned back in his seat. Seeing Aral again had dragged up a flurry of old memories. Mostly bad ones. He didn’t particularly like the idea of being recommended for a job by Aral Mohs—a man he considered an ex-colleague, an ex-friend, a traitor, and a girlfriend-stealer. But… he was in deep. Rumors of the incident on Nashira had spread fast through the wrong circles. Hardly any of his usual contacts would give him a second look. But New Xanadu wasn’t some economically stagnant backwater like Dabih Major. The planet-sized imperial capital was booming with opportunity. He could travel there, meet with Aral, and get the details on his offer. If he didn’t like it, he could always look for another gig.
What do I have to lose, anyway?
“Can we make it to New Xanadu in five days?”
“OH, FANTASTIC!” the computer’s voice exulted. “I WAS AFRAID WE’D ROT HERE. YES, WE CAN MAKE IT, BUT WE’RE GOING TO NEED A LOT OF EXTRA FUEL!”
“Plan the cheapest route and give me a systems update.”
He turned. Wolfram was staring at him from the co-pilot’s seat, his single blue eye sparkling with genuine intelligence. The left eye was a bionic replacement—a strange, yellowish lens Kyle had bought from a merchant on Optalidon III after the cat lost his own in a fight against a stray twice his size.
“Cheer up, kitty,” he muttered with a weak grin. “Tell you what: the second I get this job, I’ll buy you a decent eye.”
“WE HAVE A PROBLEM,” the Aranui announced ominously.
Kyle forced down a surge of nausea. He prayed it wasn’t what he thought it was.
“What is it?”
“THE HYPERSTRING GENERATOR.”
Brief nightmarish scenarios flashed through his head, in increasing order of severity: missing his appointment with Aral; more days, weeks, or months of unemployment; customs officers inspecting his ship; and, worst of all, being reduced to begging Amaranta Sweetlips for a loan.
“Again?” he muttered, his throat tight. “I put in a new one six months ago…”
“IT WAS A THIRD-HAND, RINKY-DINK PIECE OF JUNK YOU PICKED UP AT A FLEA MARKET, AND BARELY COMPATIBLE WITH MY OPERATING SYSTEM. WORST OF ALL, IT WAS RIDDLED WITH VIRUSES THAT GLITCHED OUT MY CIRCUITS FOR WEEKS.”
“It was the only one I could afford, and you know it.”
“YOU SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT A DECENT SPARE LONG AGO, BUT YOU NEVER LISTEN! NOW, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO? WE’RE STUCK ON THIS DISGUSTING PLANET!”
“Shut up!” Kyle growled. “You sound like my mother.” Sometimes he wondered about the crazy bastard who had first thought it was a good idea to equip cargo ships with AI.
Machines should be proper servants. They shouldn’t talk back. And they definitely shouldn’t presume to lecture their owners.
“Just one more peep out of you,” he threatened, “and I’ll sell you for scrap!”
There were no more peeps. In dead silence, he headed for the engine room.
No, this isn’t fair. Not after such a promising start.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June twenty-third, 666 GE
There were only a few human buildings left on Bageechaa. Aside from the small spaceport and a tavern, Madame Salgado’s emporium was the only reminder that the remote moon of Gienah VI had once been a thriving mining settlement. That was before the Great and Terrible War and the subsequent K’rell invasion, which had forced the few surviving human colonists to flee. Later, the jungle had reclaimed whatever they left behind.
Madame Salgado had only recently returned to Bageechaa to revive her former business, though with little success. The dusty shelves held hardly anything of interest to her rare customers. Twiglet Skunks was one such customer, though she didn’t expect much from the shop. She was happy enough just to find a box of secondhand hyper-dimensional wiring and a chocolate Krugg bar that was barely past its expiration date.
When she reached the checkout counter, Jiali Salgado herself was sitting behind the desk, perched on a stool far too high for her human-sized legs. Twiglet reasoned that the uncomfortable-looking seat must belong to one of her casual helpers, a haggard Palernian she occasionally hired for those rare Saturdays that were less depressing than usual. Right then, an outdated holo-vid was broadcasting the news. The smiling face of Volker Chang took up the entire screen while a voiceover quoted from the Chancellor’s address to the Imperial Senate.
“Don’t you think Chancellor Chang is a charming man?” Jiali said without looking at her.
“I have no idea, Madame Salgado,” Twiglet replied. “I’m not familiar with human aesthetic standards.”
“Oh…” The shop owner turned around. “But who…” For a moment, she looked perplexed until she remembered to look down. “Twiglet… I didn’t see you come in,” she explained with a touch of condescension. She wore her cobalt-blue hair in a bun, and her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, deepest around the eyes. “What do you have for me this time?”
“Mag Moor roots. Excellent for anti-aging cream.”
Twiglet opened her backpack and pulled out a small bundle. The woman grabbed it, clearly ill at ease dealing with a two-and-a-half-foot-tall, green-skinned, red-eyed humanoid alien. Twiglet sensed Madame Salgado’s poorly disguised racism and found it ridiculous. If the woman wanted to replicate the emporium’s pre-war success, she should have tried to ingratiate herself with all kinds of customers, not just the humans, who, after the Great and Terrible War, made up barely one percent of Bageechaa’s population. Still, Twiglet had always tried to get along with Jiali Salgado; she owed it to their frequent bartering that she wasn’t languishing in absolute poverty. Lately, she’d noticed the shop owner was particularly interested in medicinal herbs. It had been a while since anyone on Bageechaa could afford a real doctor—even a VR version—let alone a rejuvenation treatment.
Before leaving, Twiglet wanted to pitch the magical properties of a mushroom that grew deep in the jungle—she’d likely need to do more shopping in the coming days—but Jiali’s attention was completely absorbed by the holo-vid.
Let’s play along.
“Interesting news?” Twiglet asked in a casual tone.
“Humph! Hard to call it news. The Chancellor claims an economic recovery is just around the corner… Another liner went missing in hyperspace… Robberies, murders… the usual.”
“What about the imperial family? I mean, what’s left of it.”
“Princess Virginia?” Jiali made a face. “Dark times ahead.”
“Why? She’s coming of age, if I’m not mistaken.”
“She’s already twenty-one, and Coronation Day is just a few months away. But ever since her parents died, she’s done nothing but party on the taxpayers’ dime. If you want my opinion, I doubt she’s ready to rule the galaxy…” She leaned toward Twiglet as if to share a secret. “Besides, instead of taking care of our poor citizens’ problems—the economy in shambles, the surge in crime, the ever-present K’rell menace—all she cares about is switching lovers faster than we change clothes.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Salgado. That’s just silly gossip.”
“Gossip? I don’t think so. I read in Galaxy Today that over seventy percent of Milky Way citizens believe the princess’s irresponsible behavior poses a serious threat to the future of the monarchy! And… you know what else I think?”
“Please, enlighten me…” Twiglet said, though she’d heard these exact complaints at least a hundred times before.
“In difficult times like these, we need a strong leader. Someone who can make the Empire great again…”
“Someone… like Chancellor Chang, for instance?”
Jiali Salgado caught Twiglet’s irony.
“Why not?” she snapped. “Of all the incompetent idiots sitting in the Senate, he’s the only one with a backbone. If they’d just let him do his job without micromanaging and debating his every move.”
“Perhaps, Madame Salgado. Perhaps,” Twiglet conceded. She was no supporter of Volker Chang. Far from it. She couldn’t point to a single, definite reason. His being human wasn’t the whole issue. Maybe it was just his fake, ever-present smile.
The newscast ended. Suddenly, the emporium filled with holograms of Alshain flying flowers, and a persuasive voice advertised the planet where everything is possible. Twiglet picked up her meager purchases, abandoning the idea of telling Madame Salgado about the mushrooms. That would have to wait. Realizing it was almost sundown, she hastily headed for the door.
“Goodbye, Madame Salgado. It’s been a pleasure, as alwa—”
“Hey, Twiglet… wait!”
“Yes?”
“I almost forgot. Two humans were here. They were looking for you.”
“Humans? Looking… for me?”
“Yeah, two of ’em. Off-worlders. Could’ve been cops, but they didn’t look the part. They arrived yesterday on the afternoon shuttle and spent a lot of time nosing around.”
“About what, exactly?”
“Well, things like… who’s living in the forest and since when. But it felt like… You know… that wasn’t what they were actually interested in. Then, when I told them to stop wasting my time because I had plenty of customers to take care of, they asked me if any Mahjitans lived on Bageechaa.”
“What did you tell them?” Twiglet asked cautiously.
“My goodness… I don’t know why, but those guys gave me the creeps.” She tried to smile and almost managed it. “I’ve seen plenty of strange things in my life, but those two were… stranger, that’s all. Anyway, I told them there are too many aliens on Bageechaa for me to keep track of. I’m getting old, and my memory plays tricks on me sometimes.”
Coming from Jiali Salgado, that last admission was astonishing.
“Thank you, Madame Salgado. I owe you one.”
It was getting dark, a golden-purple hue tingeing the sky. Twiglet set out on a path lined with giant, fungoid trees, which would bring her to her remote home deep in the jungle in less than two hours.
The hazards of crossing Bageechaa’s forests were legendary. It wasn’t just the hostility of even the most well-traveled roads, or the accidents known to regularly befall vehicles and travelers alike, human or otherwise. A peculiar magic enshrouded the entire moon. Or rather, it wasn’t magic at all, but an instability. A disorder. A flaw, buried deep down but slowly worming its way out. Twiglet felt it tugging at her as she followed the route leading from Rhodon the First’s Gate—Bageechaa’s tiny spaceport—to Amanita Cove. For a path so seldom used, its black gravel was miraculously clear of encroaching plant life.
Still, the trees released the lingering rain from the previous night’s tempest onto fern fronds that were already burdened with shimmering droplets. There was a cool, animated quality to the air. Vivid blossoms, perpetually just beyond the path’s edge, defied the gloom of the forest’s shaded ground. The alluring scents filled the night, seemingly inviting unsuspecting travelers to wander off their path and into the jungle.
The thick undergrowth teemed with creatures, most of them lethal—not only to the occasional passerby, but to each other. A beautiful, striped yanaatjie landed on the soft petals of a red anemone, which snapped shut instantly. Nearby, a mutant tarantula nearly as big as Twiglet’s head turned yellow to better blend in with the foliage. Its web, hung with fine droplets of glistening water just like the ferns, stretched across the Mahjit’s path, forcing her to duck. A green tree-rabbit, enmeshed in the sticky strands, was still struggling, but the spider seemed completely indifferent.
Twiglet let out a soft sigh of dismay as she crouched to pass beneath it. She tried to push down her growing apprehension, but with little success. The dangers of the forest were no joke—more than ten years on, Bageechaa had taught her that one could never be too careful when traveling through this greenish hell—yet they paled compared to what she’d just learned from Jiali Salgado.
Who were those two humans? They were looking for Mahjitans.
As far as she knew, she was the only one of her kind on Bageechaa.
Were they looking for me? But why?
She had a bad feeling about this. It wasn’t just Madame Salgado’s words—she didn’t fully trust the shop owner anyway. But if those guys were friendly, why hadn’t they just asked for her by name?
Suddenly, a terrified shriek pierced the air.
“Yaw! Yaw! Uyariy! Yanapaway!”
A blurry shape, which she couldn’t identify at first, burst into view. It swirled around her, desperately trying to escape the ravenous fangs of a glykz. Twiglet’s tongue shot out like lightning, wrapping around the bug’s furry body. She cracked its thick exoskeleton with her powerful jaws and swallowed it down, savoring the slightly acidic blood.
She spat out the inedible parts and started toward home again. From the lower branches of a tree, the fairy she had just saved from certain death waved a tiny hand, chirping her gratitude for a long time.
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June twenty-third, 666 GE
Like many clubs in the spaceport district, the Onkalo was the perfect place to do business—any kind of business, especially the illegal kind.
Kyle was there to meet his last employer, a petty crook from Dabih’s underworld. As he stepped out of the taxi, he pulled the plush collar of his out-of-style jacket up around his neck. The weather was brutal: cold, windy, and rainy. According to the forecasts, an unusually intense storm was fast approaching.
He checked the charge on his blaster before crossing a muddy alley toward the club’s entrance, where a deafening din washed over him. The dimly lit room was smoky and crammed with creatures of all shapes and sizes. Some wore breathers and anti-grav rigs to simulate their native environments; others seemed to relish the rancid air, breathing it in greedily through open helmets. Humans and humanoids sat shoulder-to-shoulder with hairy, scaly, and wrinkled aliens. The conversation—a chaotic medley of Galactic Basic and alien tongues—only added to the cacophony.
Kyle took a seat at the counter and ordered a beer from a servo-droid. As he drank, he scanned the room. At the back, a holo-screen was broadcasting an X-rated movie where the actors were all Spica V jellyfish. On the opposite wall, an arched doorway led into a much larger hall where the Onkalo’s main attraction—cyber-boxing, and all the betting that came with it—was underway. He wasn’t particularly interested in the fights; his meager finances didn’t allow for even the smallest wager, not with a new generator to buy for the Aranui. Besides, he suspected Rosie Gallows, the club manager, and her friends in the local mob of rigging most of the matches. Still, it couldn’t hurt to take a quick glance inside the arena, since it was one of his ex-boss’s favorite haunts.
It was pitch black inside, save for the flickering light of the holograms. According to the glowing scoreboard, the leading contender was a T. rex, winner of its last fourteen matches. Right then, the tyrannosaur sank its fangs into the neck of a battered, bleeding Shandaloon multiped, which had already lost three of its eight legs. As the match reached its climax, the spectators stood and cheered. The multiped’s agony lasted only a few more seconds, until its roars dwindled and the creature died in a pool of bluish blood.
The holograms instantly vanished, and the house lights came up as hundreds of hands, claws, feet, and claspers applauded loudly.
Kyle used the opportunity to spot his former boss amid the cheering crowd. As he elbowed his way through the packed spectators, the real winner—a scarred, burly humanoid synt who fought through the T-Rex avatar—emerged from a glass booth. Two servo-droids pulled open the door of an identical booth nearby, struggling to haul out the limp body of a furry alien from Ophiuchus. Blood dripped from the creature’s mouth and ears.
Kyle soon gave up his search. It was time for the evening’s main event; the audience was growing restless, and in a few minutes, the lights would dim again. As he turned to head back to the bar, he noticed the two new contestants. One was a Lycoperdon from Pluteus IX, his jagged fangs and trademark blackish-green, scaly hide bristling with pride. The other cyber-fighter was odd, to say the least.
It was an adolescent-looking human synt—short and slender, with huge blue eyes set in a perfectly oval face. His head was completely shaved to facilitate the connection of the cortical probes.
“Kyle Tokalau! At last! Is it really you?”
Rosie Gallows, manager of the Onkalo, threw herself into his arms, burying him under a mountain of grayish, sweaty flab. She was a humanoid from Delta Canis Major, so morbidly obese that instead of walking, she used several anti-grav generators thoroughly concealed in her belt to float a few inches above the floor.
“Aargh… Rosie… missed you too!” Kyle gasped, struggling to break free from the woman’s suffocating embrace. When he finally managed to extricate himself, he flashed her a broad grin. “Look at you, Rosie… you look great!”
She cackled, flashes of fangs bared. “And you’re the same old liar.”
She grabbed his right arm, casting a long, appreciative look over him. “Kyle, darling, I heard you’re in a tight spot,” Rosie said. “To be honest, I didn’t expect to see you around here.”
Kyle stared at her chubby hands, heavy with precious rings—each of them worth a dozen brand-new generators.
“Unless…” she went on, “unless you’ve finally decided to take me up on my offer.”
She underscored the last word with a sultry look from her heavily made-up eyes. Kyle shuddered as a half-dozen lacquered claws dug into his forearm.
“Rosie, I’m really… uh… flattered by the offer,” he croaked, shifting uneasily. “But as you said, I’m in a bit of a jam right now. Can we talk about it some other time? I’m actually here to see Felix Nagatomo.”
She pouted, shooting him an annoyed glance. “Oh, Felix? I see. You’d rather meet with that old pirate than a gorgeous lady. He’s upstairs, as usual. A few of his synths are fighting tonight.” She turned to one of the servo-droids behind the bar. “Robbie, call Room 114! Tell Mister Nagatomo that Captain Tokalau is here.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“There you go,” Rosie said, turning back to Kyle. “I never miss a chance to help an old friend.”
She tried to pout again, but it came out as more of a sneer. “You know, we could be much more than friends.” The woman’s voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “I could make you rich, if you’d only…”
“Excuse me, Madam,” a metallic voice interrupted. “Mister Nagatomo will see the Captain now.”
“Fine!” Rosie hissed, throwing the droid a withering glance.
“Thanks, Rosie!” Kyle saw his escape hatch and bolted for it. “Sorry, but I’ve really gotta run. Can’t keep our mutual friend waiting, right? Catch you later!”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and booked it toward the back of the club, where a spiral staircase led to the upper floors.
Back at the counter, Rosie spat, “Robbie! You stupid piece of junk!”
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June twenty-third, 666 GE
By the time Twiglet reached home, night had fallen.
Her house stood in the middle of a small lake, its irregular silhouette sharp against the reddish glow of Gienah VI. Before walking the final few yards, the Mahjit paused. And listened. Only distant animal cries and the closer chirping of some monstrous insect pierced the night. Confident she hadn’t been followed, she located a specific flowering bush—so sweet-smelling she couldn’t miss it even in the pitch black—and slipped beneath it. A narrow tunnel, lit by the eerie luminescence of fungi, led dozens of feet under the water and straight into her living room.
Something was wrong.
Everything seemed as quiet and peaceful as ever. The house smelled of the resin seeping through its vegetable veins, and yet… a sharper, more pungent odor suddenly hit her nostrils.
Someone had violated her sanctuary. Someone big. Fat. And unwashed.
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June twenty-third, 666 GE
Kyle left the stairs at the first landing and followed the reeking, dimly lit hallway, passing several closed doors. Some of them gave off muffled laughter, the clicking and chittering of alien voices, or heavy pants and groans.
When the corridor made a sharp turn to the right, he almost bumped into a pair of tough-looking humans coming from the opposite direction. A casual glance from one of them made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He slowed his pace, shaking his head. It was definitely time to leave this stupid planet. He couldn’t believe he was losing his edge after just one beer.
Shortly afterward, he found room 114 and rang the bell.
As the door slid open, Kyle realized the floor was vibrating. The noise coming from downstairs had swelled into a roar.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June twenty-third, 666 GE
“Who… who’s there?” Twiglet asked feebly.
The only answer was a series of thumps and grunts, which stopped the moment she found the light switch. A soft, yellow luminescence flooded the room, revealing a bluish-black K’rell. The oversized creature was sitting on the floor, his neck bent at an awkward angle to keep from banging his head against the ceiling, surrounded by a disastrous mess of overturned furniture and shattered pots and pans.
Twiglet let out a sigh of relief. “Uful’lan! Look at what you’ve done!”
“Sssorry, Thwigleth! I didn’th wanth tho sscare you!”
“What in the world are you doing here? How many times have I told you not to camp out in my living room?”
The K’rell’s orange, bespectacled eyes filled with embarrassment. He struggled with his unfurled, leathery wings, which seemed to have a life of their own.
“Humph… Thwigleth… Sssorry, I… I had a bad day,” he mumbled. “I mean… do you have ssomethhing tho eath, maybe? I’m a bith hungry…”
Twiglet dumped her backpack onto an already cluttered sofa. As she did, something smashed against the floor, and she recognized the fragments of the only piece of fine china she had always refused to barter.
“Sure,” she said, choking back a sob. “I bought chocolate bars. Somehow, I knew you’d turn up.”
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June twenty-third, 666 GE
The moment the door slid open, Kyle wished he hadn’t come.
Felix Nagatomo and a couple of his underlings—a skinny blonde woman and an insectoid from Alphard VII—sat at an oval table littered with empty jugs and leftover food. A third guy, a scruffy, pockmarked human, was aiming a laser pistol at him; he stepped forward and confiscated Kyle’s blaster. The insectoid was casually toying with a lethal-looking crossbow. The room stank of stale sweat. Clearly, everyone had been drinking heavily.
Nagatomo greeted him with a slimy grin. “Captain Tokalau! Come in, come on in!”
He was human, and thanks to a lifetime of expensive rejuvenation treatments, he looked completely ageless—though rumors put him somewhere around eighty. With his average height, medium build, crew cut, and a mousy, clipped mustache, he looked utterly unremarkable. People tended to overlook him at first glance. But while he was undeniably base, underestimating Nagatomo was a fatal mistake. It invariably led to an early grave.
Kyle stepped forward, doing his best to mask his nervousness.
“Sit down and tell me what you’re drinking. You already know my crew, don’t you?”
Kyle nodded. The blonde sitting on Nagatomo’s right was poured into an iridescent jumpsuit that accentuated her bony frame. She stared at him, forcing a smile onto her thin lips—a smile so faint it vanished before it ever reached her cold, gray eyes.
“Felix, I don’t want to waste your time,” Kyle began.
“I couldn’t agree more, son!”
Swallowing the bile that came with being called “son,” Kyle pressed on. “Good. To hell with the pleasantries. I’m here to cash out what you owe me for that last run to Nashira. I know there was a little heat with the port authorities, but…”
“I know exactly what happened. And believe me, Kyle, you have my deepest sympathies. In your shoes, I would’ve done the same thing.”
“Does that mean I’m getting my five thousand credits?” Kyle asked, incredulous.
“Oh… Kyle. Now you’re just disappointing me,” Nagatomo whined, letting out a heavy sigh. “I thought we had an understanding.” He shook his head. “I don’t owe you a dime. That five thousand is barely an advance on my own refund.”
“Hey, wait a minute! You can’t pin that on me,” Kyle snapped. “We already talked about this, and—”
“Well, sure, you didn’t have a choice. But the fact remains, you lost a shipment of premium Nyar eggs worth at least ten thousand credits!”
Kyle heard a strange, grating sound from across the table. It took him a second to realize the insectoid was laughing. The blonde, meanwhile, was slowly licking her lips.
“Listen, Felix,” Kyle said, trying to keep his temper in check. “Running into a patrol is just part of the game. No captain takes the fall for a confiscated cargo.”
“I know, I know, but… think about it! With the galaxy heading for disaster and the cops getting more aggressive by the day, who would be foolish enough to trust you with their freight? After all, you got popped like a rookie!”
Kyle stood up to leave. He was wasting his breath.
“Kyle, please! Don’t run off just yet. The truth is, I still trust you, and I want to help you.” Nagatomo sighed again, looking deeply moved by his own generosity. “I just need a little… goodwill on your part.”
“Spell it out.”
“Well, let’s just say I could route some new jobs your way… in exchange for a little security.”
“Security? And just out of curiosity, how much collateral are we talking about?”
“Money? Who’s talking about money?” Nagatomo faked absolute shock. “No, I was thinking of a deed of assignment. For the Aranui.”
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