Bazaar Rituals

A short story by LR Forgues

—

Deep space

Another time

Another system

Life is plentiful and commerce rules all

—

The Korlaxen Star System – 12 individual planets orbiting a brilliant yellow star, known locally as the ‘Sphere of Korlax’, was renowned throughout the galactic quadrant for its intricately plotted shipping routes and the plentiful goods, legal and otherwise, that traversed them.

Unyielding cosmic realities dictate that inter-system trade occur within the orbits of Planets 4-9, with 1-3 within lethal range of the local star, and 10-12 too far beyond the effective reach of the solar out-pour long ago harnessed by the populations of the mid-range worlds.

In an arid region on planet 4, known system-wide as Sorobel, a sprawling bazaar lies entrenched around a vast circular structure nestled in the depths of an ancient impact crater, its name translated from the local tongue as the ‘Cratered Lands Docking Port’.

—

Booted feet kicking up dust, Banx stumbled, catching himself against a shallow doorway recessed into the uneven stone wall, the stifling heat of mid-day radiating from the pitted surface. He could feel it in the sweaty confines of his ill-fitting E-suit, under his head coverings, and he noted yet another trickle snaking its oily way down, creeping toward the crack of his ass…again.

Wonderful.

Other pedestrians, not all bipedal, hustled by, everyone minding their own business.

A warm wind hissed to life, swirling up a haze of particles that billowed off among the sand-lined streets, paths, and trails that curved and curled through the haphazard spread of low, star-baked structures. The monied proprietors could be found operating in large, airy structures of their own design; mostly blocky and pock-marked grey or black, often beam-cut from the local lava fields; those archaic black scars snaking across the region’s dry face, long ago frozen in time.

These structures were off-set by wide tracts of billowing material; tents and huts in all manner of size and design. Vendors hocking wares, dealers dealing deals, and crime lurking around every other corner…or so it seemed.

High above, spread across the bazaar, countless intricate kites and balloons dipped and swayed on the winds; flags and pennants streaming and flapping – advertising and messages to the masses in every colour imaginable, strung along each anchor line, every space bought and paid for.

Beyond, the faded crescent of Sorobel’s one uninhabited moon, Ghex, moved through the desert sky, visibly sliding across the blue void in its orbit; a broken vaporous tail following, only just visible in the glare of late-afternoon.

Returning to the problem at hand…Banx pressed a gloved palm over his newest soon-to-be scar, through the filthy E-suit…to the damaged thigh meat underneath, the edges of the thick material framing the wound scorched black and hard.

There was blood too.

His blood, in smears of crimson. Some was burned.

Sharp pain shot through and he winced, a hiss through teeth loud within the bulky respirator. Above, deep grey eyes were hidden behind a worn pair of moldable *Active-Scan E-Goggles (*as translated); the perfectly round, easily-adjusted lenses suited for many different species, hence their popularity. And they were cheap. His head played host to a floppy wide-brim shade cover, worn over a fabric head-wrap; light shade of green and sweat-stained. This hid the rest of his features from view…this article his mind wanted to call a ‘hat’…but he didn’t know why.

The E-suit, worn beneath an over-sized mining duster once a bright yellow, now an insufferable shade of grey, and recently fitted with armored pouches lining the back and chest, was predominantly a near-shapeless garment of thick, tightly-spun material, dipped in multiple treatment baths, infusing the outer surface with certain protective qualities needed for business and survival among the various trading worlds…for those on a budget.

This suit type was for those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t ever, afford one of the *Exploration Tier ‘World’ Chassis’ (*as translated), rumoured to mimic the living conditions of the wearer’s home-world within, for extended self-sustained periods, in virtually any environment, based on the individual genetic signature of the wearer.

Definitely not cheap.

‘E-suits’, or *Environment Suit: Level-Basic (*as translated), even second hand (while not exactly desirable), were a proven workable alternative for most of the trading worlds in the system…that he happened to have liberated from another, taller biped, when that taller biped was found to be in less-than-living condition, on some moon…in some system…some time ago.  

*shrugs*

He’d gotten most of the stains out, patched the holes. Washed the hell out of it.

Like many things in Banx’s past, the details of that event are murky now, like the happenings of a dream from childhood, as seen through a fever half remembered.

That being said, those supposedly protective qualities hadn’t done him any good when that Klinn bastard had let off that beam-shot from that hand-lens back there.

The Klinn are another bipedal species, but not of Terran descent, as Banx was (or so others had told him, though he frustratingly couldn’t remember it himself). They’re known for their tall willowy-yet-taut forms, and skin so pale it bordered on blue. They’re also known for being untrustworthy and conniving assholes, when you catch them away from their home-world.  

In the next System over, they’re perfect hosts.

Out in the vacuum, away from the rigid codes of their ancient and surprisingly dull society…watch out.

Banx had been watching out.

He hadn’t pin-pointed where they’d picked up his trail, out among the bustling crowds, but he noticed the hands first, the tight pale skin, fidgeting among the muted desert wraps concealing the tall forms, when he’d glanced over, just a couple streets back. The barely-concealed manner with which two hoods conspicuously snapped away, that’s what instantly caught his roving eyes.

Idiots.

He’d continued on, visibly annoyed by fresh chafing that flared up earlier, ravaging his inner thigh, before taking the opportunity to throw an oh so concerned look back at his worn grav-tray, the plucky little platform laden with wrapped purchases, obediently hovering its way over light sand and dark stone.

The port’s main perimeter wall loomed in the distance, filling in a collapsed section of the outer crater…the dark speck of a ship silently lifting off on a narrow contrail of vapor, quickly lost from sight in the blue above.

The small sensor pressed into the worn housing, the tough yellow coating peeling and chipped, glowed an agreeable sapphire blue, locked to its ‘tether’; a small circular transmitter at Banx’s waist, an imperceptible pulse coaxing the tray along.

Off-handedly, he noted that the lower sensor seemed to be glitching again, dipping the tray ever so slightly to one side, thinking it was farther than it was.

Banx glanced up, saw the two robed figures, closer now, suddenly looking away again, suddenly very interested in the clear cylinders of murky liquid offered by the Live Food vendor nearby; multi-limbed shapes twitching and sloshing within seasoned broth.

Fight or flight snapped to attention.

Banx was armed (as you should be, in a place like this) with a triangular bladed fist-dagger of serrated black alloy…and a primitive square-barreled slug-chucker of some unknown origin (his ownership of the weapon on his hip was another shrouded memory…like he’d been brought into existence with it), tucked among his own desert shrouds, the warm wind tugging insistently.

Seeing another cross-path approaching to the right, one sand-blasted structure away, Banx accelerated, his normally aloof gait taking on a noticeable cadence of urgency. Gritting teeth, he cursed the sting of angry skin and rough material again assaulting his tender thigh.  

Between him and his pursuers, the already-taxed grav-tray struggled to keep pace, faltering as Banx ducked away, breaking signal connection.

It drifted on, slowing.

The Klinn, two males, must’ve instantly broke out when they saw him dart away, as his blade and slug chucker had barely cleared sheath and holster when they were on him, charging around the corner with a barking, guttural command that his translator unit didn’t interpret, their own weapons emerging with murderous intent.

Through a hectic blur of ducking and weaving, he remembered a blade of clear, furiously sharp material glinting as it flashed past, the pale hand gripping the bone handle lined with swollen purple veins.

The knife-wielding Klinn, the shorter of the pair, had been thrown off by his missed strike and stumbled past with a growled curse. Banx lashed out with his own sharpened edge, catching his attacker across the back in a wide arcing slice, carving into dusty fabric and pale flesh. The resulting howl of pain had an unsettling quality of rage and the wounded Klinn swung again, backward this time, the sweeping weapon finding no target in its whistling passage.

Banx realized then that his attacker was twisted up on something…

OK then… lookin like ‘sips’…or maybe ‘caps’ at work here…

He sneered sarcastically, more to himself than his assailant…

“Aw…shit, this ought to be fun then!”

As the flailing Klinn fought for secure footing, he spun awkwardly, fueled and blinded equally by murderous anger… and whatever ‘cotic he had coursing through his purple-veined system.

The eyes were wild.

Banx had seen the clumsily telegraphed movement coming and dipped low, pushing away as the glinting blur swept overhead, that shrill hiss again.

It was then that he’d heard the ominous *click* and climbing whine of a beam-caster abruptly charging…from somewhere behind him!

With a muttered curse of resignation, tinged with annoyance, Banx straight-armed the slug-chucker and squeezed the simple weapon’s trigger, capping off yet another round of his hard-to-synthesize-and-expensive-when-you-do ammunition.

In the confines of the stone walls, the quick bark of the powder-fired blast was impressive, hammering his ears, the rippling report swallowed by the wind. A metal casing, a gleaming blur in the warm air, clinked off something solid and vanished, never to be recovered for retrofit.

The 9mm shard of hot metal landed in the shadows of the hood, the wet thud of the impact stumbling the shrouded form. The Klinn made no sound. Nearly the instrument of Banx’s doom, the transparent blade fell away as the pale fingers spasmed and clenched at air, the deadly curve skittering off on impact, lost to sand. The mortally wounded mugger / attempted murderer managed two shuffling steps backward, quivering hands raised, as though protesting his own demise…before crashing heavily to the ground, dark blood spattering warm stone.

A frenzied yell told Banx everything he needed to know about his next priority in life, and he whirled, quickly bringing his own weapon up in Asshole Number 2’s general direction.

As his sights fell in line, Banx saw the deadly power-lens leveling, the indicator showing full, ready for discharge. Eyes mashed shut against the terrible energy blast that was undoubtedly to snuff him out, Banx felt his own weapon buck again, the report hitting hard.

In sharp contrast, hand-lens crackled, unleashing a high keening shriek.

Behind the goggles, Banx’s eyes flashed open in shock – searing pain punched his outer thigh, right side, collapsing him awkwardly to the ground, no reaction time. His own weapon clattered to the path’s sand-lined edge, out of reach.

Unable to wipe at the stinging tears trapped behind his lenses, he blinked frantically, his vision reluctantly clearing to reveal the blur of the wounded Klinn pressed against the far wall, his focus sharpening on a hood pushed away, a smooth bald head, a characteristic bony ridge beneath the taut skin, wide black eyes squinted in pain, staring at a trembling hand pressed to a leaking shoulder. Tendrils of purple blood streamed through, smearing the knuckles.

*Woomph!*

As Banx crouched awkwardly, struggling to right himself, he’d suddenly felt a wash of heat at his back…right around the same time he noticed a new smell.

Something was burning.

He threw a look over his shoulder and was horrified, just for a second, to see the collapsed mugger, so recently dispatched and on his way to his own sweet hereafter, now aflame, with vigorous licks of fire quickly spreading from somewhere within the folds of limp fabric. Noxious tendrils of smoke had begun snaking into the light, riding on the flames.

Flashing back, Banx realized that he’d been lucky to have only been grazed, and muttered words of thanks beneath his breath; to the Cosmos, to whoever may have been listening, now that the shock was subsiding.

The desperately unleashed slug had found its mark, knocking the Klinn’s targeting alignment as he’d stumbled away, a biting pain suddenly buried in his flesh somewhere. The majority of that unleashed beam, that faint shimmer in the light of the day, had crackled past, striking the downed remains of this moron’s partner, setting the desert-dry robes alight, taking the still-twitching son-of-a-bitch with it.

Even behind his ‘breather’, he could still smell it.  He wrinkled his nose in disgust against the acrid stench, quickly trying to assess.

Both courier and mugger were wounded.  Banx went down…the Klinn had not.

The Klinn still held his weapon…Banx did not.

Wait! What the hell?!

Desperate eyes flitted about, pure fearful searching for that familiar dull-black handle of shaped composite, or the square of metal making up that which he, for some reason, thought of as a ‘slide’…just as he thought of the weapon as a ‘pistol’.

Or even a ‘gun’.

Either word just seemed…right. Hell, it even had markings on it, in a script that he could effortlessly interpret…but didn’t know how…or why. But in his mind, calling it a ‘Glock 19’, as he’d once sounded out, just seemed silly. Almost off-putting. So that strangely murky compartment of his mind spat out the other two names…and they stuck.

 He didn’t know why he knew these things…he just did.

There!

The pistol, the gun, the ‘Glock 19’, had been close.

But not close enough.

Gritting needle-like teeth, the wounded miscreant had pushed away from the wall, a messy spatter of gore marking its brief stay, fumbling to reset the lens’ charge.

It was then that Banx saw his grav-tray, waiting patiently at the mouth of the pathway, hovering roughly two hands up. The Klinn, struggling with a bloody appendage that didn’t want to cooperate, stepped forward; wide, booted feet in oiled *Blaajii’n Sand Serpent hide (*as translated) eclipsing the tray.

Thank you, you moron.

With his attacker’s attention on recharging, Banx’s darting hand wasn’t seen, nor was the turn of a small dial, nor the quick thumbing of a hidden toggle observed.

The *Emergency Recall Feature (*as translated) functioned perfectly at this range and without a sound, the goods-laden tray lurched forward, racing along its invisible ‘tether’ in absolute programmed obedience. Being an older, third-hand Basic model, there was no detection equipment guiding the floating platform which, with its current load, weighed nearly as much as the Klinn that stood between it and its beckoning master.

Banx had heard the soft chirp of the beam-caster’s power reset, a terrifying sound…a full second before he heard two limbs being shattered, a guttural shriek echoing out in concert.

The Klinn went over backward, ruined legs flailing up in a glittering burst of sand. He was violently slammed back, rolling across the mesh-covered purchases as they passed by, unhindered. The anti-grav strips running along the tray’s underside buzzed in protest, fighting against the sudden weight change to hold a finger’s width above the ground. Banx heard something *crunch*…then shatter…amber liquid began dribbling steadily beneath the tray, marking its passage.

Damn it!

He knew what that was and, for a split second…he grieved.

His mourning over the shattered tincture (purely medicinal, he would swear to it) was short-lived as another beam of concentrated energy lanced out from the wildly undulating power-lens. Banx ducked away as a burst of stony grit exploded in a shower of sparks at the mouth of the cross-path behind him.

Something on the street yelped in surprise.

The Klinn continued his hasty, uncontrolled journey to the ground, coming down heavily in the tray’s charged wake. The beam-weapon, thrown free, plunked down in a sand drift with a *thud*, the activation diodes darkening.

Free of the tumbling weight, the tray glided along, rising up…before drifting safely to a stop.

Not knowing what might come next, Banx forced himself to his feet, cringing as he noted a red mess through the new rend in his attire.

Using a combination of the grav-tray and the nearby wall, he rose painfully, eyes never leaving the crumpled figure of the newly-crippled mugger.

The newly-crippled mugger began to move again.

The scumbag then dragged himself away, toward the next street, cursing in several different languages between not-so-tough-now groans and hisses of pain, both legs dragging heavily behind him, unusable and bleeding internally.

The wind shifted as Banx made a quick decision and hobbled over to pluck the discarded (and now temporarily un-owned) power-lens from where it was thrown, peering close to make sure all diodes were still dark and cold. A wash of ugly smoke had blown past, reeking of burning fabric…and something fleshy.

Resetting the ‘tether’, Banx had limped past the cooking meat, clearly too deceased to appreciate the lessons to be learned here today, the enthusiastic flames already subsiding around the blackened remains, the corpse scorched. He left the grisly mess behind.  

This was only after carefully tucking his new, more-than-likely illegal energy caster in among the various covered packs.

He’d figure out what to do with it later.

The tray floated by, dribbles of syrupy intoxicant marking its passage. It followed the limping courier toward the next street.

And here…he…was, having emerged from the pathway that almost claimed his life into a fresh bout of desert sun the next lane down. The wavering shadows of several ornate kites danced across the uneven ground, over the blunt buildings and colored tents nearby, long silky tails snapping and curling in the winds, the soft songs of bells, chimes and strange wind instruments in the air.

Banx took quick stock – more or less intact…with all his goods…and still on his way. This…while leaving one more thieving piece-of-shit dead on the equally dead surface of this goddamn planet, and another seriously pondering his life choices.

Where do I collect my medal?

Incidentally…not his first ‘body drop’. But that’s a different story, for a different time.

Pulling a herb-infused square of soft material from one of his leg pouches, he fought to hold the scorched slice of E-suit open with one hand, while forcing the healing wound-cover in with the other, ensuring the healing side was down properly and covering the whole bloody length of the scorched territory.

Almost immediately, a cool sensation settled over the wound site, and the sharpness of the pain dulled, becoming numb in a matter of breaths.

Becoming tolerable.

Becoming useable.

As Banx gently patted the covering down, he glanced around, eyes peeled for any others of the Klinn persuasion, moving in while he was vulnerable, perhaps. His scan showed no obvious threats lying in wait or on approach…but, just for a moment…something stood out…

A certain shape in the crowd.

A certain garment.

A certain cut.

A certain fluidity.

And eyes.

Banx had felt eyes on him, putting his awareness on edge. Eyes that watched…studying.

But not Klinn.

Wind washed over sharply and he lowered his head into the gust, breaking focus. When he glanced back up, searching…there was nothing to be seen.

Whatever it was…it was gone now.

Just the afternoon crowds remained, hustling and bustling in the heat. Risking a glance back, he noted with satisfaction that the grav-tray had kept up, hovering several hand lengths behind in the mouth of the pathway, still dribbling.

Beyond, he could still make out the darkened remains of the recently deceased, still sprawled across the pathway, a haze of smoke marking it.

But it wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Even from here, Banx could make out several small, four-legged creatures, local pests and scavengers, approaching the smoldering pile of dead mugger. Banx looked away as the first one took a bite.

Using a slab of wall for balance, he tested his leg, extending and retracting gently, probing for pain or fresh leakage.

So far, so good. Still stung like a bitch, though.

Well, he HAD been in a good mood.

Glancing at the scuffed chrono-dial fixed to his left forearm, he noted that time was running out, especially now with this new painful, infection-prone inconvenience. He’d been on the hunt for his supplies since well before star-rise. Exhaustion, hunger and thirst were not helped by a vicious energy wound to an extremity.

He was leaving soon…but he wasn’t done yet with what the bazaar had to offer. He had his rituals.

Straightening up, Banx put weight on, testing. As happy as he could be with the result, he looked around, searching for one tent among the others, one pennant among many.

There. That flash of colour, that design, fluttering on the breeze.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Banx moved on, crossing the dusty lane toward the nearest collection of tented proprietors, but only after a rumbling freight deck hovered past, static charge crackling from the underside, raising sand. The grav-tray followed Banx like a miniature version of the passing platform, it’s shadow slithering over the roadway.

For a brief moment, Banx wondered about the authorities…then he remembered the rather lax reputation hovering over the so-called *Dock Authority Corps (*as translated)…namely those working the gates, often at the mercy of the afternoon sun, like every other body in the open. Don’t get it wrong, the inner wall patrols are not to be trifled with. It’s amazing what effect climate control can have on one’s focus and temperament. The patrols, inner and outer, can, and sometimes will, make your life rather…inconvenient, should you give them reason.

Or not, sometimes.

There can be pain involved.

Almost certainly a strong ‘suggestion’ of a ‘donation’ to the DAC’s coffers will be hinted at. You know…for charity.

That sometimes comes with pain too.

Rough characters, especially those inner-wall section-walkers.

But those relegated to *Gate Attendant duty (*as translated), be it through low status in rank, or some form of disciplinary measure foisted upon them by the Powers That Be, are notorious for counting down chrono – surviving till shift change without killing something (or themselves…don’t laugh, it’s happened) and then retreating post haste back into the cool confines of the wall’s base level, the curving tunnels lined with decorative examples of the region’s sparse flora; mostly dark, craggy and tough shapes, hard like the surfaces that hosted them, growing from perfect circles decoratively beam-cut into the bedrock flooring, lining the edges in unmeasured intervals, strange stalks and fronds brushing the curving roof.

Those rounded passages, marked by a haphazard medley of directions and notices in a variety of languages (as required by various treaties) and many, many flavours of graffiti; some lewd, some political, some hilarious. Some dating back several dozen cycles. It was past these that the beleaguered DAC gate workers would trudge, aiming for the garrison headquarters, then whatever imbibing hole they fancied, legal or otherwise, to drown the misery of their mundane lives here in the wastes of Sorobel.

Like many trapped working in the more arid climes, they tended to be on the somewhat sedentary side, duty-wise. Any displays or hints of effectiveness were window dressing. Generally speaking, if they didn’t HAVE to do something…they weren’t going to do something, regardless of species. This went right up the Perimeter Command rank structure.

Again…regardless of species.

Besides, he reminded himself, if cleanup of his recent homicidal activity is the concern, that growing collection of carrion-eaters back there should have things policed up by this time the following day, if not sooner. This is assuming no ambling bystander stumbles upon the mess, takes offence and rushes off to do the Right Thing by reporting it to someone / something that actually gives a shit.

Good luck finding one of those around here.

The star was lower on the horizon, the glare somehow bright and subdued, when Banx aimed himself at the spaceport, finally defeated by exhaustion and pain, and limped in the direction of the nearest access point at the wall’s base, the grav-tray now boasting an additional selection of various spiced and dried meats imported from 2 different planets and one moon, plus the rest of his amassed goodies.

The sweaty, tentacled Dock Authority gate attendant behind the darkened partition at the entrance gave only a cursory glance with all four of his wide, almost perfectly round eyes, at both the landing assignment light-etched onto a circle of tough parchment, or the hovering selection of netted purchases (the scent of spilled Krind’l ale still lingering), a proper search too taxing in the heat of the day (a deliberate calculation, with deliberate timing, on Banx’s part).

He was waved through with barely a grunt.

As he slipped into the shadowed passage, the tray following, he paused, noting that one wrapped item in his selection was off-balance, causing another slight lean to the tray, which had since stopped leaking. As he knelt and fiddled, that feeling came over him again, like a cold chill across the back of his neck. He looked up, the googles automatically adjusting for the lower lighting.

And there he was.

Banx muttered…

“I knew that was you, you sneaky little…”

Banx had seen something familiar earlier, a bipedal shape…a shape that now emerged into the cool shadows from one of the sun-lit entryways a short way down the line.

Like most visitors and denizens of the Northern Hemisphere this time of season, the shorter figure was shrouded in a cape and hood that may have once been white, but had since taken on a sand-blasted beige hue. The facial features, save the large, maroon-ringed eyes, were hidden from view behind a tight head shroud and atmo-cycler head-rig. There was an obnoxiously confident bounce to the being’s even, two-legged gait, which came to a halt, his stance balanced, his poise ready.

But it was the exposed eyes that met Banx’s…and he took the challenge.

Rising back to full height, Banx pulled the goggles from before his own eyes, meeting the mysterious being’s challenging glare. Hand signals were suddenly exchanged, body language was observed and, as other creatures came and went between them, the tense exchanged ended with the local equivalent of ‘*Filth Mate Your Birther!’ (*as translated); an obscene gesture requiring two appendages, no matter what your species.

The other fired one off, something in the (long) finger gestures making the punchline even more crass, then quickly again with another (some kind of finishing move maybe?…what a dumbass!) before whirling away to triumphantly stride off down one of the side passages, revealing a perfectly round backpack of dark red material centered on the disappearing creature’s form, the dark draping rectangle of the attached Goods Slip swaying below, to the little dick’s mid-leg. It bulged with mysterious shapes, before vanishing from sight around a corner.

Shaking his head, Banx could only grin, though with little humor…

“Deev…you prick.”

Sensing that he’d be dealing with that particular alien again, Banx shook the odd exchange from his mind and continued on, abruptly feeling…homesick?…for some reason.

A tingle in the guts…a small, cold hollow in his heart.

A distant longing for a home he fought to recall with more and more difficulty; a memory resonating with only a dream-like tangibility, just out of reach.

‘Home’, as he now knew it, was named The Krell (Banx had no idea why, she’d come with the name, as translated, when he ‘acquired’ her through the most questionable of means) and she was currently nestled in among the dock’s lowest tier (aka ‘cheapest’) landing aprons on the sprawling port’s East side; the ones where you took the chance on your vessel being ransacked, sabotaged or straight-up stolen, after you had entrusted it to one of the always shady-looking section-minders.

Luckily, he’d dealt with the minder overseeing this section before, several runs back; a large Kro-Pak’n known as Birj, and Banx once had the forethought to slip the horned, insect-like creature one of his extra tubes of ‘*Star Smolder Reed Oil’ (*which was as close as his translator could get), which had been better received than expected.

Now, with each successive visit, the first thing to do after engine shut-down was toss the waiting minder a fresh pack right from the hatch, and damn if that Kro didn’t get his rigid thorax in gear, already barking and clicking orders to the maintenance drones to hook up this, clean that, important customer, etc. 

Banx appreciated good customer service.

Seeing the familiar etched marking, he limped into the specified passage, awkwardly rounding the corner. A fresh breeze pushed over him as he shambled along, exhaustion nagging. An arched doorway loomed ahead, open and warmly lit in the rays of the reddening star on the horizon, streaked with lengthening shadows.

The grav-tray hovered behind, keeping pace, unimpeded now by blowing sand and bustling crowds.

The cheaper aprons tended to be clustered in trios around the inner perimeter of the protective wall that towered above; the wide, blast-proof pads pitted and slow-baked by the relentless weather, climate, and many a scorching engine blast, ready to accept and hold all manner of craft, rated within the permitted weight and fuel-type allowances, of course.

The landing pads were spread evenly, sitting on their mechanical risers, connected by a series of raised gantries anchored to the eons-old volcanic substrate. Those reaching skeletal paths were as pitted and rusted out as the landing platforms they led to. When it was time, the platforms would be raised beyond the protective half-dome that shielded each of the aprons from the harshest weather and the most punishing rays of star-light.

Pausing at the entrance, Banx couldn’t help but to smile – there she was.

The Krell was an older-model light-cargo hauler designed for the small but blossoming courier-level transport industry that was accelerating in prosperity here in the system. Originally meant to be an economic alternative for first-time license holders from the smaller worlds, it came in two differing starter packages -*The Basic (*as translated): sold as a fully-operational cockpit fore-section and a two-booster, atmo-capable engine package or *The Double (*as translated): also sold with the same fore-section, but boasting a four-booster thruster package with a bonus solid-fuel reserve bladder.

She was a ‘Double’.

Despite the throbbing sting of his leg, the maddening chafe torturing his inner thigh, the sour waft of days-old body odor emanating relentlessly from within his clinging garb, the nauseating pang of hunger that was beginning to announce itself at his core, the nudging threat of a full bladder, and the annoying itch of fucking stubble against his rebreather…he smiled.

Banx didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to pause, to drink in the sight of the small, banged-up four-engine cargo skiff, half hidden in the curving shadows of the open half-dome above. Her cockpit was dark, her engines cold.

From where he stood, she looked good. As good as when he’d first ‘acquired’ her, all those moons ago. No signs of molestation.

She stood directly ahead, landing struts pressed to the pitted surface of the pad, her blunt nose facing him, backdropped by the blocky, over-and-under configuration of the four thrusters. The pad to his right held the crumbling bulk of a long-abandoned hauler, skeletal framing visible through mangled hull plating.

The pad to his left was empty, host to cool shadows, waiting for a fare.

Glancing around, Banx saw no sign of Birj.

Not that he needed the Kro Pak’n to see him off. He was paid up, bribe and all.

At that moment, the deepening shade of the lowering star caught something reflective above, gleaming, a shining reminder spurning him. He was further herded along by another stinging bout of discomfort (and the resulting burning annoyance) from both his inner and outer thigh, feeling a fresh moistening of his wounds and irritations. He stepped forward.

To hell with it. It’s time to go.

There was just enough space beneath The Krell’s angled hull to allow Banx to move beneath without crouching…but only barely.

As he made his way around the landing gear, beneath his angular, well-worn *Habitat Class A module (*as translated), before coming to a stop below the wider, rounder *Cargo Class B module (*as translated), both secured with a pair of bulky clamp-locks in faded crimson, complimented by armored support rails running bow to stern, top and bottom.

Finishing things off is the *Booster Package (*as translated), but there is no need to go that far.

The small panel set into the module’s skin spat out a dusting of sand as he pulled it open, a small rectangle of green activating within to display information and options. Pressing a small nub, he’s rewarded as the cargo module’s underside bay door, the one set flush beside his head, breathed out a quick hiss of pressurized gases and obediently yawned open, revealing the dark innards of his Cargo mod, up through the gel-like pressure collar in its rib-like frame around the inner hatch.

The module, festooned with molded cargo racking, was currently empty, lit with faint yellow blobs of service lighting, awaiting the next job. Reaching back, he pulled the homing remote for the grav-tray from his belt and, reaching up into the open hatchway, planted it against the inner bulkhead, a small magnetized field holding it in place. Finding the small Home / Rest toggle, he moved aside as the grav-tray rose up to join the beckoning beacon inside the ship; his goodies safe, sound and ready to travel. The hatch slid shut with a faint *thump* and the briefest squeal of re-pressurization, becoming flush again.

After giving the onyx-black grav-rails lining the ship’s underside a cursory glance (they looked fine), he made his way around, disconnecting various lines and connections as he went, and consulted another readout, this one flushed into the tough flesh of his little slice of domestic bliss, A Mod.

A tap on the smooth crystal of the data screen powered up the door and a moment later, it slid open with its own hiss of escaping gases. Clambering inside in that awkward way he always does (he was glad the chamber was currently deserted, no eyes to witness or mock), he lay there, allowing that inevitable moment, that swell of relief that washes over every time he and The Krell were reunited. She truly was home. Well, as home as he could remember, anyway.

Speaking of which…

After securing and re-pressurizing the hatch, he ducked through the mating collar into B Mod, absently glancing at the wall-mounted humidity reader as he passed, where he pulled a trio of flexi-straints from a work pouch and tightened them into place over the powered-down grav-tray.

The stores will stay stored…for now.

There was suddenly a nervous flutter of excitement within and, just for a moment, another of those thoughts pierced his mind – butterflies?

What the hell are ‘butterflies’?

He knew the word…but couldn’t remember why. A faint fluttering shape passed through his mind’s eye, but was gone just as quickly.

He made his way back, ducking into the low, single-seat cockpit, pulling the dusty goggles from his forehead and tossed them aside as he moved, before stealing a glance out an upper viewing port, the warm hue spilling across the viewing crystal spurning him on.

Normally Banx hated piloting E-suited, but at the moment, time was of the essence, chafing be damned. The filth-ridden garment could stay, for now…but the old armored vest had to go. Another relic of times long forgotten…from Before, the once-tough green fabric worn and torn, the dull glint of metals and composites visible through the webbing of pouches and pockets.

Shaking off the weighted folds of the duster, Banx then unclipped the vest using a pair of catches fastened along one flank, causing it to fall free. He placed it safely off to the side, but still within easy reach, and quickly took stock of the view beyond the cockpit with a studious glance.

He was losing the light.

Next, he pulled gloves from clammy pale hands, then the wide-brimmed cover from his head, revealing the tattered wrap of patterned, sweat-stained fabric.

A pair of clips released – *click*, and the respirator fell loose, revealing a narrow mouth, a scar visible running north to south on one side, visible through a salt-n-pepper shadow of stubble.

As he pulled it away, Banx breathed in, relishing the cool emptiness of the gas stores he’d activated. He fell heavily into the reclined pilot’s seat, the original owner clearly having been at least a foot taller than Banx, judging from the oblong head-rest, a shape created from the same pale blue *Inertia-gel shift-tech (*as translated) that adorned the rest of the seat’s inner curve, and most of the ship’s hardened inner edges too, while we’re at it, as a Neg-G safety measure. Insurance requirement, of course. He smothered another stab of pain with gritted teeth, unable to decide what pissed him off more at the moment – inner thigh or outer?

The seat slid into place, locking as the gel accepted his weight, gently molding around it, glowing indicators along the armrests blinking to attention.  The controls before him activated with a low hum and a fluttering strobe of lights and screens painted his features before settling into a subdued glow. The four rounded display surfaces, set into the rough surface, abruptly filled in, a luminescent gel flowing from each corner. In a blink, information surfaced within. Everything showed Nominal, and his new stores – the aqua, the solid fuel, the heat drags, all holding in their post-top levels, no weight or displacement change from two cycles ago.

Meaning no one had jacked his shit in the time he’s been hunting and gathering. This was good.

As an added bonus, none of the holding cells were leaking – all waste heated and treated.

A flick of a toggle and the curving band of viewing crystal before him shifted, the dark shading slinking away, the view of the shadowy landing apron outside clearing, lightening artificially.

A low rumble that went as quickly as it came marked *Drive Start (*as translated) and his eyes danced over the indicators. Everything looked good. Taking one last glance out and seeing nothing new, Banx activated The Krell’s *Grav-Cell Suspension System (*as translated).

The onyx-hued, glass-like strips running along the underside crackled, the air shimmering as they primed. Impurities in the surface below, hidden among the rust and pitting, glittered, sparking…before a rush of hot wind scattered them into oblivion.

The bulky little ship rose, gliding toward the open circle of sky above on a charged plume of blown sand and dust that caught the insect-like Birj as he lumbered around the corner, a glowing data pad clenched in a claw.

Cursing, the section-minder choked and sputtered, a reedy series of annoyed clicks and hisses unleashed as he continued on, realizing he now had yet another pad to clean, dark bulbous eyes blinking away blown grit. The Kro’s exoskeleton skull twitched as four thrusters went ‘atmo’ with a deep thud that shook the air above, the offending source now out of sight. For just a moment, Birj wanted to curse the Terran courier out, maybe even strike a little…but that had been some good reed oil!

The data pad clenched in the claw chirped as the DAC Low-Altitude traffic control automatically logged the courier vessel’s outbound egress from the DAC area of responsibility, based on the automatic registration-scan, that veil of invisible light washing over entire ships like a membrane, poking and prodding for that required Vessel ID as they come and go. Inescapable. Every landing apron had one draped overhead, visible only from certain angles, at certain times of day.

Well, the legal ones did, anyway.

Birj shrugged four of his shoulders and turned back, barking out a series of guttural squawks to the maintenance bots, wherever they were this time.

—

Glancing off his port side, Banx saw the vast perimeter wall slide out of view, dropping away to reveal a cracked and tortured landscape, a vast haphazard mix of craggy protrusions and swaths of piled sand dunes, leading to a dim line of more mountainous territory lurking on the horizon.

The Sphere of Korlax burned in the deep blue of the sky, but it was low and the shadows were long.

Pulling The Krell around, Banx leaned in, noting off-handedly that his intended passage would take him over the bazaar. The micro–freighter rose with a low hum, more felt than heard, an occasional dry crackle sounding an energetic exchange with particles in the air.

Seeing the last swaying kite vanish below the nose as though devoured, the tail and anchor line festooned with many swirling and snapping pennants, Banx allowed himself a child-like grin. As rough, dirty, hungry, needing to piss, and tired as he may be…this part never got old.

One gel-screen showed Nominal on the atmo-thrust function; all engines were equally warmed, filters were filtering, precious (and damned pricey) fuel was fueling, and she was ready to stretch her legs (another term he just…knew…but didn’t know why).

Settling back, feeling the seat yield further, he gently nudged the ship further port, rotating her in her climb while picking a craggy section of what could be mountains on the far horizon as his alignment point.

Another of those tremors tickled through his belly, and the grin widened. He couldn’t help it.

A determined push of the once-red throttle collective had the four thrusters obediently ripple to life, the blue flare of the volatile fuel / energy mix suddenly glowing a bright, flickering orange where it hit the air, highlighting the small freighter’s stern in the sinking daylight.

Like a mighty hand pushing gently-but-insistently on his chest, Banx went along with the force having its way with him; the pressure more annoyance than hindrance as the ship slipped quickly away from the vast sprawl of structures that defined the spread below; a thudding rumble in his wake, a quick shimmer left wavering in the air before fading out.

The Krell tore out over the open plain, too high to leave a trail of disturbed dust tracing her path away from the ancient crater and the space port nestled within, but low enough not to show in the DAC’s High Altitude traffic dome.

There was nothing nefarious planned, per say…he just didn’t want any undue attention.

No bullshit hassles.

He had plans for the evening.

Once he had exited the port’s overall area of operations, the DAC couldn’t give two shits about what he did. It would be someone else’s problem…probably his, and his alone, if things just happen to take a turn for the worse somehow (it IS the open desert we’re discussing here).

A soft alarm sounded, triggered as he flew over the last of the perimeter markers.

He was on his own. Just the way he liked it. 

The dull desert colours and hazy horizon clearly conspired against his half-lidded eyes and fatigued mind, as Banx had just settled into The Krell’s comfortable cruising speed, her passage through the deep orange of the sinking sun smooth, the hum through the deck plating lulling him into a half-realized snooze, when he realized that the cliffs, so recently diminutive crags on the horizon, were rapidly growing in the viewscreen, both in size and detail, their edges dulled by eons of hot desert winds that follow no rules of direction.

A proximity advisory chirped, a small indicator flashing.

These cliff-sides marked a drastic change in the arid landscape – ancient lava tunnels, now cold and dark, gradually exposed as Sorobel’s taxing natural elements shook away the surrounding substrate over several hundred system rotations.

Now…miles-long curves and coils of blackened, pock-marked mineral; a dull, glass-like substance that once glowed hot and bright. These, in all manner of size and direction, dominated the terrain below; the snaking twists of black and grey showing shattered, fallen sections. Sometimes the stronger gusts birthed a mournful tune through these towering shapes…but not today.

There may not have been the low whistles and hisses of the wind…but there was the throaty hum of four thruster-engines cruising in at 52% output, pushing two modules and a small cockpit through the cooling air, arcing toward the cliffs, the crackling echo fading out over the ancient plain.

The tough composition of the cliffs once made them impervious to the oceans of lava that, at one time, flowed and floundered up against their prehistoric base, unable to impress, to influence, these natural fortress walls holding a nightmarish landscape at bay.

These cliffs…were his goal.

He’d read them on a sweep-scan when he’d atmo’d those few cycles back, his entry glide bringing him overhead on his final approach to ‘Cratered Lands’. He’d noted the interesting nooks and crannies (not sure what those were…but that’s the phrase that came to him), seeing a few that could handle The Krell for a stable touchdown, while also offering up a slick view of the star setting over the foreboding vista.  

A wet sting from his inner thigh was sudden punishment for shifting his angle.

And goddamn it…the ole piss-sack was getting heavier than he liked too!

If he didn’t need to, he wasn’t using The Krell’s crude onboard facilities, no offence to The Krell. Plus, Banx still didn’t trust the ship’s onboard *Robotic Pilot (*as translated) to handle a low-alt atmo-run, especially in the proximity of the many rocky and unyielding protrusions, as he pops off to take a leak. Letting her self-guide through the wide-open vacuum of space was one thing…the violent unpredictability of high-speed ‘ground-hugging’ over un-swept terrain was another.

Time to put this girl down for the night.

He shifted back, taking some pressure off…and was promptly awarded an aggravating dual shot of sharp discomfort, both sides singing out to him in protest.

This shit is getting old.

Then…there!

Along the ledge beyond The Krell’s nose there grew a crude rectangular cut-out, a flattened open section closed in on three sides by crude slanting walls of dull stone, the open edge overlooking the awe-inspiring plain. Wide cracks, dark with shadows, carved twisting passages into the rockface beyond.

As it slid past, he could see that sand had collected on his proposed, ad-hoc landing pad…but he could also see that the floor of the cavity was flat enough for The Krell ‘s horizontal compensator system to easily calibrate. He could lower her with little danger of contact on any side, given the length and width he loosely noted.

Done! That’s it.

Speaking of which – things happening in his lower belly were threatening to ruin his mood.

Despite the many different points of physical discomfort that were also trying to bring his day down, he couldn’t resist his next move.

Taking the controls and hitting the accelerator, Banx put the small ship into a wide curving turn, accelerating as he banked starboard over the expanse of frozen lava tunnels, quickly losing altitude, aiming for several towering cylinders of dark rock growing quickly in his view, each leaning at a different angle. One had partially collapsed. The passage through them was uneven and possibly unforgiving. The wind sometimes sighed, almost whistled, as it gusted through. But not today.

There may not have been singing among the twisting formations and darkened cylinders…but there was the crackling ripple of four thruster engines, now opened up to 88%, a buzzing roar echoing off in a wide arc overhead.

Hauling in short, controlled breaths without realizing, he barely noticed the forces again pushing and pulling, only with noticeably more zeal this time. The crude natural protrusions dominated the viewscreen as a streaked galaxy of broken shapes, blurred by speed, slipping past, her long shadow twisting over the landscape off the stern, getting closer and larger as the treacherous ground approached.

Banx was having fun.

He’d always wanted to try this, going back to when he’d first heard about this region, and others like it, and he’d finally factored this little joyride into his fuel rate on this gig. He wasn’t due off-world till star-rise tomorrow, so why the hell not. The healthy bonus off his last haul helped with that one. He could spare enough for one good horizontal pass through the formations (he was watching the gauge), and so far, he was getting his money’s worth.

The cockpit strobed as The Krell flashed through the looming rock cylinders, his passage on the starboard side close enough for a Proximity Alert to sound, the chirp loud…then gone.

Just like the tall rocky shapes left in his wake.

As the micro-freighter tore through the arches, all engines alight…so did her turbulence.

The mineral structures, all five, broken one included, shattered, blasting apart in a storm of dark shards lancing after the craft that created them, pelting the area with a punishing spray of debris. Several secondary impacts brought other formations crashing down moments later to explode like black glass. The fresh line of destruction pointed accusingly toward the perpetrator rapidly shrinking into the distance; two narrow vapor trails quickly erased by the rising wind as the craft sped toward the long wall of sheer rock.

With the proximity sensors dialed up (along with his adrenaline glands!), Banx glided in over the cliff and eased the small vessel into the slanted cut-out, a billowing wash of sand erupting around the ship as he unfurled her landing struts, forcing him to strain as the view-screen was abruptly blinded out by a rising shroud of fine yellow and grey.

A moment later, he felt the ship’s weight settle as the compensators activated, holding The Krell straight and level, even if the terrain was skewed beneath the rough pads of the landing struts. Which it was. Luckily, his initial assessment was proving correct, with the majority of the exposed rock moderately level on a horizontal plane, with a slight incline to the west.

Easily compensated for.

A gel-screen flashed a quick burst of technical data and without realizing, and with no one to hear, Banx grunted in approval. No longer concerned about hidden dangers lurking just beyond his ship’s nose, he leaned back, flicking the *Drive Engine Master Kill switch (*as translated), adding an extra moment of scrutiny to make sure it was, in fact, activated and locked, ready for simultaneous engine shut-down.

In an environment such as this little cliff-side paradise, dicking around with main drive shut-down, even at Idle (which he had instinctively eased her into on landing) had the potential to propel a craft, especially one with an unbalanced cargo load, into the nearest unwieldly surface at a rather disagreeable angle and speed, or, in this case, barrel roll it right off the ledge to tumble to an explosive and definitive end down among the ancient lava cylinders.

So, ALWAYS link and lock those drives BEFORE pulling the plug, people!

Nothing more embarrassing than an uppity engine that just doesn’t join in with the others and enthusiastically takes over thrust duties when the other three abruptly go dark, often resulting in death, destruction and many, many insurance claims (both off-world and on)…all because some idiot pilot’s outsized ego has him / her / it believing they are simply the best of the best, and will always be able to perform an engine-by-engine drive-kill quick enough to avoid the pleasures of physics run amok. Too many buttons…too little time.

But no such worries here.

All four engines were core-linked as one and obediently shut down in unison. The grav-rails beneath The Krell went inert, releasing her into Sorobel’s insistent grip, where she settled on the landing strut’s piston-like absorbers.

Banx would swear he could almost feel her sigh with relief as her weight settled.

The icy blue ripples snapping and sputtering within the narrow louvered exhaust ports flared once, brightly…and went dark, leaving only the ticks and creaks of cooling hull plates.

Inside, the low hum died off, the faint, omnipresent buzz through the deck fading away as The Krell settled into *Rest Mode (*as translated), conserving her power.

Beyond the viewscreen, the fading dust was revealing rough, craggy walls and sweep of the majestic (and strangely eerie) landscape, the late afternoon glow highlighting all edges in a shade of gold-leaning-red.

Activating the proximity sensors, Banx rose and hurriedly made his way from the cockpit, snatching up the goggles as he went. Ducking into A Mod, he limped to the hatch, wincing as the bullshit ailing his thigh rudely announced itself, yet again…both sides, yet again…seemingly with equal intensity…yet again.

He depressurized the door seal and toggled the control, stepping back as the hatch slid open with a low hum, abruptly cut short by the rude thump of internal locks activating. As he glared at the door status display, willing all locks secured in the Open position, he absently slipped the E-goggles up onto his brow, where they sat perched, ready to filter, inform, and protect when needed.

There was a last thud as the final hinge-lock engaged, and all reads showed open and secure.

Banx hadn’t even exited The Krell when the first profound difference flashed upon him – that untainted desert breeze, though dusty, dry, and tickling his nose, was mercifully lacking the often-nauseating stenches, scents and odors denoting Life and Industry (and the accompanying waste products) in the Habitable Territories. It washed through the open hatchway, causing his eyes to flutter.

Already, those sweet Sorobellian gases. Aw, yessir!

A ‘true’ mix, a neutral atmosphere in which many species can readily survive, his own included, as recognized and duly noted in the *Agreed Census of Trading Worlds (*as translated), is what this was.

Untainted.

Non-threatening.

So light, yet agreeable out here…not weighed down with the noxious pollutants, outgassing biologicals, and that sour tang of energy seepage he routinely encountered in the port cities of all three worlds he now conducts business with, including ‘Cratered Lands’, so recently left behind.

Speaking of…!

His bladder didn’t nudge this time…it shoved. This was a battle he was not going to win.

With no time to emerge dramatically into this brave new world, he instead found himself getting abruptly reacquainted with Sorobel’s native gravity, as his mad scramble to exit faltered and he stumbled, missing the hovering step-pads that attempted to guide him down, very nearly falling on his ass…while also nearly pissing himself in the process.

Nearly.

Somehow…he managed.

Regaining his balance, Banx frantically scanned the area…before settling on a length of piled sand, curving up a slice of the ‘wall’ nearby.

There was no audience or duty requiring grace, at this point.

He left a haphazard trail of apparel crumpled in his path, feeling like he was experiencing painful new depths of muscle control and self-discipline. His thigh burned mercilessly. He grabbed at the tabs and catches sealing him into the bulky garment, every step feeling slow and clumsy, as though time were stretching cruelly, mocking him.

Banx stumbled to a halt, back turned to The Krell. He leaned in toward the rockface, the crags and shadows a hand’s width from his wide, frantic eyes, the smoothened crystal of his goggle’s lenses threatening contact with the unyielding surface, hastily forgotten as….

Oh, shit…here goes!

The final catch released, the E-suit peeled open to the hips, revealing Banx’s taut, underfed form, clad in a dark under-top that lacked sleeves below the elbow, revealing pale, sinewy arms, the fabric worn here and torn there.

A couple final, frantic adjustments and…!

Relief washed over him in an awesome wave and he leaned in, forehead pressing to the rock face, eyes closed as his body did its thing, mercifully draining. He was unaware of the small easy grin tugging at his lips, framed by the salt and pepper of stubble. Banx would later swear he could feel Sorobel releasing just a little bit of her grip on him…or at least, his guts.

Before he had time to re-open his eyes, to marvel at how completely the powder-fine sand at his spread feet accepted his liquids, a fetid, but familiar odor washed past, causing his nose to wrinkle.

Cracking an eye, he wondered if something recently deceased lay somewhere nearby, previously unnoticed. Some carrion, perhaps?

Then…he realized.

The odor had washed up at him, on that swirl of breeze…and he abruptly came to know that he was the culprit.

He stunk.

He was acutely aware of his own filth overall, abruptly feeling both greasy and coarse, trapped in the too-warm confines of a too-well-used E-suit long ago crudely cut and altered to fit his primitive form, even with it open to his waist, exposing his shirted torso to the dimming, but still warm starlight.

Finishing up, he stepped back, empty sleeves brushing limply at his legs, and pulled the thin sweat-dampened undergarment over his head, instinctively pausing his breath as the soured fabric slipped over, careful not to dislodge the blackened goggles still adorning forehead.

Crammed into a ball, the offensive article flew gracelessly in The Krell’s general direction, instantly forgotten, probably never to be worn again. The breeze tugged at it, loose edges fluttering where it landed.

That same breeze whispered, caressing newly exposed skin, blowing lightly, the feeling exquisite across a scarred back normally suffocated under several protective layers, those various artificial skins that both protect and deprive.

In a momentary flash of boyishness, Banx turned, taking in the sweeping expanse beyond the compact micro-freighter, all bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, a hint of deep blue tinging the fading corona through the upper atmosphere.

Long shadows streaked the plain, twisted shapes pulled and distorted across the unforgiving landscape.

The small recessed panel slid open and Banx thumbed a triangular push-nub within.

B Mod’s under-hatch cycled open, the two halves splitting and drawing smoothly away. Poking his head and shoulders into the shadows, the courier unstrapped the grav-tray and activated the rails, before guiding it and the cargo it carried into the evening light, to again hover over sand and stone.

Seeing what he was looking for, Banx crouched down (goddamn thigh!), undid a couple of the catch-locks lining the tray’s edge and flipped the cargo membrane back, revealing a pregnant sack skinned in some kind of pale, once-scaly hide, smoothed down and stained dark from ages of use, probably through the hands, tentacles and claws of many different owners.

Loosening the reactive close-string, he opened the sack and confirmed the presence of a pair of small, translucent containers; one containing a pink-tinged powder, while the other held a thick grease in dark grey. He pulled them out, carrying them loosely. He reached back into B Mod, other hand, opposite side.

He came away with a flattened framework of what could be mistaken for resin-reinforced bone, with a dull metallic-like material stretched across the open sections, appearing pliable. A quick turn of a tiny marked dial and the frame work sprang open with a quick succession of dry clicking sounds, to form a free-standing apparatus of variously angled flat surfaces, with one appearing to serve as a seat, with the other some manner of back support.

It was more comfortable than it looked.

Placing it on a flattened section of rock beside The Krell’s forward landing strut, he gently placed the containers upright on the seat. He straightened, pausing…before shedding the heavy boots, using one of the scuffed absorbers for balance, grimacing as he fought to keep his balance.

Like the primitive slug-chucker and his well-worn armored vest, with its coarse webbing of material forming all manner of rough pouches and pockets, the footwear was another remnant of the Times Before.

He’d had these invaluable items for as long as he can remember. They’ve been repaired and revamped over countless rotations, by many in the ‘trades’ spread through several different systems, by those he’d encountered in the turbulent times since his…release.

 Or ‘escape’…depending on who you ask.

These ‘boots’ (he knew their name…just didn’t know how, or why) were originally a dull black, almost grey, of some kind of tough hide-like-material, with a formed curve of primitive metal protecting the upper foot, the dull shine of which was showing through several tattered rends in the long-worn material, offset by differing shades of repair epoxies, the original coloration long faded from use, abuse and reinforcement.

There had once been a thin cord-like material running through two symmetrical lines of holes, as a rudimentary form of movement security or garment fitting. Those had disintegrated long ago and, somewhere along the way, small oblong securement tabs, with red centers of magnetic *Attractant Jelly (*as translated), had been added, three to a boot.

These released with a faint *click* at the prompt of a finger. The modified footwear plunked heavily to the ground, with one flopping over as though giving up and dying.

The beleaguered courier could relate. But he wasn’t done yet.

The clammy, wrinkled soles of his bare, long-booted feet came down gently on the warm stone and Banx allowed his eyes, already heavy as the stress of the day began seeping off, to drift shut, turning his face to the breeze, noting the cold smears along his flanks, and in the small of his back, shrinking, mercifully drying away.

It was then that he became acutely aware of the large quiet around him, the hugeness of it, the encroaching volume of natural silence…only the hissing hush of the cooling winds swirling around and over his small ship, to nip at the insanity-inducing stillness of this wasteland.

Even the comforting *ticks* and *tocks* of her engine housings cooling had faded away.

Wriggling his stubby digits, darkened with grit and toughened with wear, he stretched and clenched, relishing the coarseness of sand particles under skin woefully ill-exposed to the elements for the last several rotations, while also inwardly grumbling about the ankle that decided to ache and stiffen as he’d pulled that boot free, as though the pain had been secured within, content to leave him be, only to cruelly flare to life when set loose, when exposed to the elements.

More maddening bullshit.

But…

Pushing past, this is what he’d been waiting for, noting the warmth of the early Korlaxen star-down blooming across his toes.

But…he wasn’t done yet.

Forcing his eyes open, Banx turned, ducking half-nude back under The Krell, easy grin erased by that nagging sting lancing at him again, crouching at the grav-tray where it hovered patiently. He began to sort and choose, pulling items into the light and separating them, while others were carefully discarded, repacked in among the other shadowy purchases and acquisitions.

Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, he was relieved to note that he could still see the entirety of the Sphere of K, the ball of burning orange hovering over the wide horizon, the rounded edges shimmering red in the residual heat of the day. He turned back, further narrowing the choices before him.

A quick scan, a cursory inventory of the goods beside the front landing strut and he nodded, smirking with satisfaction, allowing himself to feel just a little more confident about the execution of his plan, thus far.

It was time.

Stepping defiantly back into the star’s glow, Banx went about shedding the rest of the E-suit, carefully pulling the defaced lower section over the wound and down the leg, grimacing and bitching under his breath the whole time. He yanked impatiently when the material bunched, instantly regretting it as a gleaming orb of fresh red welled up within the gory channel, pushing through stained flesh and scorched skin, escaping as a dark oily tendril snaking down his leg.

Shaking his head, Banx couldn’t help but to chuckle as he yanked the fabric free, though with very little humor…

“Aw, this is bullshit, man!”

The suit, moist and fragrant, landed in a heap beside a case of *Galaxy-Friendly Meal Gels (*as translated), slowly flattening under its own weight, the freshly smeared blood already clotting in the shadowed folds, adding to the various stains adorning the tough fabric, inside and out.

The lightly swirling breeze and the comforting rays of the Korlaxan star washed over, caressing areas seemingly long forgotten by his touch…or anyone else’s, for that matter. Only a crudely cut loin-cloth separated the rest of his human form from the cleansing wash of filtered solar pulses.

Hooking his thumbs into the corded line serving as a drawstring for the undergarment, he paused, a long dormant awareness surfacing unannounced, freezing him in place, something from the fog of the Time Before.

He knew its name…Embarrassment…but he didn’t know why. He was literally the only living thing for as far as he, and The Krell’s bank of basic proximity sensors, knew. And as for his species, those whose opinions might be meant to matter, whatever and where-ever they may be…he was certainly out of range of the judging eyes of their ilk.

But this abrupt feeling…this momentary frightful awareness of being observed, of being seen, when unclothed and, thus, vulnerable, felt…instinctive…like some poised muscle memory programmed for self-preservation.

A furtive scan around dispelled any notions of impending humiliation or ridicule, so Banx went for it, stripping the last grimy garment away in a quick, definitive motion. The flimsy, once-grey article, that he half-suspected he should just burn and remake, sailed into the shadows, landing unceremoniously on the E-suit.

In this moment, despite the space-faring trappings of his current so-called life, Banx felt primitive.

Simple.

Almost raw…yet, also, one with the Cosmos; tiny yet connected.

His nudity, bolstered by the surrounding threat of the arid landscape’s vast loneliness, accentuated the sensation and he stepped forward, arms outstretched, welcoming and willing the fading rays to wash over him, to bathe him, to attack those itches and spots dotting his pale, suffering skin, to absorb that which his biology craved.

Seeing a flattened spot nearby, he sidled over, lowering the opaque lenses of his goggles into place, setting the filter with a gentle tap, careful of his stiff ankle as he moved.

The sting marring his inner thigh soon downshifted under the loving touch of the solar rays, as he sat poised on the low flat rock, eyes closed within the safe confines of the goggles. Long shrouded bits n pieces were turned to the setting sun, those pale appendages spread obscenely, taking in as much as possible, when he noticed the sudden drop in temperature.

Raising his head, he blinked as the auto-filter further down-shifted, a quick flurry of barely perceptible flashes, settling on the darkest shading. With the starlight dimmed artificially, he could see little more than half of the Sphere showing above the inky horizon, details lost to the unprotected eyes in the last glare of day. Another chill unexpectedly flavoured the next breeze and a prickly wave across exposed skin shook him awake, calling fresh attention to his unclothed state and reminding him that night was approaching.

In competition for his attention, his stomach gurgled uncomfortably, hunger re-announcing itself.

Groaning, he picked himself up to trudge back to The Krell. Pausing just beyond the ship’s long dark shadow, he marveled at the warmth emanating from his exposed skin, select patches taking on a pink hue, slight tingles. The wet sting plaguing his thigh had been replaced by a dull tightness…better, but certainly still an annoyance.

The wound had an ugly tightness of its own, only it was a tightness that threatened to release, to tear, to spew, with just the wrong move, the wrong twist.

“Fucking Klinn! You alien scum assholes! Why today?!”.

He had more of his strange native curses, probably far more witty, loaded and ready to go, but he shunted them aside.

It was time to put certain purchases to work.

In one move, he scooped the two vials from the seating apparatus.

To compliment the healing factors of the Sphere’s fading rays, he applied a generous dosing of the fine pink power to the tortured skin marring his undercarriage, wincing as a sharp tingle marking the powder’s generous healing-factor washed over…and under. It faded quickly as the anesthetic properties, derived from the blood of a local species of flora, one of the more aggressively prickly varieties, gently but firmly took over, saving the day.

For the first time in two passings of Ghex, there was no need to curse the sensitive outer hide of his native species, whatever that species may be (he had suspicions, but wasn’t sure.).

Money well spent.

He nodded absently, certain stresses washed away, points of tension he hadn’t noticed…till they were gone. He allowed his quiet thanks to mingle with the light airy waves of relief that tickled his innards and lightened his mind.

He sighed heavily, suddenly exhausted. The next part wouldn’t be so fun.

The grey putty that he gingerly scooped onto a finger from the other vial had a musty smell, like old dust from an old engine. Banx hadn’t wanted to put out the extra credits, but his recent close encounter with a badly-aimed beam weapon had made it extra necessary, it seemed.

And yes, it did hurt, like a bitch actually, when he took a gulping breath, forcing himself on, and smeared it into the charred rip in his thigh; angry pinks and reds mingling within the damage. Gritting his teeth he continued, fresh beads of crimson pushing back, dewing through the lighter spots and smearing under his roving fingers. Applying extra pressure, and a larger dollop of the thick herbal concoction (specially shipped in from one of the outer moons), the tearing of flesh he feared was coming came, and he felt it tear.

Acutely.

The container didn’t shatter when it hit the clump of sand beside the landing strut, impacting with a dull thud that left it jutting out at an angle, upright, the lid nowhere to be seen. He’d paid good scratch for that healing compound…but that shot…no…burst…of pain, and the accompanying spurt of blood, erased that consideration and sent the small, translucent container flying, instantly forgotten as he gripped the wound with both hands, swearing loudly, the crude words again lost to the horizon.

The new tendril of red, warm and wet, seeped down his leg on the same path as the previous, pissing him off further.

Throwing his hands up in exasperation, he let himself fall into the embrace of the seat, which caught his weight with barely a sound, defying its rickety appearance. Letting the bleed slow down on its own, Banx sunk down as he forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly, willing the pain away. It seemed to work, as the sharpness dulled, leaving only that unnerving tightness of clotting blood on skin and…

What the hell was that?!

Something small flickered across the horizon, out past the edge of the cylinder fields, a flattened blur backdropped by the deep red of fading starlight, only a sliver of actual star still showing. But it was enough. There had been a fleeting gleam off a metallic surface, further betraying the unidentified flying object as it sped silently across the distance.

There was a new feeling in his gut, something tense, something anticipatory. Something unsettlingly familiar. For a moment, there was fear, deep fear, like a crackling shot of lightning in his mind, more memory than imagination, instantly unsettled on fight or flight…

‘They’re back!?! Please no! Not again! How’d they find…?!’

He shook the nonsensical reaction aside. No one was coming back…to take him back, to anything…right?

The tiny craft, a dark speck, almost beyond the limits of his sight, abruptly came to halt, where it hovered unmoving, a spot poised just above the horizon.  

Banx turned and hurriedly limped over to the crumpled E-suit, grabbing, searching clumsily for one pocket in particular, trying to ignore the sour residual funk of his own creation as he pulled and patted the dirty garment.

The small mono-glass automatically defogged as it sensed the warmth of his approaching eye, the protective coat melting away at he spun back, raising it. Rotating several mounted rings running the length of the cylindrical instrument brought the horizon into focus and, after a quick reference check, he located the hovering invader.

It was a metallic disk, skinned in dull grey, a boxy attachment mounted flush to one flank. There was a faint blue flickering below it. Coming into focus, Banx could see it pivoting, the boxy addition slipping out of sight as the craft’s front end came around, stopping when it was facing him.

It continued to hover, silent at this distance.

From this range, Banx couldn’t see the craft’s low cockpit, but then again…he didn’t need to. He knew who the owner / operator was…and smirked to himself, congratulating those instincts that had quietly predicted that he wasn’t done with this fellow traveler yet.

It was then that the craft, that pinpoint in the distance, flashed – very clearly, two strobes of brilliantly sharp green.

Banx dropped the monocular to his chest, instinctively stepping backward. He knew what was coming…

“Aw Deev, not again!”

The disk vanished from the horizon, a flashing swirl of purple and green angrily marking the spot in the fading light, dull through the haze of distance.

Here it comes!

The tranquil evening view – the vista of blackened cylinder fields, the long comforting smear of golden red marking the horizon, abruptly vanished in a piercing green flash. The cracking *bang* of a sudden pressure wave punched the air. The disk warped in, abruptly appearing just off the ledge, still facing…only a helluva lot closer!

Squinting, Banx ducked back, using the landing strut’s cowling against the stinging waft of sand that shock-waved past. As quickly as it came…it went…and he cautiously stole a glance around.

The disk’s pilot had lightened his viewscreen and Banx could make out the small, bipedal-looking being, clad in a silvery one-piece coverall, poised within. He was still too far to make out face or feature, but he could tell by the body language – Deev was laughing his ass off.

He muttered…

“Ok. You wanna dick around?”

…and strode out defiantly, full frontal nudity be damned, jamming both fists disk-ward, middle fingers extended. He knew it was a rude gesture, somehow…but he didn’t know why. But it seemed abruptly and entirely appropriate right now…and the disk’s chortling pilot seemed to get the message. That, or the sight of Banx and his collection of sun-kissed fleshy bits was off-putting enough to force a surrender. A sick end to a sick joke.

Either was possible.

Banx could just make out the raised appendage, the quick open palm of acceptance, of mock apology…but the little shithead was still laughing.

Banx just shook his head, accepting his own little defeat…Deev is going to ’Deev’…. and with some quick universal hand gestures, he directed the fellow courier overhead. The cut-out was already tighter than he’d normally be cool with for just The Krell, and Deev seemed to land on a similar conclusion.

The disk, with its glowing grav-ring highlighting its underside, drifted over and away, a faint hum marking its passage before it vanished from sight, seeking landing real estate elsewhere, the view severed by the craggy walls of Banx’s cliff-side refuge. A light charge, smelling dry in an already dry place, hung in the air…gone moments later.

Only the breeze remained.

Banx had no illusions about how his last evening on Sorobel was going to go, not now.

This might hurt.

It certainly had before.

Now, it was just a question of When – when would the diminutive villain arrive to inflict more pain and suffering upon him? Having not seen the other courier’s touch-down, he had no idea how and when he might turn up, or how he would do it.

He needed to prepare, couldn’t afford to be caught in the open.

Most of the star was now gone from the horizon.

Banx made his way to the grav-tray and rooted around, finding one dull-colored container among the rest. From within, he pulled a fresh undergarment loin-cloth, it’s edges and seams ragged, but overall clean and dry. Slipping them on, he noted the tingle of residual sun on his more…delicate…areas, but had to admit that there was comfort in covering up, as another chilled gust swirled past.

From the same container came a light outer-garment, custom-tailored to fit his lower half, only extending to just below his knees, leaving his lower legs exposed to the elements. Something told him this was called ‘shorts’…but he didn’t know why. He just knew they were surprisingly comfortable, given how little to them there was.

Long ago, someone or something (he couldn’t remember which…could’ve been either) implanted a small device (for lack of a better term), grafting a minute rectangle of flexible material onto an inner curve of cartilage just within his right ear, his dominant side. This was what he came to know as a *Basic Translator Patch (*as translated). This tiny piece of cheap tech from one of the further outlying worlds was able to interpret most of the common tongues used throughout the system, employing learned elements from within his own psyche to craft relatable terms and inflections, to further communication and understanding among the various species.

Such as now, as a voice, purring and chime-like out among the rocks, somewhat male, even-toned and focused on all the wrong syllables, rang out…

“*Greetings, you ambulating science experiment! You about to bathe in your own body waste? Your kind always does.”

(*as translated)

The patch didn’t need much help conveying the mocking edge to the high, clear tone that rang down at him from the overlooking rock face, interpreted into his hearing through the alien tech.

The response spilled forth as Banx emerged from under the ship, glaring up at the figure poised above…

“Oh no, no. That, I’m saving for you, pal. All you.”

In the fading light, Deev was more shape than being, clad in the weather-blasted cape he’d been sporting at the docks, hood up, features masked again. Hanging motionless beside him was a perfect sphere of metallic grey, the last of the setting sun gleaming off the skin with little enthusiasm, back-dropped by long smears of thin cloud and the evening’s first stars. Quickly estimating, Banx figured the hovering orb would stand roughly half his height at ground level. It was the same dull shade as Deev’s ship.

The hood cocked toward the hovering ball, jerking oh so slightly downward. Without a sound, Deev slipped forward, gliding out over the rocky edge, standing upright as he drifted gracefully toward the waiting human, hovering in on a flattened oval that looked poured, not constructed, booted appendages hidden within, controlling the device. The sphere followed obediently without a sound.

Deev came to a gentle halt and stepped off, pulling the hood back in one move…

“*As primitive as ever. Charming too.”

Deev was what Banx had eventually come to know as a ‘Zii’.

The Zii were a far-flung species of bipedal beings of small stature but incredible intelligence and technology, with many different variants dotting the galaxy.

As the light fell on the smooth curve of Deev’s rounded skull, the large, intelligent eyes, the small dark slit of a mouth, Banx had a flash…

‘Grey’

He couldn’t fathom why this term would skip through his mind, seeing Deev unveiled. He knew that ‘grey’ was a common colour, as an obvious mix of opposing shades, as known in his native tongue. This required no thought. Examples were everywhere, in every shade imaginable, generally unworthy of note.

But why he instinctively classified Deev – ‘grey’, was beyond him…because his fellow courier wasn’t grey.

He was black. 

Deev’s variant came to maturity long, long ago, in a system whose solar proximity and long, multi- generational exposure to cosmic energies resulted in a natural toughening and tanning of the nearby Zii population’s outer hide.

The Zii were ancient and through time, they genetically splintered, based on the varying worlds they settled over thousands of cycles as a space-faring race. Deep wisdom and expansive knowledge dominated the Zii cultures but a few, just a few, added another useful trait to their lineage – Battle.

Intellectual enlightenment got the Zii only so far…they had long ago discovered, as some races out there proved either dangerously aggressive or dangerously stupid (or dangerously both) when the Zii, a naturally curious and enlightened species, risked first contact.

Deev’s species was one such variant.

If you knew what to look for, omitting the impressive skin tone, you could see it in the comparatively stocky build, in the subtly steely musculature and, circumstances permitting, in the…ahem…extras, that he kept tucked away in keeping with a strict cultural decree. Holstered, if you will. Predominantly the Zii were a slightly framed race, therefore Deev physically stood out among other variants of his own.

For a split second, Banx marveled at the circles of faint purple luminescence dominating the wide slanted eye sockets, the ring of brilliant white marking the pupil’s circumference within as their eyes met.

This meant the Zii was in a good mood. If those rings darken or worse, vanish…watch out.

Deev stopped. He was shorter in height but graceful in even the most simple of movements, slipping a fingered appendage forward, sideways, three long digits and a thumb extended in a clear gesture of greeting that Banx found instantly relatable.

He barely remembered the first time, as nark’d on ‘haze’ as they’d been, when he’d suddenly had a flash, an episode – thrusting an open hand at his shit-faced fellow courier, at that dock-side cantina / mechanics bay that one time (he also didn’t know the word he’d blurted out either – “Howdy!”). He never did recall what prompted the gesture (or the exclaimed word) that first time, all those cycles ago.

The three heated globes of hazed *Dancing Galaxy resin (*as translated) may have contributed as well.

He took the digits into his own, shaking with enthusiasm that somehow felt practiced.

The dry skin was smooth in one direction, almost silky, yet rough the other, causing another strange word to lightning through Banx’s mind – shark.

No idea what that might be…but it didn’t sound good. He knew he knew the word…but didn’t know why. It was gone as quickly as it arrived, leaving the briefest of mental strobes in its wake: bubbles frothing red…a long muscular body slipping through darkness…a towering fin…serrated teeth in a wide gaping maw…ancient fear. Then…gone, as though never known.

He shivered…but didn’t know why.

Deev’s own mouth; small, dark and almost lipless against the other exaggerated features, barely moved, the courier speaking eloquently from the throat…

“Howdy!”

Banx grinned, then chuckled…he couldn’t help it.

There was something in how the Zii spouted the odd word that the translator patch in his ear interpreted as ‘enthusiasm’, or even ‘excitement’. A translation wasn’t needed, with Deev trying out the strange greeting in Banx’s native tongue, mimicking the tone with a chime-like edge.  

Banx clenched a fist…

“Howdy back…you slipping little bastard.”

Deev pulled up short, feigning shock with a condescending air of theatricality. With an open palm pressed to his chest, wide eyes now cartoonish, he protested…

“*Slip? Did…I? I don’t recall any tele-slips recently. Uncanny. Are you surely positive of this vicious, unfounded accusation?”

With that, the Zii leaned in, the large eyes narrowing, luminescent bands dimming, a threat oh so slight.

Not intimidated, Banx mirrored the smaller beings movement, meeting the narrowed eyes with narrowed eyes of his own.

Deev’s ocular rings flashed, his version of a defeated chuckle, and he straightened up, open palms held upright.

“*OK, OK…yes. There’s a smallest of chances a ‘slip’ may have transpired recently…from WAY over there…and…”

Banx finishes for him, shaking the fist…

“…and almost knocked me on my ass, prick!”

Banx’s arm relaxes, drops, fingers again hanging loose, the growl absent from his voice, curiosity taking over…

“How the hell did you find me?”

Deev gestured off-handedly toward The Krell…

“*Thrusters that old…develop specific exhaust patterns. Recall?”

Banx didn’t, but Deev continued…

“*I had your pattern logged in my recognizer last time and simply scanned the exit corridor I figured you’d be using, based on where I saw you ambulating for at the docks.”

So much for a low profile.

Banx nodded slowly, his own display of mild defeat…

“Well…be that as it may…since you’re here…”

He stepped aside, opening the rocky path to his vessel, one hand sweeping over the vista dramatically, his tone brightening as he turned…

“…let’s get to it! Please allow for my vessel’s hospitality.”

This last line was an old dock-hopper tradition, in the vein of Permission to Board, from the water vessels of old, from a home-world wiped from the human’s memory. Not required…but universally appreciated.

There was a whisper of formality in his delivery, a hint of due diligence.

Permission granted, no ask required. It’s simply the hospitable thing to do.

Plus, should a vessel have a particularly aggressive alert system, this line from an Owner / Operator also universally serves to log the visiting party as Safe and Acceptable for Approach. Stand down the beams and boomers!

But who are we kidding…Banx had no such system. But he’d long ago learned the value of learning one or two of the traditions colouring the cultures out here.

Case in point.

Deev’s next blink took a moment longer than usual, taking in the half-assed pageantry of Banx’s gesture…

“*Truly? Again?! As though I’ve never played witness to this clunky dung before?”

Undeterred, Banx again made another dramatic sweep, again not-really revealing The Krell and the darkened landscape beyond, mouth pursed shut defiantly.

The Zii scoffed, gesturing at the silvery orb hovering patiently nearby, and strode forward toward the clunky piece of dung’s nose. The sphere slipped forward, gliding after the smug little bastard as he moved along.

As the orb came between them, the Zii’s chiming voice rang back…

“*It’s very You – clunky, like you…primitive, like you…on the verge of breaking down, like…”

Deev turned smoothly, gesturing back, signaling for the final, deprecating word…

Banx didn’t take the bait, tagging on…

“…your bulbous skull, when I go full primitive…and bash it in with a rock.”

There was a high squeal of glee and Deev’s eyes flared…

“*Oh, I’ve missed your kind, Banx! That raw effortless savagery, that deeply inherent blood-lust. So fascinating to see in the wild.”

Deev kept going, the sphere right behind, The Krell within reach.

“You accompanying, you simple beast? Or am I feasting alone?”

Banx instantly perked up, chuckling as he stepped forward, trying to dredge up a zinger. However, any chances of a decent comeback were abruptly dashed by loose rock underfoot, stumbling him, lending fresh pain to an already pained ankle.

Before he could mentally berate himself, and the planet for being in his way, there was a new tearing sensation at his thigh, stinging wetly as balance proved elusive. All vision blurred as tears sprang forth – the pain, that moist pulling, sickened him in an instant, churning his warm innards. The shadowy blur that was the rocky ground threatened to race up at him as his head swam, wobbling him in place.

Then…he was steady. Or, more accurately…steadied.

Banx looked over with heavy eyes, surprised to see Deev at his side, oddly strong hands and arms supporting him unseen, keeping him upright. Half-lidded human eyes met their large Zii counterparts, the rings darkened by concern.

“*Well, well, Science Experiment…what have you done to yourself?”

Trying to shake the fog that threatened his mind, Banx gestured at his thigh, muttering…

“Got jumped. Outside the docks. Before I saw you.”

Despite the stature, Deev proved a highly effective support, gently angling Banx around, the small but stocky alien guiding the limping simian along.

The seating apparatus protested with a mild creak as Deev smoothly lowered Banx into place. The human allowed his weight to settle, cautiously extending the wounded limb, trying to minimize any further tissue damage, while also lightening the load on the tender ankle. He grimaced.

Deev, satisfied with the seating position, straightened up. As he did so, the last glimpse of the star vanished behind the far horizon, leaving only a dim orange glow. Stars glittered overhead.

Fishing a small dark cylinder from a membranous side-pouch clasped to his seat, Banx ran a quick sequence of finger strokes over the barely-visible control nubs. The Krell’s dim exterior service lamps, flush mounted along the ship’s underside, activated, casting a murky yellow glow, a couple sputtering spastically before brightening with the others.

Zii eyes flashed, amusement hinted through the translator…

“*Have those lamps EVER been cleaned? Dare I say, your vessel looks positively ill. Most unbecoming.”

Banx smirked, good-naturedly, flicking a piece of grit away…

“Not ill enough to keep your ass away.”

Deev’s hands extended out imploringly, the long fingers reaching toward him…

“*But how could I be expected to stay away…when I come bearing gifts.”

With that, he pivoted toward the hovering orb. A hand came to rest on the curved top and the alien looked up, a fresh flash in the eyes. If Deev hit any type of control on the smooth surface, Banx didn’t notice.

What he did notice was the hovering ball of dull silver abruptly shifting, changing shape, sectioning and separating. A portion under the long, delicate fingers broke free without a sound, shifting under the outstretched digits into a flattened horizontal rectangle, still holding the dim shade. This, he guided to his mid-body, where he stopped. The featureless plank of shifting metal hung in the air obediently.

A section of the surface sunk inward, leaving an oval opening with smoothened edges. A soft pink light glowed within. Deev stepped over and leaned inward, half of the shorter, stockier body vanishing into the warm illumination.

Unseen, he spoke again…

“*But first…let’s get you mended.”

When the Zii reemerged, he held a flattened orb of shiny black material in both hands. With this, he approached. Banx’s eyes left the jar-like container only when Deev stopped before him, rising to meet the glowing rings staring down.

There was a hinted question in the quick cock of a human eyebrow…a question that went unanswered. Instead, Deev shifted the jar to a single appendage and with the other, performed a quick circular motion, a digit extended horizontally. The lid-like top vanished. There, then gone. Within was the smoothened surface of what appeared to be a deep yellow paste. Or was it a powder? From where he sat, Banx couldn’t tell.

Deev met the human’s strained gaze again, gesturing toward the wound.

In that moment, Banx decided to trust the shifty little alien bastard, as he had no reason not to trust him. At least, not yet.

Sure, Deev was crafty, a pranking pain in the ass at times, the lil prick…but Banx had never known him to threaten or impose.

Again…not yet.

Besides…this shit hurt like hell and he was done with it.

Banx drew up the tattered shorts leg, gingerly revealing the scorched rend in his thigh meat. Fascinated, Deev’s eyes flashed as he crouched down in one smooth movement, leaning in to study the damage, just a little too studious. A little too enthusiastic. For a second…Banx thought Deev might actually bite him.

He didn’t.

Leaning back, Banx gestured to The Krell looming over them…

“Sterilizer? I have an old one onboard that I was…”

Deev didn’t look up, merely waving the rest of the sentence away with his free appendage.

That appendage then pulled a small shard of dark material from…somewhere, and activated it. A blue indicator flashed twice within and Deev pressed it toward the ailing limb.

Banx watched with quiet fascination as the Zii carefully traced around the wound, a dim red hue pulsing within the device as he did. There was no sensation, no additional sting.

Completing the circuit, Deev raised it, toggling a hidden nub. The air between human and Zii flashed – a haphazard scattering of symbols and pictograms abruptly hanging before them in a brilliant blue, odd pieces of blown grit glinting among the hanging characters when the breeze caressed its way over them.

Banx couldn’t make out meaning, but Deev seemed intent, the holographic glow of the information reflected in the wide, studying eyes. A moment later, the hologram disappeared, and then the device disappeared, back to where ever it came from.

“*No contamination…yet. Looks like a good bit of tissue damage, both surface and internal, but not deep. There’s a bit of chewed up musculature, but hopefully this primitive flesh suit will tend to that on its own.”

Deev straightened up as he delivered this quick report. Holding the container forward for a cursory inspection, he continued…

“*This is K’licks’n Persh, a healing solution I found outer-system on my first chartered long-haul and it’s most agreeable for basic life-forms. It will help.”

Banx held his answer a moment longer than necessary, momentarily fascinated by the image of the black-skinned Zii with large glowing eyes brandishing a small jar at him, backdropped by the deepening starfield overhead.

He snapped out of it, a fresh query intruding. But, before the question could spill forth, Deev was answering…

“And yes, it also took measure of your base compatibility – perfectly suited for that primordial species of yours. Perhaps even too good.  Sometimes…simplicity DOES help, yes?”

Banx grunted, ignoring the dig, pondering this information.  A moment hung between them…till he shrugged, open palms again thrown up in mock defeat…

“Just so long as it does NOT eat my goddamn leg away, or anything even remotely un-healthy like that, yeah? Today’s been bad enough.”

Deev’s eyes flashed, another chuckle.

“*As exciting as thatwould be to witness on this pleasant evening…sadly, no. You will barely notice it.”

With that, he leaned in, a thin flattened instrument of dark material dipping forward. The ointment seemed more viscous than Banx was expecting, a thick translucent drop threatening to plummet from the end of the utensil as Deev gently but smoothly moved it to the wound, no wasted movements as he mercilessly applied a thick dollop, efficiently packing it in in one shot.

Banx was fascinated, eyes riveted to the proceedings, until…

“Yeow! Holy shit!”

It burned. A lot. It was rather like being shot all over again, just in slow motion this time.

Barely notice it, my ass!

Banx stiffened as fire seemed to shoot through the wound, hot on contact, pulsing through.

Shit! Was this off-world putty was going to devour him from the thigh, finish the job those Klinn assholes started?!

Make him pay for his sins?!

All for this Zii’s sick amusement?!

However, just as the burning neared ‘agonizing’ status, right around the time he was discovering a new disdain for the Zii species as a whole, it faded, dialing down to a warm vigorous tingling that Banx didn’t find completely unpleasant. He exhaled, a deep sigh, his hunched shoulders dropping.

Deev packed the last of the ointment in, slathering the shallow valley of angry scorched gore, ignoring the comical contortions twisting the human’s face, before straightening up and stepping away, eyes never leaving the human, be it concern or amusement.

Or maybe both. Concerned amusement.

A moment passed, then Banx asked…

“And…now what now?”

The Zii cocked his head, eye rings flashing…

“*Now?”

With that, the shorter one about-faced and silently beckoned to the hovering orb, the soft pink glow comforting against the dark curtain of the desert night. As the sphere obediently drifted forward, the inward glow faded down to darkness. It wasn’t gone long, fading back to life as the containment vessel slowed to a stop beside Deev’s hovering seat. The ointment vanished somewhere inside and when the Zii’s hands emerged back into the polluted glow of the service lamps, each held a cube, roughly 2 hands x 2 hands, with smoothened edges. Both hang from open palms, unfastened, seemingly weightless. The Zii raised both for the human’s perusal, holding a moment, then lowering…

“*NOW…we two lowly conveyors of the goods of others…shall feast like beasts.”

Banx liked this idea, glad he’d anticipated and prepared for the possibility. Out of nowhere, he abruptly clapped his open hands, rubbing the dry palms them together with what he could only, and instinctively, describe as ‘glee’.

He’d never done that before (as far as he knew), it just happened, unprompted…just like the handshake…just like ‘Howdy’.

An unsettled ripple passed through; a quick jolt, a mental shiver that he manifested physically. But this faded, leaving the unexpected action feeling oddly…natural. He separated and dropped hands, replacing the gesture with another easy grin as he watched his fellow dock-hopper place the containers on a low, wind-smoothened ledge near The Krell’s forward gear. Hands empty, Deev slipped gracefully back to the hovering curve of dull silver, one side edged in warm illumination.

The leg was feeling better already.

“I like that style of yours, Deev. Always have…always will. Let’s do it.”

With a facial tic that passed for the Zii variant of a smirk, Deev went back to rooting around in the orb’s innards. As he was fiddling, he posed another question to the human seated behind him, innocent enough…

“*You off-worlding soon?”

Banx nodded, unconsciously biting his lower lip, caution in the response he held back…for an extra moment…

“That’s the plan. Next star rise.”

When no other information was forthcoming, the glow of Deev’s staring eyes caught Banx’s attention, wide and scrutinizing…for just an extra moment, a lingering question unasked.

The moment hung heavily between them.

Banx gave in, lightly bobbing his head as he spoke…

“Grabbing a hot charter on Likon, Southern Sector. Tiered priority. Good money on a straight run.”

Deev rose again, several shiny objects of differing hues held lightly, trading the warm illumination of the sphere’s innards for the dirty yellow of The Krell’s exterior lighting as he stepped away, dropping into another crouch. He made no sound. His one-piece garment barely creased.  As he placed them in a set pattern behind the waiting containers, the curious Zii ventured a guess…

“*The Settled Di’Vash? Outside the Crevasse of Craters?”

It was Banx’s turn to smirk, and he did so with deliberate exaggeration, shaking his head at the erroneous guess…

“Nice try, but not this time. Client is staging out of The Maintenance Collective, above the Shard Plains.”

Deev’s irises flared again, a muscular strain showing beneath the large eye sockets, a quick twitch of the matte-black skin as he locked his gaze on his companion. There was a pause, then Deev leaned in, oh so slightly, again seeming to study for another moment, again for too long…

“*Have you ever chartered out of The Collective before? Have you ever even been there?”

Banx’s translator caught the hint of apprehension in Deev’s chime-like voice, but he tried to put it aside…

“No. First time run. But, the client was recommended, business decorated and recorded by the Guild.”

Deev abruptly offered up a Zii version of a cynical grunt…

“*And you accepted that?”

Banx was now uncertain, his voice’s volume lowering, confidence trickling…

“I mean…so far, yeah, I guess so.”

Before Deev could press, or worse, lecture, Banx pounced…

“I know, I know…I’ve heard the talk before. But this one came through The Channels, very few registered turn-downs before I got to it.”

Deev took this answer, quietly digesting, mulling it as he performed a quick series of deft moves with his long, delicate-looking fingers over the new objects. Banx was distracted for a moment as the featureless shapes morphed into what he soon recognized as a sustenance preparation apparatus, fashioned in the typical Zii shape-shifting tech.

Likely mass produced. Likely expensive.

If you’ve seen one…you’ve seen them all.  

In moments, warm pulses rose into the night from what was evidently a flattened cooking pad, a low hum from the shiny element. Satisfied with the device’s operation, Deev performed a simple gesture over each of the round containers poised before it. The upper sections melted away, various edible delicacies revealed.

There was a twinge at the base of Banx’s jaw, precious saliva generated anew. Another hungry gurgle from somewhere around his core joined in as a troubling lightness bloomed just behind his eyes, just for a dizzying moment.

Those spices…!

Clarity returned.

Deev lowered himself back down, apparently unaffected by the savoury tang he’d unleashed into the desert air, another question coming suddenly…

“*Any surety granted? Down payment perhaps? Maybe even a drafted charter with YOUR ship’s name on it this time?”

Banx had learned that particular lesson the hard way, many cycles back. And Deev just couldn’t let…it…go. The human’s retort was immediate. A threatening finger jabbed non-threateningly to punctuate…

“Yessir, yes indeed. Actually…an endorsed work charter, an open line of pre-transport credit, smartass, which, yes, I’ve already dipped into.”

He was just smugly leaning back when he lurched back up, ready for pain but only feeling a quick, vigorous tingle, snapping his fingers into one last jab at the quietly amused Zii…

“AND a confirmed berth reservation…inside the Collective.”

When Deev paused, pondering the potential validity of this newly yielded information, Banx turned it around, the jabbing finger abruptly replaced by an open palm held imploringly between the two couriers, miming the forthcoming inquiry…

 “And you? Land a good pay?”

With a dismissive gesture in the darkened direction of his unseen ship and a low chirp of disgust from his narrow throat, Deev chimed back, his tone subdued, irises moodily dimming, betraying a shift…

“*I’m assuming you noted that unsightly new addition to my conveyance?”

Banx had, and he already had a theory.

And did this translator just translate a hint of…a whiff of…dare I say it…shame?

He let the Zii continue…

“*A few cycles back, not long after we encountered last, a handsome fare presented, most unexpected…that I had to turn down in the end, it grieves me to recall. Cargo mass violation, given the regulated storage size I was utilizing. But not by much, and therein lies the insult. But still…”

Banx nodded, pursing his lips, stifling a mocking smirk…

“I hadn’t wanted to ask, but since you…”

Deev waved him quiet, continuing…

“*That charter was so very needed. It was to be so very compensating. And I committed. And then…I calculated.”

Eyebrows arched sharply as this particular detail sank in, leading Banx to ponder – Deev was highly intelligent…but that…was fucking stupid. He oversold and chartered up to land the fare…and THEN discovered that he couldn’t actually haul the cargo. Whoops.

Embarrassing.

In the Zii culture, the obsessive pursuit of inter-stellar acceptance, and the embrace of deep cosmic understanding, fostering positive interspecies interaction that furthered relations beyond themselves, equal parts business and intellectual, was an achievement always worth achieving. It never devalued.

However, in relation to the ‘business’ aspect, such interactions are only viewed positively upon completion of the resulting fare. Once committed, there’s a cultural obligation, an unspoken acceptance of basic terms. To back out after that…not good. There are reputations to consider.

Banx could see where this story was going, only getting to mutter…

“Oh…no.”

…before Deev continued, irises flashing at the memory…

“*Oh…yes indeed. So…I scoured the nearest Parts Rest, a dingey spot to be sure, only finding that travesty that now mars my conveyance like a primitive disease.”

Responding to the moment of light suspense he suddenly felt, Banx had to ask…

“And? Did you land the prospect?!”

Deev’s eyes darkened, the memory sour…

“*No, most unfortunately no. I found myself trapped with it, as the contract was filled by one of the bannered commercial lines.”

The irises lit again…

“*However I may detest it’s acquisition and the woeful effect it has on my slip characteristics, it has proven rather lucrative of late, should I be honest.”

Banx nodded, shifting position, again noting the dull warmth of his treated wound. An itch threatened, but mercifully faded with speed. In its place, another sudden pang of hunger shot through, further reminder of the toll the day had taken.

Deev rummaged in the open containers, another inquiry forthcoming…

“*But enough about my affairs, for now. What are you doing here and, of more importance, how did THAT happen?”

Banx paused, debating where in his timeline he should begin…before deciding that two planet rotations ago seemed appropriate.

Starting with his arrival, he listed off the more mundane aspects of this latest excursion in and around ‘Cratered Lands’, off-handedly noting that he was between jobs and sorely in need of a resupply, before heading off to the prospect on Likon.

As he worked through the details, he noted the Zii courier laying out treats.

Human eyes widened as two *Karpen Vi’sects (*as translated) emerged into the light; the small armoured land-creatures, with their multiple small sharp legs and interlocking shell plates splayed out and extended, the long bodies lashed to straight narrow posts of some fibrous material the diameter of his smallest finger. They looked wholly inedible, but Banx knew that you grabbed the protruding end of the nubby thorax and yanked out the cooked creature’s spine and, more importantly, the accompanying meat, all complimented by the most delicious of jellied nervous systems, that would be some good eating. Of course, you have to cook the exposed flesh at a specific temperature, for a specific period of time, to rupture the minute toxin glands dotted along the spine but once this was accomplished, delicious. Those neutralized poisons also had a mild intoxicating effect too, which was fun.

Spicy too.

Seeing this delicacy emerge, Banx felt a quick twinge of guilt, his thoughts shifting from his unspooling narrative to what from his inventory he could also contribute to this late dinner. The stars glittered coldly as he pushed himself up from his seat, straightening up with the help of the forward landing gear. Deev froze, watching the human’s unsteady movements with a combination of amusement and concern, two light green cylinders of liquid held before him. Banx waved away the scrutiny and hobbled over to his grav-tray and the small collection he’d already separated. Rummaging and sorting, he continued, his words going out over a shoulder…

“…and, just as I’m heading back, I catch sight of these two Klinn assholes sniffing my trail.”

At mention of this notoriously errant species, Deev bobbed his head, cynically amused and in no way surprised…

“*They certainly can be a rather miscreant sort, no argument on that count. A reputation well earned.”

Selections selected, Banx made his way back his seat. Shuffling along, offerings held before him, it occurred that his limp may be a bit more pronounced than it needed to be, as though dictated by some newly acquired force of habit. Carefully laying the medley of coloured packages before the alien for perusal and prep, the human rose to full height and dared to put full pressure on the wounded leg, half expecting tearing, pain, maybe even more blood.

There was none.

There was a lightly tingling warmth, but the sharpness of the sting had abated.

Impressive.

“That, my Zii friend, is an understatement. And these two were twisted up on something hectic. They came at me fierce.”

There was a new gleam to Deev’s eyes as he pondered this detail. He gestured impatiently when Banx paused. Taking the hint, the human eased back into his seat, continuing…

“It was all so quick. The short one came in, all bladed up, but I got lucky and Asshole Number One missed…I caught ‘im off-balance as he passed, and gored him with my own cutter, right across the back. He was pissed, needless to say. As I realized I was caught between them, I heard Asshole Number Two charging up a beam-caster, which just pissed me off.”

Deev’s eyes were bright, the glow intense, the Zii was clearly engrossed in the unspooling tale of clumsy street violence.

“The one with the blade was the most…twisted up, jittered out, clearly accelerated on something ugly…so I capped him before he could frenzy. *shrugs* Had to. Luckily, took him down with a single…and it hit loud! *chuckles* I forgot how ringing my blasts can be…”

For a moment, Banx drifted off, remembering the punching impact of the round and the hefty thud of newly dead weight collapsing to the ground, wondering if he felt bad, somehow…in any way.

He didn’t.

“Asshole Number One hit those stones heavy, left ‘im leaking pretty good.”

Glowing eyes locked and wide, unwavering, Deev’s hands seemed to act on their own, selecting seasoning and sauces from various small containers that would appear and just as quickly vanish, treating the Karpen. He was enraptured.

“I was quick, got around fast and triggered again…but so did he. I think I capped off as I fell. Got him upper torso.”

The human held up a finger, pausing the moment…

“I thought I was dead. My tool was knocked free, lying too many hands away. That Klinn bastard was messed up, leaking good…but still coming, charging up again.”

He paused deliberately, thoroughly enjoying his captivated audience of one. It was when Deev’s busy hands slowed and froze in place over the food prep, that Banx continued…

“He screwed himself and didn’t realize, as he placed his stupid ass between me…and that.”

He leaned, calling attention to the shadowed grav-tray hovering obediently beneath the ship, just over his shoulder. Banx gestured casually, a quick bounce of an open palm…

“Let’s just say that the Recall feature…STILL works. Pretty certain it crushed both legs. One, for sure. He went down hard, then crawled his sorry piece-of-shit self away.”

Banx shrugged…

“And that was that. Oh, wait…I forgot to mention that he also set his dead buddy aflame too. That’s a rough smell. But the lesson was clear – always avoid the cast beam.”

Gesturing impatiently at his thigh, he growled…

“I certainly know that one now, those rotten sons-of-bitches.”

Deev didn’t understand human curses, never had, too primitive…but the tones behind them always amused, furthering his engagement with this wayward Terran primate. His eyes were striking against the matte backdrop of his shadowy complexion.

Banx threw his arms up, defeated again…

“Then…I saw your ugly mug dock-side…and here we are.”

Deev’s head bobbed again, a glance down. There was a nervous twitch, a quick fidget. Something had abruptly occurred to the Zii, distracting…and Banx could tell. He cocked his head, eyes narrowed, misunderstanding…

“What? Oh, C’mon…I’m playing. You’re not…”

The translator did decent work getting a bashful tone into Deev’s low, chime-like response as it cut him off…

“*Well, if we’re discussing ugly, since we’re out here…”

A furtive hand movement, open palm, a smooth and horizontal pass across his uniformed midsection, finished the sentence…and Banx understood:

While the Zii species has deep cultural, ancestral, and even genetic histories long embracing galactic unity, a handful of offshoots were permitted to recognize, and even embrace, ancient aggressions and violent primitive instincts long purged from the majority. Protection. Security. War Fighting. This sub-sect stood out with the bulkier torso and the thick, dark skin of the outdated warrior class.

And, in the case of Deev’s variant, there were other differences too.

This had come up once before, after many a tube of ‘liquid shine’, when they had stumbled back to the decrepit pad Banx had been forced to use on that trip. (Poverty sucks!) In the end, human and Zii had drunkenly concocted a rudimentary refreshment set-up not too dissimilar from what was emerging before him tonight.

The tipsiness became drunkenness.

Once that initial shock had faded out and Deev had bravely explained, in unnecessarily hushed tones in those worn and rusted shadows, how certain aspects of his physical being could be seen as alarming, uncouth, or even grotesque, depending on who or what you ask. Banx remembered that abrupt flutter of intrigue, born of certain whispered rumours that always spread through the systems (true or otherwise), underscored by a glint of worry as he numbly nodded…

… the fleeting memory guiding the unconscious motion, his shadow nodding alongside, stretched across the sand-blasted rock beside them, vanishing into the surrounding darkness. Understanding the rudimentary physicality of communicated approval, that bobbing motion of the near-hairless primate’s cranium, Deev had reacted then as he does now…

Irises flared, wide eyes further widening, a certain relief adding brightness to those dark features already shadowed by The Krell’s sickly lights. He quickly stood, long delicate fingers unfastening hidden catches along his flank, so fast Banx almost missed it, proximity be damned. There was drama in the Zii’s movements, an air of theatricality, if you will.

Sections of the courier’s form-fitted E-suit peeled away on itself, more vanishing before his eyes than folding back along what Banx naturally thought of as a belly or stomach (more odd names that he just…knew).

Where Banx himself had the faint ripples of abdominal muscles stretched taut over his gooey innards, Deev had two sinewy, muscled ‘folds’ running horizontally across his taut mid-section, clad in the same matte-black veneer as the rest of him. With what the human could only imagine was a sigh of contentment, the alien flexed, spurning movement from the ‘folds’…which really weren’t folds at all.

They were something far more startling…for the uninitiated, that is.

Had Banx been utterly shit-faced when he’d first seen this minor spectacle?

Most certainly.

However, those two ‘*stings’ (*as translated) uncurling, flexing out like the muscled pincers they are, historically meant for close-in melee attacks and defense. These features left behind hushed myths of stabbing attacks, disembowelment and, it was darkly rumored, bisection, on some long-lost battlefield in a forgotten system in another time. They were truly a thing to behold on a boozy night in a dark, dank hangar; a sketchy run-stop in a questionable region on a notorious moon.

Deev’s eyes glowed up again, clearly reveling in this rare chance at cultural rebellion. In these enlightened times, displays of such reminders of strife and violence were very much looked down upon, regardless of the literal connection to the ‘reminders’ in question. Many of his sect had gone so far as to acquire willful amputation, merely to ensure acceptance into the politer societies among the trading systems.

But not Deev, and not a quietly proud minority of this ancient class of Zii warriors.

Among those was a further sub-culture that embraced these genetic relics of biological curiosity and took deep pride in the decoration and celebration of the canvas of individuality that the ‘stings’ offered.

Deev belonged to this group, and came to the evening accordingly.

Banx noted new etchings, brandings and colours, but before he could hone in, the smaller of the two spun away, silent. Deev hopped deftly to a flat rock nearby, the ‘stings’ unfurled and extended as though welcoming the night, barely disturbing the fresh coat of powdery dust just outside The Krell’s intrusive lighting. Banx cocked his head, a breath hitching in his throat as he strained to listen, suddenly on alert for a potential threat out in the darkness…

All fell still.

A fresh breeze whistled plaintively through the landing assembly and for a second, Banx tasted sand. Spitting gently off to the side, he glanced back at Deev. There was nothing defensive in the short but sturdy posture, the ridged curve of the skull tilted back, the large eyes fixed somewhere high on the night-shrouded horizon.

Then the human realized – it was the First Passing of Ghex…and Deev was ready.

This season, Sorobel’s smaller moon passed through the night sky several times before star-break and it was always a thing to behold. The moon of Ghex was uninhabited, due to its diminutive size and composition, but its face was host to vast regions of fungal plains of such bio-luminescent potency that it’s passing through the Sorobellian night sky was impossible to go unnoticed, bright as it was.

Some traditions still held, reborn nightly of this bewitching celestial passage, and they had perfect seats for the show.

Banx grabbed the two cylinders and made his way to his fellow courier’s side, at first hobbling before quickly realizing that the Zii’s treatment was doing what it needed to do. There was no reaction as he stopped, walking up with the only the hint of a limp, mostly prompted by the dull ache still poking at his ankle.

Deev’s eyes were locked in the distance, tiny shifts in the glow giving away his search. Banx nudged him, a little more rudely than he intended, prompting a flaring of the eyes as the Zii teetered on the edge of a rock, a split second off-balance, the rounded skull snapping over. As one slender leg quickly pivoted back, catching on the stone surface, Banx found himself taking a detailed look at the Deev’s new adornments as the two appendages snapped up, half-heartedly lashing out defensively as the Zii sought purchase. The old warrior class had many ‘sting’ versions – blades of bone, clustered talons, others with a sharpened lash.

Deev had claws, one crowning each of the muscled mandibles and Banx instantly felt a phantom itch along his own sides, where he estimated the Zii’s first strikes would, and could, hit, in theory looking to skewer and slice flesh and bone, stabbing at the vulnerable organs beneath, going for the quick messy kill.

Deev gestured, a grey-skinned palm turned skyward, the ‘sting’ sharing that side of the black-skinned torso mimicking the movement. Banx glanced over…and there it was.

Ghex was small, and mostly round. Mostly. Many formidable asteroid strikes had sheared off several craggy chunks, forever deforming the small moon. The impacts had not flung the larger debris into Sorobel’s atmosphere to burn up, however, but had instead left them tumbling in trail, obediently following the glowing mangled shape, tapering off as a short pale haze coursing through the skies of Sorobel.

With no assistance, Banx could clearly see the small moon rising in the night, back the way he’d first come, by now casting its strange green glow on the sprawling docks these two travelers had only just recently departed.

Deev turned, a sudden request imminent…as Banx held out the two cylinders, one of which the Zii accepted without pausing to choose. The translator didn’t bother interpreting the surprised chuckle, that rapid-fire sing-song rattle to human ears. Holding the containers close to each other, Deev made finger movements; small, quick and almost invisible through the air above. What Banx did see was the flat ‘tops’ of the vials housing this mysterious alien elixir go clear, revealing a dark liquid that swirled with narrow ribbons of blue and orange.

Another twitch of the dark appendage and the rest of the cylinder’s surface followed suit, clearing to show the concoction within, the colored swirls intertwining like a patient dance of serpents.

He knew what this was…and it was roughly translated as *The Helker’s Twist. He’d heard drunken tales of this beverage, largely positive, but had never been afforded the chance to challenge his palette (and possibly his health, well-being, and sanity) with a taste.

That was about to change and it sent a fresh flutter of excitement through his core. Something occurred to him then, something important, but the words were cut off before they could be uttered…

“*Already scanned, you paranoid primitive. You, and your horribly boring digestive system, can rest assured that this particular libation…will not end you.”

Deev stepped back, pivoting smoothly to face the fast-approaching ruin of an ancient heavenly body.

And with that, they raised their beverages to the First Passing of Ghex, lining the cylinders up to meet the passing moon’s glow as it drifted through the night sky. Banx followed Deev’s lead as they raised the containers aloft, holding at eye-level. The human’s eyes widened as his cylinder flared with light, glowing an intense green, the misshapen blob visible through the dark liquid, perfectly framed for that one perfect moment. In his sudden excitement, the words needed to complete this ritual escaped him…but then Deev also found the ‘Eye of Ghex’ on him, and curtly bowed his head, quiet words flowing forth…

“*The Eye has seen me. I have been seen. Till the next.”

That’s it!

Mimicking the Zii’s slight bow to the passing lunar body, Banx solemnly repeated these oddly poignant words, feeling some whisper of kinship with the others of ages past who observed this strange but long-recognized tradition, feeling a reverence for the history of the act and its quiet celebration of the world on which they now stand…such as it is.

Banx found himself observing…himself, as he leaned toward his shorter companion, his cylinder extended expectedly…as he wondered just what the hell he was doing now. Deev, about to tip back that first sip, caught the movement and froze, before looking over with an even glow in his eyes.

What Deev said next, after a pregnant moment, hit with a mild shock…

“*Ah. Yes.”

Following this unnervingly casual acknowledgment, the alien extended the raised container and very gently clinked it against Banx’s, the swirls in both reacting to the impact as though alive. The high keening sound cut into Banx’s mind…and he was recalling…he’d done this before, another intruding dream-like memory, confusing him further.

He was blurting out a quick…

“Cheers!”

…before he realized what he’d done, shocked how natural this abrupt vocalization felt…and he didn’t know why.

Deev took the cue and mimicked the exclamation, raising his beverage.

Here goes!

The smooth receptacle closed on chapped lips, pausing for only a moment, before he took a brave gulp, aware that the Zii courier was studying him the whole time.

While the beverage was thicker than expected, there was a not-unpleasant tingling that traced its passage down, along with a distinctive sweetness that lingered. As he analyzed the taste and sensation, it’s path into his horribly boring digestive system continued unabated.

It splashed down, warming his unfed innards, and a light wave of euphoria washed through his mind, soft and embracing…stumbling him, a quiet chuckle of embarrassed disbelief escaping in concert. A curse followed as he caught himself on the edge of a large rock that jutted from the dry, cracked surface below their feet. Steadying, he found himself staring out into the ancient twists of hard broken lava, the vista, lit a sickly green and marked by long, shifting shadows.

Then…he blinked, the need to clear his vision sudden.

And again…with more enthusiasm and purpose.

Giving his head a quick shake, he looked yet again, straining his focus, a nervous tingle mixing with hunger.

What the hell was that?!

In the fading glow of the receding moon, a haze-like apparition could be seen issuing from the expanse of darkened nooks and crevasses before them, silently rising into the fading glow like a child straining for a parent just out of reach. The darkness threatened once again, but Banx found himself entranced, his gaze drawn to it, drawn into it.

The shifting mass, hanging over the tortured landscape like a living curtain, glowed with its own shades of green and yellow, more vibrant and less sickly than that of the moon, occasionally taking on pulses of what might’ve been blue as swirls and swathes ebbed and flowed in the wide darkness. 

 Enthralled, both human and Zii stood rooted in place.

Deev’s irises flashed, catching Banx’s attention. Glancing over and opening his mouth to speak, non-Zii related movement caught his eye, something beyond The Krell’s perimeter; a fluttering in the darkness that stifled his original observation before it could be uttered into words.

Banx was only able to exclaim…

“Woah!”

…as this furtive motion, smoothly and with speed, grew in substance, gliding through the shadows, with others now glimpsed in the murk beyond, all airborne.

All approaching.

For a panicked moment, Banx sought to remember where the Glock 19 was, quickly realizing he’d never reach it in time, if what approached was of a predatory disposition, and perhaps not in the most harmonious of moods.

The ship’s intrusive lighting found it, giving it substance as the service lamps triggered a bio-luminescent response, outlining a triangular shape, soft ripples of coloured light flickering across the surface, pulling the two wildly different sets of eyes to it…

It was a flying creature, low and flat, gliding on the night winds of the desert, the low lighting enough to betray the translucent skin as it shimmered in response to the artificial glow. The membranous wings were open and lined with iridescent gas pouches, matching in colour and consistency the two gently undulating tubes which tapered to a point of hardened black material, forming a pair of bobbing tails that swayed gently in its wake.

Onward it came, as wide across as Banx was tall, gliding silently over the terrain from the darkened direction of Deev’s ship, a dim shadow marking its passage, broken only by softly pulsing flares of colour across the surface, its own proximity to The Krell’s spill of lighting causing the rippling reaction.

Both human and Zii ducked as the strange beast passed just overhead, a hiss through the air calling further attention. Before they could study or remark, another emerged from the gloom…and another…then two more. All from the same direction, all spread out, the lowest just above the rocks. These gaseous creatures were oblivious to the awe-struck bipeds crouching in the shadows.

They were focused elsewhere.

Banx braved another sip, focusing on the sweetness this time as he did so. As the creamy flavour tantalized his palette, an abrupt tremor of chemical bliss lanced outward from his core, rending his fingers tingling and numb, but strangely, not unpleasantly so.

With a clumsy grunt of approval, he leaned back into the low ledge of reddish rock, allowing his heavily-lidded eyes to climb skyward, quietly counting in his native tongue as several more of these seemingly benign creatures passed overhead, slipping over the cliff’s jagged edge and accelerating out over the darkness-shrouded plain, over which the luminescent haze swayed and curled on itself where others were already on the hunt.

Then, there was a new…sensation…within. He hesitated to brand it ‘cheer’…but that descriptor came close. He felt it land softly just behind his eyes, warming his mind like a loving shroud. Watching these strange ‘gas wedges’ (as his increasingly addled grey matter dubbed them in the moment), he felt light and warm, the gases in his own lungs ebbing and flowing rhythmically, his attention pulled to the pulsing pouches adorning a passing ‘gas wedge’.

He felt like he could reach out and touch it.

He felt an uncanny relation with these strange, silent beasts, drawing in another pull of dry air, feeling the gas pouches in his own chest expanding…filling…pushing at his…

Deev’s open palm, fingers aimed skyward with no spaces between, struck Banx squarely in the right shoulder, a practiced precision shot not meant to damage, but to shock. The simple but direct application of concentrated force, delivered at speed, found the intended nerve cluster up near the collar-bone, and Banx snapped out of his revery with a painful jolt that reminded him how hard the rock he was leaning on was.

Pulling his wandering gaze from the starry sky and the alien wildlife passing quietly overhead, he looked over at the Zii; a tipsy edge already showing in heavy eyes.

Before he could question, the string of drool that had been threatening to spill unnoticed, did so then, glinting as it abruptly took flight from a slack stubbled chin. It was noticed then. His hand flashed up, clumsily wiping at it, inwardly burning with embarrassment – hadn’t even known I was drooling?! Damn! And for how long?!

It would seem that this mysterious alien potion was having its way with his horribly boring digestive system, with a notable degree of enthusiasm.

He went with it.

Banx slammed his slackened jaw closed, suddenly and uncomfortably self-aware, another round of embarrassment warming his sallow cheeks.

Deev read the flush in the human’s complexion, sensed sudden discomfort…and again laughed, as the Zii do. It was another reedy, rapid clicking from deep in the throat, accompanied by the amused flaring of the pale irises. To ease his Terran companion, Deev leaned in, saying…

“*You were…elsewhere, I think.”

A remaining hint of that rattling chuckle tainted this observation.

Unable to argue, Banx lifted the smooth-sided container to eye level, casting a weary glare, his brow furrowed as he tried to calculate what the remaining contents may end up doing to him, since that last wave just rocked his ass where he stood.

The swirling bands of colour continued as though calling to him, beckoning, and he looked back, meeting the Zii’s studious gaze. With a quick clearing shake of the head, he snorted in agreement, another question abruptly bubbling up…

“This, um, this…what’d you say this was…?”

Deev cocked his head, a borrowed human gesture, responding matter-of-factly in another chime-like sing-song…

“*I did not, in actuality. This Helker’s Twist variant is commonly known as* T’rip’sons Decoction of the Melding Hue.”

Banx continued, that blank now filled in with that absurd title, leaving him pretty sure that his translator just glitched. He didn’t even bother adding this to the out-loud continuation of his statement…

“ …of yours, has already shown me some serious kick-to-the-head activity, so…yes. Elsewhere, you say?…yep, elsewhere I may very well have been.”

Two hands half-heartedly rose, more mock surrender…

“No defense. Guilty as charged.”

Deev hissed out the Zii equivalent of an amused snort…

“*No excuse either, you primitive mud-dwelling research experiment.”

Banx dropped his hands, one unconsciously falling to his healing wound, lightly pressing at the once-maimed thigh-meat, fingers tentatively probing.

Still good.

For just a fleeting moment, he wondered how much truth had just emerged in that one good-natured (?) jab, that quick inter-species ribbing the Zii could dish out with the best of them.

All in good fun…wasn’t it?

Choosing to move beyond, and feeling tender and raw where his back had impacted rock, Banx rose, glancing around cautiously…only to abruptly drop back with a stifled curse.

A final gas-wedge, a large one, hissed overhead, accelerating out into the open darkness, joining in the swirls and flashes of the nocturnal hunt out over the cool arid landscape, where it’s airborne companions now dipped and ducked through the glowing haze, getting their fill of the tiny, light-emitting organisms that lived for the nurturing glow of the small moon.

Realizing the scale of the aerial feast unfolding before their eyes, and noting that the shimmering, swirling mass was already losing height, drifting back into the darkened gloom blanketing the ancient lava flows that defined these desolate lands, Banx found himself drifting back to what they’d been doing before Deev initiated the ‘Eye of Ghex’…what had it been?…what had they been doing?

His innards again gurgled, loudly invading the moment, hunger impatiently re-announcing itself.

The warm fuzz coating his mind relented as a new question surfaced…

‘If those freakish gas things can be chowing down, out there…why the hell aren’t we, over here?!’

Deev must’ve heard his companion’s wet inner dialogue, as he looked over, irises dimming as a fresh sense of purpose intruded.

He may have also been a little disgusted.

And with that, Banx remembered the cooking preparation that had ensued earlier, seemingly ages ago now.

I mean…so much has happened since then!

There’d been talk of food. Sustenance. Grub.

With a quick beckoning gesture, the Zii pivoted away, not waiting for the woozy human he left in his path, deftly making his way back to The Krell. He was done with the show, the novelty faded, every movement efficient as he swiftly slipped around the scattered rocks and low jutting ridges marring the site, his balance and bearing seemingly untainted by the downed libation.

Banx followed, trying to imitate Deev’s effortless passage back across and among the rocks, but lacking any of the smaller courier’s grace or precision, stumbling and hobbling, though he was pleased to note that his wound was still holding together, no fresh leakage…from what he could tell.

The Helker’s Twist didn’t help his grace nor his balance, it had to be admitted.

A distant voice sounded in his mind, like echoes from afar – take the wins, no matter how small.

This was undoubtedly more shadowy material from that maddeningly murky past, manifesting as a human male’s voice…faint…but with authority, from the recesses of his mind. But not his voice. He couldn’t fathom how that sentiment would’ve reached him…regardless of the truth and validity in the meaning.

The yellow glow fell over him as he caught up, emerging from the darkness and noting that Deev had taken up the exact stance he’d assumed before the lunar ritual had kicked off, like it had never happened.

Banx noted a low buzz…and then savoury cooking smells were in the air, the tang of spices mingling with the oily fumes of various meats and fauna, renewing the threat of fresh drool.

Settling back into his seat, Banx, aided by the intoxicating swirls moving through his system, having their way with it, then relaxed.

Actually relaxed.

It took a moment, needing to mumble to himself to “back down, bud…back down…”, taking that extra pause to breathe, to hold that breath…slow exhale.

Next came the shoulders, dropping low, freed of the burden of constant awareness, fight or flight. Weight seemed to evaporate, muscles loosening, the equations of rest going to work.

Banx felt…softened.

Despite the chill of night and his own loosely attired state, he was able to let his blood-shot eyes drift shut, and just for a moment, he embraced darkness…and a new warmth blossoming within. Be it the booze or a general sense of contentment (or as close as he could get, in this existence), he let it in. It had value.

He needed it.

Deev sensed this change in his companion’s posture, breathing, body temperature…and turned, the eyes inquisitive, the narrowing of the sockets studious as he zeroed in.

In return, Banx reopened his own eyes and met the Zii’s stare. For a moment…he had nothing to say, just held it. There was a hint of challenge. The moment hung between them. Then…almost unconsciously, he cocked a quick half-grin, which was followed by a lazy, drawn-out…

“Aaaaaahh…”

He broke the inter-species staring contest as his lazy exclamation of contentment trailed off, glancing upwards at the stars, daring another swig as he did so, again studying the swirling tingles caressing his palette. The Zii gave a quick head twitch of acceptance and understanding, before turning those spooky irises back to the task at hand…literally.

A oily question suddenly bubbled up in his mind and Banx gave it voice…

“So…what’s your next jaunt?”

Deev was in the process of prodding something on the main cooking surface with a gleaming rod-like instrument, provoking enticing hisses and crackles, and he did not stop when he looked back, no hesitation to his translated answer…

“*Fresh charter out of the Dol’laas system.”

Banks had never chartered out of Dol’laas, which was Planet 6 out from the Sphere, well beyond where he was headed, but he knew that the planet itself was only habitable at its poles, due to the equator’s heavily gaseous atmosphere, swathes of which were acidic during certain seasons. As a result, most of the industrialized settlements and collectives were spread out among the large milky blue planet’s eight mismatched moons.

Knowing this, Banx’s next question was predictable…

“Dol’laas, huh? Which…”

Deev smoothly interrupted with the answer the human was fishing for…

“*The moon of Klife…hosting the Boretz’n Collective.”

Banx pondered, coming up with very little on that particular trading group and it having nothing to do with his memory issues…

“Boretz’n, huh? They accredited?”

There was an uncharacteristic pause from Deev, punctuated only by the sounds of cooking foodstuffs. That pause said everything Banx needed to hear…

“They’re not, are they. How’d this gig find you? What’s the haul?”

Deev delicately set the rod-like utensil down and fully turned to the inquisitive human, the irises dimmed…

“*As booked, it’s a freight of food stuffs for one of the Tahoden Herding Plots…

Banx stared, waiting expectedly. When the Zii paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, one of the human’s open hands gestured impatiently – …and?!

Deev leaned in with an air of the conspiratorial…

  “*…it’s a quantity of recently… ‘untethered’… perishables and convalescence supplies that need to…bypass, we will say…certain controlling obstacles in that sector, a sector being monitored for ‘hostile’ craft, of which my own…is currently not. In and out. Substantial fare…”

Deev glanced downward, the body language of shame showing just so slightly, for only the barest of moments…

“*…which I very much need, I’m vexxed to report.”

Banx nodded knowingly, understanding the currency crunch and the current state of the system’s transport industry all too well. He was tempted to point out what he perceived to be blatant hypocrisy on the part of the smaller alien, still hearing the translated judgement in the voice that gave him shit earlier for his own upcoming and unpredictable task-for-hire, and the potential ‘issues’ that could manifest therein.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Banx registered a low pang of alarm joining his hunger to gnaw at his innards…assuming that his comfortably-addled mind was properly decoding that Deev’s next job was, literally, the smuggling of restricted supplies into what amounted to a contested war zone, under fraudulent documentation.

Going back to his own admitted unfamiliarity with the Dol’laas system, he did know that not all colonized moons existed hand-in-hand out there, especially where the lucrative mining of errant asteroids in the sector was concerned. Petty strife was common.

Sometimes, it wasn’t so petty.

He wasn’t aware of any specific troubles of late…but that, meant nothing.

What did mean something was that this fellow planet-hopper and occasional boozing companion (and friend?) was aware of the potential for peril, and worse, and was putting himself in harm’s way out of financial necessity.

It didn’t seem right.

Banx wanted to ask more…but decided against, reasoning that the less he knew, the better it may somehow be for the potentially-imperiled Zii. Especially where this job’s undoubtedly shadowy clients were concerned.

Instead, a decision was made, and he moved on it.

Deev turned back and Banx pushed himself up from his seat, making his way over to the grav-tray beneath the cargo module, dimly lit. He winced, the last remnants of chafe pinching his inner thigh as he went, calling attention to the refreshing lack of sensation from the new trench of scar tissue marring the leg’s opposite side. Whatever that was that Deev had applied had done the trick…and done it well. Gratitude welled up, an unfamiliar feeling these days, understanding that the smaller alien was under no obligation to aid him, a literal genetic inferior…but had anyway.

This uncanny sensation added weight to his actions and he crouched, his hands deliberate as they picked through the items, searching for one in particular.

The Klinn hand-lens, so recently claimed as his own, was tucked beneath a square package wrapped in thin brightly-coloured hide-shed; the dark hardened skin of the squat cylindrical weapon a lighter shade beneath a settled coat of dust; the activation diodes still dark, control nubs untouched. Pulling it free, Banx noticed the odd balance of the deadly device, the strange (to his hands) distribution of weight and form.

His mind chirped up, another echoing sentiment from the inner Afar, and he wanted to guess that it weighed what he wanted to call ‘three pounds’, in all. This was not the first time he’d entertained this notion of measurement unit, but like those other times…he didn’t understand the equation or origin of it, just that it seemed…correct. Friendly. Calculable to the simplicity of his primitive mind.

With a furtive glance, he saw that Deev was still turned away, the subtle movements in the shoulders suggesting food distribution, unaware of the human’s quiet actions behind him. Banx rose from his crouch and turned, emerging back into the ugly hue of the Krell’s lamps, both hands hidden away behind him.

He approached, surprise his goal.

Deev sensed this and turned, almost quick enough to be threatening, eyes instantly inquisitive, searching with a hint of amusement. Having no ready preamble to the moment, Banx brought his hands around, one of which gingerly held the weapon, pointed ahead.

Deev’s response was so sudden it startled them both, with the dark-skinned Zii leaping back in a blur, irises abruptly flaring in alarm before darkening completely – a bad sign. The alien courier’s lower centre of gravity served him well and he flashed down into a defensive crouch so fast Banx barely had time to register. The two ‘stings’ were out, the sinewy muscles twitching, the lethal points of the single talons aimed directly at the human’s torso, the long-dormant war-mind having already chosen organs to pierce and maim in the counter-attack.

Banx found himself staring down his own arm, an open hand pushing at the smaller being, who now exuded an air of both menace AND panic, seeming to shrink down among the various cooking apparatus – a tactical move, smaller target offered. The hand, his human hand, was gesturing frantically, pushing at the poised courier, warding off…something, offering something, anything, to ease Deev back down, to lower the sudden unexpected drama.

But what the hell set this off?!

Then…Banx again understood.

From his other hand…the curving crystal of the weapon’s blast aperture was pointed directly at Deev, a violet tint dimly gleaming off the glassy surface.

In a burst of embarrassed realization, a sentiment flashed through his mind, yet another male’s gruff voice from that far-off place, that mental fog realm – ’ALWAYS point the weapon downrange!’ At this moment, he was not pointing the weapon downrange…and Deev had reacted; absolute instinct, pure and simple.

Banx yanked away as though burned, instinctively swinging the weapon back behind him, where it dangled safely, lightly brushing against the back of his non-damaged thigh. His other hand stayed raised; no threat, open and empty. Panting without realizing, he exclaimed…

“Holy shit! Sorry, sorry, sorry! It’s not active! NOT…active!’”

Then to himself, muttering…

“You…stupid…idiot.”

Taking a breath, he addressed the hyper-alert Zii in a calm, even voice, that he had to fight to keep calm and even…

“Deev, again…I’m so sorry, bud. That was stupid of me, so stupid…and I have no excuse, I know.”

There was a flicker in the irises…then, they came back, flaring lightly, dim but visible again as he rose into the light, the ‘stings’ twitching an implied threat one last time before settling back along his mid-section, folding inward, relaxed and unneeded again. Purely decorative, Deev would swear.

The chime-like quality had returned to the Zii’s voice when he responded coolly…

“*Oh, but you do. A very good one, by matter of fact. You are a primitive being of limited scope and grace…who fumbles his way through the quadrant lacking most of a clue, so this does fit in with that objective characterization, you primordial mud dweller.”

Banx couldn’t counter. He didn’t even try. He DID try to ignore the fact that the Zii MAY be correct in that biting-yet-amused observation…and just went with it, lowering his eyes sheepishly, no words rearing up in defense. Because…he had none.

But Deev wasn’t done…

“However, you DO amuse Deev…and Deev occasionally, and I stress OCCASIONALLY, appreciates the counsel of Banx. You are forgiven for your nearly tragic transgression. Which brings me to…”

There was a lazy gesture from a hand; long, even fingers directed at the human’s own occupied appendage.

It was Banx’s turn to cut in…

“…why am I brandishing this ugly Klinn piece of shit?”

Deev just stared, waiting. Not taking the bait. Maddeningly so.

*Pregnant pause*

Not getting the response he was hoping for, Banx gave up the dramatic tone he was trying to strike, that hint of pageantry he found himself pursuing, for reasons unknown. He dared to bring the hand-lens back out into the open, careful to keep the deadly aperture directed away from his companion this time, despite the darkened diodes. He explained as he raised the inert-but-deadly contraption…

“I want you to have it. Just in case.”

Deev’s eyes flared again, surprise flickering within now.

A question hung without being asked.

Banx elaborated, the last remnants of his excited panting vanishing as he spoke…

“Your gig, your new one, got me wondering…and just a little concerned.”

Deev cocked his head, an inquisitive move prompting more; more that came with a low growl of mock exasperation…

“Concern for you, believe it or not.”

His tone evened out again, becoming almost somber…

“I can’t use it…but I think you can. I don’t know what you’re going to run into, out there, and I don’t think you do either, but since you helped here…”

He gestured to his wounded thigh, giving a light slap to demonstrate, before continuing…

“…it’s only right that I help you right back. By making you the proud owner of this recently discarded Klinn hand blaster.”

He raised the weapon, giving Deev a clear view, offering it grip-first.

Another flare of the irises and the Zii approached, widened eyes fixed on the weapon, leaving two hovering serving surfaces half heaped with cooked edibles, steam curling in the Krell’s ugly lighting. Seeing that prompted another gurgling from Banx’s insides, and the corners of his stubbled jaw tingled, fresh saliva threatened.

Then…Deev was there, eyes locked on the offering; studying, coveting. Banx pushed it closer…and the Zii accepted, carefully taking the lethal gadget, long delicate fingers already caressing the lines and edges, exploring function and form.

Deev was touched.

Wide eyes moved from enraptured study of the new lethal possession…to the human’s inquisitive scrutiny – eyes meeting searching eyes. With a curt nod, Deev spoke, the translator picking up the gratitude in the chime-like words…

“*I’m very taken aback by this generous gesture, Banx of Terra, in the most agreeable manner. Truly. You understand the value of ‘the gift’, as we hold it. I know this, because I told you this…but I’m not sure you understand the deep connection the gift of a weapon in particular grants among my people…especially MY people, of the ancient times.”

Deev’s broke eye contact, drifting to the weapon he cradled, to further study and appreciate. He continued, not looking up…

“*It shows a connecting concern for the well-being of a sovereign life, and the protection of that life, and that is still held strong among us, even if quietly…even if the battle practices of old have been banished into the shadows of history, suppressed by ever-encroaching universal enlightenment…as it should be, allow me to note.”

Hefting the weapon, testing the weight and balance, and unknowingly mirroring Banx’s own actions of moments earlier, Deev continued…

“*It is those amendments of those ancient Zii doctrines that decree that I, and my kind, are to now refuse such a gift, as presented, in slavish obedience to the ‘new’ scrolls…”

He lowered it, a cheeky growl colouring his next words…

“*…to which I respond, in this instance, with all the elegance I can muster – fuck that shit…as I believe you primitives would say.”

This translated perfectly, and Banx couldn’t help but to smile…then laugh.

The Zii glanced up, eyes aglow and also laughed, the reedy rattle blending into Banx’s own chuckle. Distracted, Banx didn’t even catch the blur of movement that was Deev’s fingers slipping over the weapon’s controls, but he did suddenly note the reddened gleam of the Power diode blinking to life, signaling ready, the high whine abruptly intruding.

Oh shit, what was he…?!!

His smaller companion spun, another flash of movement quicker than he could register. What he did register was the sharp crack of the hand-lens discharging, a burst of dust and sparks, bright in the darkness, snapping off the angled side of a rock several steps away, gleaming trickles of melted sand freezing in place around the blackened hole left behind. The disturbed particles rapidly faded away on the wind, spreading thin, the orange sparks blinking out of existence in concert.

Banx didn’t even realize he’d jumped back, startled as he was. The moment hung…and he caught a musty whiff of what he could only imagine was cooked stone. It tickled his nose and he wiped at it absently. He then looked from the smouldering crater now marring the chunk of rock…to the Zii, who turned back, eyes aglow with satisfaction, the hand-lens held ready. Unlike the human’s earlier carelessness, Deev was careful to keep the aperture directed away from both Banx and The Krell as he gave it one last examination…before powering down, as expertly as though he’d always owned it.

Holding the darkened weapon firmly at his side, Deev reached forward, laying fingers over Banx’s exposed forearm; the move deliberate, purposeful, too quick to dodge. Banx could feel strength under the dry, leathery skin of the digits and the alien’s palm was oddly smooth, almost silky. This surprised him.

There was a squeeze and Deev leaned in, the irises glowing evenly…

“*Thank you, Friend Banx of Terra. With utmost sincerity.”

The hand was removed and Deev turned, deftly making his way to the hovering sphere poised by his cooking apparatus, the pink glow from within warm in the dark.

Banx didn’t know what to say, the moment feeling oddly poignant, more so than he ever expected or intended, as though a fresh level of understanding between their two species had been accidentally stumbled upon.

Stammering, he tried…

“Well, you know how it is…I can’t use it…not where I’m headed. Probably kill myself trying to figure it out anyway. So, you know…thought it could be handy for you…this next score of yours, right?…kinda sketchy, got me thinking…so…you’re welcome.”

Deev didn’t vocalize a response as he stepped away from the sphere, now home to a legally questionable energy weapon…instead, he acted.

He turned back moments later, two serving surfaces hovering at his side, steam and other cooking vapors rising up through The Krell’s stained exterior lighting, reaching for the tapestry of stars laid thickly overhead. Banx lowered his half-empty beverage cylinder to watch, having braved another dizzying sip.

He was definitely feeling NO pain, as it were…thank you for asking.

A breeze gusted up from over the shadowy plains, disturbing the pale wisps. The corners of Banx’s jaw abruptly quivered, saliva threatened. He’d caught a whiff on the breeze, a delicious wafting…and his guts gurgled again, with vigor this time.

The flattened grey ovals glided horizontally, with one taking up station at Deev’s seat, while the other approached Banx. It slowed to a halt, holding at his knees, heaped enticingly with cooked sustenance. Deev engaged the set-up’s breakdown and Banx took the chance to get a good look at tonight’s delicacies; raising the serving-tray in his hands, the rails automatically going inert in response, and leaning in, scrutinizing.

He was nodding in approval when Deev joined, impressed and intrigued by the mixed selection, the bounty of impending flavours – a little human, a little Zii.

Well, human-selected, anyway.

And with that…the two couriers feasted.

And drank.

It was the continued imbibing of the Zii’s potent libations that fragmented the rest of the evening in Banx’s by-then addled mind, made all the more so when they tucked into the cooked meat of the Karpen Vi’sect’s, those heated toxin pockets adding to the chemical swirl pleasantly marring Banx’s grey matter, with him later remembering small episodes through the encroaching haze that fogged his mind.

Such as:

– Deev revealing that he was planning a full-power ‘slip’ for the transit to his questionable upcoming score, the next planetary system over, cutting down on travel time, though he admitted that he’d have to drift his way in on final approach, keep his power signature small to bypass the inevitable patrol craft operating within key lunar orbits, out among the contested asteroid fields. Banx would remember a touch of envy as he’d described his own budget-governed plan in slurring response, which was to be a ‘round-the-world’ limited-power egress, fuel allowing, coupled with a locked-in free-drift calculated to meet Likon mid-orbit in roughly three solar-cycles time.

– The next passing of Ghex…which they both ignored as Deev drunkenly disclosed a new anecdote involving a faulty docking lock, a mysterious fluid leak, and a horrid smell – all coupled with unflattering descriptions of the two unlucky section-minders who ended up with the clean-up, clean-up of what was revealed to be two scaly wide-mouthed *Boaben Crawlers (*as translated), not the smallest of pests, who’d literally splattered after crawling in among the dampening pads of a landing apron to mate, just to have an atmo-jumper survey craft settle upon them mid-coitus, compressing the pads and immediately bursting the soft, fleshy bodies apart. Deev had been parked on the adjacent apron and had witnessed the entire episode…which he’d found hilarious…till the smell reached him. This had been a couple jobs back.

The eerie green of the fragmented moon came and went as it passed low in the dark sky, the swirling hunt of the remaining gas-wedges again playing out in the distance, completely inconsequential to both couriers as their chuckles echoed off into the night.

– Being legitimately shocked at the taste difference that Deev had managed with those mysterious culinary skills, given how he’d opted to prepare one of Banx’s contributions to the menu, which were cubes of the pink flesh of a spiny carnivorous succulent from the other side of Sorobel, the characteristic tang having taken on a sugary sweetness under the Zii’s capable heated-spice methodology. Banx was taken aback, an abrupt admiration cutting through the intoxicated swirl of his mind as he chewed studiously, marveling at the new taste and texture.

– Fuzzy fragments, the images of a lone passing gas-wedge, returning from its hunt over the shadow land of broken cylinders, stuck with him, particularly when it abruptly banked over and silently orbited their site, just on the outer edge of The Krell’s lights. Both couriers had gone silent, eyes fixed on the circling shape, going wide when it dropped down, coming in close, the curious creature bravely gliding past, evenly level in altitude with the two seated drunks, and close enough that Banx swore he saw a small, perfectly white eye flex and shift, looking them over on its way past. Then…it was gone, vanishing back into the darkness beyond, rising over the craggy ledge of the stone wall behind them, back toward Deev’s ship and where ever it called home during Sorobel’s scorching daylight hours.

– It was the high, chiming sound of his crystalline beverage cylinder striking the rock at his loosely-booted feet, bouncing away but not breaking, having slipped from clumsy fingers, that he’d later recall …followed by the horrific sight of the intoxicating remnants of the elixir that it had contained splashing out and trickling away among the surrounding rock features as though fleeing…followed by his own strangled yelp of panic. Transfixed as he abruptly was by the rivulets quickly snaking away, he hadn’t noticed Deev spring up, showing no signs of equilibrium-related instability, to dart to the hovering sphere as though on a mission.

It was only when a fresh cylinder suddenly appeared before Banx’s slackened features, the swirls twisting within, that he looked up…which was right around the time that the human noticed that he could credibly gauge the Zii’s chemically-altered state by the tiny mismatched flashes in the wide eyes; the eyes that stared expectedly at him from behind the gripped offering; the glow of the irises now seeming to operate independently of each other, coming and going with no rhythm. He’d gratefully accepted, seeing a fresh one in Deev’s fingers as well, absolving him of the nugget of guilt he felt tickle within. In unison, they cracked them open.

Into the night, they lounged and drank and feasted, their mismatched chuckles and slurred words echoing into the desert’s darkness, two lone travelers allowing for some much-needed company and decompression under the pin-pricks of star-light laid across the black sky.

Banx wouldn’t remember how their evening ended…just that it did…eventually.

—

The stars overhead faded as darkness gave way to light, the sun’s deep red glare blooming, giving the far horizon back its craggy definition.

As this glow found The Krell, dark and still in her impromptu landing site, there was movement just beyond.

Deev’s ship silently rose into view, spinning as it ascended, lit faintly in the pink light of morning. It stopped in a hover, completing its rotation aligned on the human’s vessel. On a faint crackle of acceleration, it drifted in with a low hum, something predatory in its movement, the dim shadow playing serpent-like over the rocks, following alongside…before passing over The Krell.

The Zii ship drifted to a stop, poised like a severed fungus-cap over the inert craft.

All fell still again.

Running along the underside of the disk-shaped craft were low-profile lines of recessed louvred openings, marking the inner diameter, arranged in a complete circle. These abruptly opened, silently igniting with an icy blue glare, the cool air shimmering where the charge reached it.

Small crackles sounded as metal compounds in The Krell’s rough skin reacted, quick tendrils of electricity arcing from edged points along the outer hull. The charge built, becoming aggressive…

The Zii ship vanished, ascending at speeds only the quickest of eyes could detect, a split second of smeared blue light betraying its passage skyward, lingering behind and quickly fading out. The resulting shockwave of morning air collapsing into the sudden void slammed down, a perfect ring of dust bursting around the parked micro–freighter, catching on the breeze.

Banx, merely clad in a ragged loincloth, had just enough time to choke out…

“Holy shiii…!”

…before he hit the grated flooring, thrown from the comfort of the jelly-surfaced folding bench that served as his sleeping area, along the module’s inner wall. The Krell had lurched around him as though kicked, struck from above by…something.

Banx struggled to rise, fighting the drunken fatigue clawing at him, thoughts automatically going to the Glock 19’s immediate whereabouts as he scrambled to the compartment’s inner wall, instinctively seeking cover –

Was this more Klinn sons-of-bitches, out to avenge yesterday’s fallen shithead brethren?!

Or…

Maybe some oversized local beast has taken umbrage, who’s clearly nefarious approach the exterior sensor net just somehow conveniently missed in its rotating passive area scan?!!

Or…

…?!!!

Forcing his eyes open with the aid of clenched knuckles, while steadying himself, Banx froze…waiting for another impact, or explosion, or…

None came.

He lowered his hands, slowly, unclenching boney fists, listening intently for what threats may lie beyond his confines, what antagonist may yet expose itself.

All was still.

Shaking the mind-fog away (trying to, at least), Banx glanced around hurriedly, catching sight of the holstered black pistol crowning the crumpled pile of E-clothes discarded at the end of his sleeping bench. He lurched toward it, yanking it free. Pure instinct, he pulled the small, primitive weapon’s chamber open, glancing the curve of a live projectile nestled within. Released, it snapped shut with a sharp *click*.

Banx pushed himself upright. Fumbling to stand, his stomach and skull abruptly competed for his attention – one threatening vomit, the other threatening pain, currently showing as a muted throbbing at the temples.

Hangover or no, something had hit The Krell.

Across A Mod was the pressurized hatch leading outside, the recessed rectangle of viewing crystal imbedded in the tough surface given shape in the glow of morning beyond.

For a moment, he was torn – glance out front or open the hatch?

His abrupt need to piss over-rode the conundrum, pushing him to the control panel, The Krell’s flooring cold beneath bare feet. He tightened up on the Glock 19, his other hand moving to the Open nub…ready.

Steady.

Another glance through the viewport still showed nothing, but dusty stone lit pink-going-orange, off-set by long shadows exaggerating the terrain features.

No movement.

No visible threats. 

He straightened up, sucking in a breath of stale captive air, uncomfortably aware of his own unwashed state, his finger caressing the trigger as he raised the gun.

He hit the Open nub and pushed to the bulkhead, using the inner edge for cover.

A short hiss of gases and the internal pressure collar around the doorway abruptly shrank in size, the hatch cycling open with barely a sound, spilling the pink light of the Sorobellian morning into the cramped compartment, illuminating the cluttered disorder Banx called Home.

There was no sound, nothing intrusive, save the cool desert breeze washing past the hatch’s edge, bringing a cool musty scent that tickled his nose…along with a hint of something else…

Something…familiar.

Something lingering.

Something electrical?

A moment passed. Nothing sinister showed itself in the open hatchway. No additional attack came…except from his strained insides, the discomfort within his lower abdomen pushing him onward, making decisions.

A growled countdown…and he sprang, swinging out, weapon clenched, the short blocky muzzle sweeping over the dim landscape, ready to belch alien-retrofitted 9mm injury and death with a quick squeeze.

The Sphere’s red glare was brightening as more of the star blossomed on the horizon, finding Banx’s wide eyes, forcing a squint. Even so, it took mere seconds for the human to see that he was, in fact, alone in his rocky ad-hoc landing pad, his cautious scan revealing nothing of concern.

He lowered the gun, relaxing, his finger falling away from the trigger.

The next priority – innards, and he stepped out, barely touching the hovering step-pads on the way down to the rocks below; the dark, porous material already warming in the growing star-light.

He didn’t go far, didn’t need to, noting the sand and stone beneath calloused soles of exposed feet as he padded along.

Gently placing the Glock 19 on a large flattened stone, Banx dropped loincloth and let fly, relief washing over as he spilled onto the desert, the warm trickle vanishing into the cracks. He was happy to note the need to puke had also mercifully retreated.

As he finished working his meagre coverings back into place, a dry crackle sounded, startling him.

It came from The Krell.

Picking the gun back up, he turned cautiously, finding the trigger…and with no warning, another arc of residual blue electricity lanced from one point along ship’s hull to another, the same harsh crackle it’s soundtrack. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Banx realized what the other charged scent had been, that one he couldn’t place, and taken with now-reactive nature of his baby’s outer skin…he knew he’d been ’booster-dumped’, as other space-faring folks termed it.

Clenching his jaw, muttering…

“Deev, you little son-of-a-bitch.”

‘Booster-dumping’ has damaged, or even crippled, other vessels when performed ‘in atmo’, but it would seem that the mischievous Zii knew and respected The Krell’s structural allowances and had simply ‘nudged’, most likely in cheeky bid to rouse the drunkenly slumbering occupant inside.

The lil bastard laughed, guaranteed, chuckling that gnarly throat rattle of his, ascending at hyper-speed toward the upper atmosphere on that smeared blue glare, escaping the embrace of Sorobel’s clinging gravity field on the way to that next score.

After a pause to see if any other discharges along The Krell’s bulky hull wanted to show themselves, he made his way back to the open hatchway, the pistol now held lightly between two fingers, the trigger-guard empty and safe.

The star was hidden behind its own crimson glare, it’s shape only just discernible as it grew on the horizon.

As Banx reached the step-pads, the first hints of desert heat caressing his bare back, his mind, while still fending off a preview of what promised to be a full-blown hangover, began itemizing the pre-trip inspection.

Climbing aboard, he noted that the sour twinge left lingering from his slumber had been displaced by a dry, dusty air; having been flushed by the intruding winds as he’d drained himself onto the planet’s surface.

He moved to the moisture condensers, low on each side of the compartment, just before the main module coupling leading into the cozy confines of The Krell’s cockpit, one per side. The indicators all showed Nominal and the trap reservoirs both held several fingers worth of useable water. Opening one of many recessed panels lining the inner bulkhead, Banx flushed the traps into the main tank, ready for later, and then reset the filter parameters for gravity-neg status.

Looking around at the domestic disorder that defined The Krell’s interior, his temples thumped again, making his next decision for him – get cleaned up…before you clean out.

Making his way over to one of the horizontal, open-face storage alcoves above the traps, Banx shut down the membranous suspenser field holding the contents in place with a tap of a finger and rooted around inside for a moment…before pulling out a small oblong, open-topped receptacle of a light grey material.

Banx filled the container with cool, clear water from the filter’s catch basin and raised it to dry lips, savouring the first sip, despite the faint twinge of *Dolox-zen sealing composite (*as translated) in the after-taste. That sip quickly became a gulp and the container’s sloshing contents vanished down the human’s parched throat, going to work on his self-abused system. A moment’s pause let the liquid spread its cool tendrils through his insides…while trying to gauge his overall status as it did.

He couldn’t, not yet…still groggy.

Still…unbalanced.

Possibly…still pissed up.

He pondered another swig, but decided against, reasoning conservation for the three cycles of off-world travel on today’s schedule.

Then, for reasons unknown…he wanted ‘a coffee – two creams and a sugar’.

There was something comforting in those odd words; those words that came on with startling clarity, not the usual bubbling up from the murky depths, but a striking thought with sharpened edges lancing through his mind…but, he couldn’t remember what they meant.

Shaking the odd line aside, Banx refocused, his stomach assisting.

Setting the container down, he next retrieved a small, flat packet of a thin, papery material from the cut-out where he habitually crammed his Solid Food Stores, generally with no sense of order or class.

He had no one to impress.

Without looking, he unwrapped his prize and plucked out a wafer-like section; the flaky crusting a dim blue, with a distinct stripe of sweetened purple running the length.

A scattering of crumbs fell lazily to the grated flooring in his wake, unnoticed.

Biting off the first piece, he moved into the cockpit, eyes darting over every Hazard indicator, every detector panel; a pilot’s instinct activating, searching for those Warning lamps.

She was dark, still and quiet, the pilot’s control panel showing only a faint collection of glowing diodes set on *Pause* mode; the colours friendly.

As they should be.

He bit off more, thumping down into the pilot’s seat, a myriad of tiny sensor lights in the gel-padded armrests flaring, reacting to the sudden weight, pressure and temperature variances.

Chewing slowly, savouring the sweetness of the purple, Banx activated the pre-trip test cycles and began running the usual routines, the budding progress showing on one gel-screen as a series of thin ever-changing, coloured bars, all creeping across the horizonal at varying speeds, lengthening agreeably as he watched: sensors in the engines, along the outer skin, lining the cargo area, and throughout the environmental controls were responding, relaying status to The Krell’s central processor, which was also integrating the pre-plotted egress solution, in swiftly calculated conjunction.

Satisfied, Banx popped the last piece of breakfast into his face, again pondering a second swig of water as he made his way back into his cramped habitat. He gave in, conservation be damned, and poured himself another measure, deliberately less this time, noticing the grime of his teeth as he washed the last flaky remnants away, now thinking that having used some of what just went down to help stomp his chompers clean may have been a good idea…had it occurred several moments ago.

They’d have to wait. He had shit to do.

Banx got to it.

—

As his booted feet, the tabs left lazily unfastened, again alighted upon the star-warmed floor of the cliffside, a new sensation attacked his insides – a not-unpleasant quiver of…’excitement’ (he wanted to call it) – warm and twisting in his guts, verging on a tickle.

There was something…childlike…to it, whimsical even, as though from another time and place, and it rippled through him like a wet chill.

It was the daylit vista of Sorobel’s desert wastes laid out before him; the frozen-in-time landscape of ancient cylinders laying naked to behold in the Sphere’s morning rays, the porous black of the serpentine flows now a pale gray under the permanent layers of Sorobellian dust, the relentless cooking of the star’s punishing rays, stretching wide beneath the domed canopy of a deepening blue sky, that prompted it.

Something in Banx knew he…merely, lowly he…should not be seeing what he was seeing now.

Somehow, it didn’t feel earned, as though he was an imposter, unworthy of the place in which he found himself in this universe.

But…he was here, in this universe, in this place, the How and the Why of it seemingly no longer relevant to his day-by-day existence.

But…that was about to change…as he’d diligently scheduled with himself.

He started by gingerly retracing the route he and the Zii had stumbled early in their evening, for the ‘Eye of Ghex’ (well, more him stumbling than Deev, if we’re honest); his own eyes now scanning the rocks and ridges, cracks and crevasses, that surrounded him, and his ship. From beneath heavy eyelids, he lazily searched out anything that may have somehow escaped the micro-freighter’s immediate vicinity, possibly through the machinations of their drunken revelry.

So far, only fuzzy mental images, of which he still was struggling, and failing, to recollect clearly were being recollected. He stopped trying and kept looking. Looking for something…anything…that, once lost and left behind, would be gone forever, never to be retrieved.

This habit was old, another of his ‘bazaar rituals’, as he’d come to call them, and, like so much in his life, undefined in its origin…but, the instinctive reasoning behind the customary search left it feeling wholly necessary, compelling him to scour whenever…and wherever, The Krell had settled in their past travels, regardless of duration, always fearful of losing any of those meagre belongs, any from all that he had in this life.

Nothing revealed itself near the cliff’s edge and he worked his way back among the rocks, pausing to appreciatively take in the sight of the small freighter, his small freighter, bathed in Sorobel’s morning glare, backdropped by the star-cooked greys and browns of the make-shift landing apron’s back-wall; the vertical face of it a tapestry of shadowy cracks and wind-smoothed edges.

Pride welled up inside and Banx felt an odd kinship with the plucky little vessel, like they were two cast-off’s who’d found each other after many a misadventure (you know – nefarious betrayal, devious sabotage and at least one brutal murder…but that’s another story, for another time). And they were to embark on another – that open-space free-drift away from this arid world of rock, dust and sand, and on to another…another score, another payday.

The moon of Likon awaited…and they were going.

The grav-tray was almost depleted, the repulsing rails a mere finger’s-width from the rock below, the off-balance tilt apparent in low power mode – the recessed indicator showing reserves now in use. Some items had shifted and fallen off in the night, adorning the rocks in a messy scatter along the tray’s weakened flank.

Yesterday had been a tough one for the robust little tool, and it showed.

Gathering up the loose scatter of items and tossing them back on, he hit the homing recall and stepped back. The tray obediently rose, disappearing into the waiting shadows of B Mod to anchor itself to the charging dock inside. Satisfied, Banx hit the control nub and the horizontal hatchway cycled shut, sealing with a faint thud behind as he moved out of The Krell’s shadow and back into the morning light.

Next on the agenda – a slow, deliberate circle around her perimeter; heavy footsteps clumsy across the rocks, eyes forced open – strained attention on the hull, the control surfaces, the intakes and exhaust ports, all manner of protrusion, ensuring she had no new scars mysteriously added to her already impressive collection.

Like owner, like ship.

Reaching her nose, he grunted, concurring with himself that outwardly, she was good to go…despite a certain ‘dump’ of late. Combined with the pre-trip test cycle, she was ready to escape this world.

So was he.

It was time.

—

The step-pads rose, melting together before slipping smoothly back into their housing below A Mod’s hatch. The hatch itself then cycled shut, sealing with a hiss.

Banx noted ‘full seal’ on the panel and turned away, slipping forward into the cockpit. A pause…and a glance back revealed the comfortable mess in which he existed, but there was nothing he could see that needed immediate attention…at least, not for this next part.

Again, the seat’s arm-rests came to life, the glowing indicators blinking to attention as he settled in, fingers dancing across the controls before him, bringing the small ship back from her slumber. The remaining gel-screens re-filled, the neon glow dancing across his sallow features.

A flicked control nub and the main viewing port cleared, the protective shroud vanishing, leaving only the vista beyond, the filters dimming the desert’s unforgiving morning glare.

Only not enough.

He still squinted to behold the twisted broken cylinders spilling off into the distant haze, snaking en mass toward the horizon. This alien landscape; spread wide and vast, dwarfed the perching pin-prick of a space-craft; a muted threat hiding in the grandiosity of the stillness, as though The Krell was about to be swallowed by something monstrous.

He didn’t need to, but Banx glanced around the cockpit again, eyes darting off things already checked…and checked off. There was a hint of petulant delay in this action; a nervous pause, a deliberate drawing-out, something juvenile…and he knew it. He knew there was a whiff of self-preservation at work, that forced beat…before that step into the Unknown.

He also knew what was to come…right about…now…and that was another quiver; the fluttering dance of excitement that launched around his innards, tickling at him. He squirmed, just little and activated the seat’s restraint system. There was something viscous in the movement of the bright yellow tendrils that poured their way around his reclining body, pulling him in just…snugly…enough.

The Krell’s loving, maternal embrace.

Restraints in place and secured…next came –

*Engine Start*

Her processor readily agreed with his basic computed assessments, responding when he activated her reactor drive, bringing her mains online and feeling the muted thud of the expected power-shunt, casually noting the faint rumble of the four engines awakening; that faint tremor running through the deck plating beneath him.

A glance – Engine Status: Nominal

Satisfied with the reads, he backed the output to *Idle (* as translated); direct thrust not needed, nor recommended, at planet level, not with The Krell’s repulsing system in near-perfect working order (not always the case), ideal for the first leg of the impending journey.

He activated that next, the responding vibration of the rails lost to the idling hum of the engines.

Dust, trapped overnight beneath the landing gear, took flight as the ship rose from its latest place of rest, the long shadow mimicking every move across the rocks as the struts folded in on themselves, vanishing behind hatches that sealed flush into the battered hull. Metallic particles, glittering in the breeze, arced and sparked along the freighter’s flattened underside, the shimmering charge gently hoisting her aloft in the heat and light of a late morning on Sorobel.

A look out the viewscreen…another across a bank of proximity sensors…and Banx nudged the control collective forward, gently accelerating the propulsion wave and easing her out over the ledge, leaving the improvised camp site behind to cook in the cruel heat of day.

The micro-freighter crossed the threshold, smoothly gliding out over open space at taxiing speed (pure habit). An impulsive notion hit and Banx smirked, running a loose priming solution on all four engines…only casually disarming the defaulted pressure caps and bumping things up to just about Hazardous, just when certain read-outs started taking on certain alarming hues…and then, he popped throttle.

Did he need to do this?

No.  

However, Deev got a ‘booster-dump’…now, his turn.

He knew he could be childish.

All four engines fired in unison, hitting the never-recommended purge-limit near-instantly – in essence, a controlled explosion all in one direction. Banx registered something resembling ‘surprise’, or even ‘alarm’, as The Krell lurched violently around him, propelled forward with more kick than intended, or anticipated.

The shockwave slammed over the cliff-side cut-out, blasting out a plume of dust and battering all flattened surfaces, smashing rock and cracking stone. A large slab of the cliffside, the closest to the punishing detonation, burst and sheered away, free-falling…to explode among the lava formations below with a thunderous echoing crash.

The Krell accelerated away, nose angled skyward, her gradient shallow.

Banx immediately disengaged the main burn, taking it all back to Idle, a nervous grin unwittingly plastered across his face, sweat showing on an upper lip. The repulsing system re-engaged, enthusiastically powering up to match the altered speed, while factoring in the increasing altitude and ever-thinning atmosphere.

It took less than a minute of flight time for Banx to realize the error of his ways…and that was having not factored the exaggerated rebound effect of the cliffside’s particular geometry, as it lay directly in the thrust path.

A word in his native tongue came to mind – Moron, as his powers of deduction completed deducting:

‘You literally redirected your own engine-wash back, multiplying the push instantly as the thrust-wave reverberated back to its source around the cut-out, especially with a purged pressure release through an abrupt all-engine burn…in full, low -‘atmo’!’

Idiot!

The pale world fell away, terrain details lost to height and speed.

Banx ran a structure scan, praying to The Cosmos that he hadn’t twisted any framing or shifted any couplings with his bone-headed move. A couple of the stress variances read a little high, particularly around the hull’s engine mounts, and one display showed a temperature spike that was already settling, but nothing alarming stood out.

At least, not yet.

Thank the stars Deev hadn’t witnessed…he’d never let it go, the lil prick.

—

Banx found himself surprised by the time that passed before he saw the first Sorobellian clouds…first as hazy lines stretched across the distance…then, as long silky banks languishing in the thinning upper gases, draped across his view and fast approaching, a green tinge to their curling edges. There was nothing threatening in their make-up, and The Krell blew through, leaving them churning chaotically in her wake.

She continued her climb.

A new alarm bleeted at him, pulling his attention over. There it was…full-engine pre-burn. A certain altitude achieved, and a certain repulsing system going into automatic shut-down, now that the upper atmosphere was too thin to push against.

The shimmer distorting the ship’s underside vanished, the system going inert.

There was only the shrill whistle of the wind tearing at the outer skin; inertia continuing her climb, but already bleeding energy…before the distorted shriek of four thruster engines tore at the sky, the stuttering echo lost among the clouds.

The ship surged forward, uninterrupted in its long curving arc skyward.

Locking the angle, Banx set the ship’s ‘auto-guidance’, removing his hand as the flight solution took over, her central processor effortlessly continuing the plucky freighter’s determined climb without his input.

A glance over…and a new display met with his approval, this one holographic; the glowing sphere of a planet hanging above the domed display-plate recessed into the side-console. Fellow system-trippers would instantly recognize Sorobel, despite the poor resolution and occasional flicker.

A glowing line could be seen tracing its way out of the planet’s grasp, wrapped half-way around and pushing ever higher, closing on what was to be his exit corridor, where the whip-lash effect of his increasing sub-orbital momentum would launch him free, casting The Krell off into the deep reaches of space.

At least, that was the plan.

It was coming up…soon.

The sky darkened, fresh starlight showing as Sorobel’s daytime luminescence faded, it’s influence waning. There were no more clouds, save those clusters of long, pale lines steadily passing far below, all details murky.

Ahead, the vast curve of the diminishing horizon, only the most gargantuan of terrain details now showing themselves etched across the barren surface.

He knew he’d hit negative-G before the alarm sounded, as his stomach lurched, the gooey pulsing contents suddenly unburdened by the push and pull of planetary gravitational forces.

The Krell was free of Sorobel.

All four engines, their shrieking roar muted as the atmosphere fell behind, went dark, their job complete.

The human at the helm steadied himself, fighting the niggling sensation of impending regurgitation that his now-weightless innards craved to succumb to – every…single…time. Having dealt with that floating mess all too often, he paused…breathing…concentrating…letting it pass.

The alarm, late to the party as usual, had barely chimed to life before Banx slapped it as though punishing for its tardiness, silencing it mid-cry.

Into that silence, there came a light *clank*…from somewhere behind.

He craned around, expecting what greeted him – every unsecured item rising, drifting away from where stored, tossed or lost; gradually invading the open space of the module.

The sound – his drinking container, lightly ricocheting off the inner bulkhead as it drifted, untethered but harmless. The square of stained storage cover long ago appropriated as an ad hoc blanket now unfurled in slow motion, hanging in place over the open sleeping bench.

Trace complete, the hologram blinked off as a new data stream flashed into existence, overtaking a display. Exit achieved, he was in the corridor at last, the egress alignment perfect. The Krell was behaving as she should be, the multitude of small thrust ports dotting her exterior all firing with programmed precision, further pushing the freighter away from the planet’s clawing grasp, and onto the path to Likon.

Sorobel vanished, falling into The Krell’s wake and leaving only a mess of stars to dominate the view ahead.

His mind shifted back to the drifting flotsam that he’d allowed to encroach on his living space when he half-assed out of securing before take-off. A couple discarded cooking implements threatened to hover their way into the cockpit, hanging weightlessly before the threshold, looking like they were hatching a scheme.

The hard part done, Banx felt relief pass over…replaced almost immediately by a wash of fatigue – the debris of last night’s shenanigans again making themselves known. A profound lack of motivation accompanied the draining sensation, handily interfering with his plan to join the floating mess, to clean it from the inside out, plucking each errant floater from its drift and securing it accordingly.

Fuck that shit.

He had time.

Looking over his gauges, he made a lazy calculation, tripped a control prompt, and oh…so…slightly nudged the throttle.

Cloaked in the silence of space, the main engines flared again, the flash bright against the star-field, gone as quickly as it appeared, shoving the ship; a gentle push this time, careful not to alter trajectory.

Watching, Banx grinned as all floating items collected at the rear of the module as if under orders, rapidly piling together as the ship shunted forward, scooping them from their errant paths, thus rendered easier to gather…whenever he decided it was time to gather.

Or…it could all stay wherever the hell it falls…when it falls.

*shrugs*

In his current, low-battery-and-fading mode…he really didn’t give a shit. The blanket, now unfurled, gently settled over the gathered debris like a predator claiming prey, masking the mess’s composition from immediate scrutiny.

So far, so good.

The restraints poured themselves away and Banx was left floating in his loose, seated position, body verging on horizontal as he slowly drifted toward the low ceiling. Reaching the molded head-rest, he pivoted, twisting at the hips; a practiced move leaving him now facing downward.

A light slap from both hands launched him over the seat, leaving him gracefully drifting. At the last moment, he remembered to pull his feet up, just clearing the head-rest. Too many stubbed toes. As he did so, his heavy boots, the open latches standing free of gravity, swaying with every movement, slipped off, unveiling cracked and dirty feet that trailed behind as he floated out of the cockpit.

He was unconcerned, and left them drifting where they drifted.

Unhindered, Banx floated the length of the module…to where the blanket was splayed, hiding his belongs beneath its folds. Twisting again, he brought his legs around, poising his feet to brake as the bulkhead approached, alighting gently against the inner wall, knees bending to absorb the impact. He grabbed the fabric as he stopped, pulling it to him and unveiling its hidden treasures.

He glanced around, his mind already cataloguing items he could readily see…then, he was snapping eyes open, unaware they’d closed, his foggy mind elsewhere as he floated against the inner wall, the low hum of the reactor lulling him toward slumber; slumber he desperately needed…slumber he knew would claim him soon.

Still clutching the fabric, Banx launched back…using the cockpit’s seat to break momentum when he reached it, passing over and gently lowering back toward the gelled contours with a light push off the ceiling. He lightly swatted aside the obstruction that was his hovering footwear, both boots caught in a lazy spin between the seat and ceiling, too close for comfort. He didn’t notice where they flew or impacted…nor did he care.

Open space lay beyond the viewscreen, the inky darkness opaque to the point of intimidation as he bounced lightly off the seat, the reversed momentum threatening to gently send him ceiling-ward again, only stopped by quick fingers on an armrest, leaving him floating in place alongside the drifting blanket still in in his grasp.

Sorobel’s intruding heat had long ago bled out and Banx abruptly shivered, a light chill washing over, briefly shaking him from his growing stupor. The coolant system was working. The adverse surface temperatures below had robbed him of the inclination to prime the cabin’s environment control system while still planet-side…as he was just now realizing. The blanket’s ragged edges fluttered as he pulled it to him, wrapping it loosely around chilled shoulders, fighting to get bare legs covered.

Resigning himself to the insulated embrace of his improvised blanket, floating gently, Banx reached forward and darkened the cabin lights. Unhindered, the viewscreen filled further – a startling wash of additional glitters, the wispy blue and pink swirls of a young nebula strung across like a veil, curving gently.

Taking in this new majesty, his mind drifted, landing on a heart-felt ponderance – he actually wished that lil prick Deev well, knowing he was out there, somewhere among those stars, right now…and hoping that no trouble arose for the tough little Zii, and that their paths should cross again.

It was in that moment that Banx realized…I have a friend out here…and that friend’s name was Deev.

Small at this distance, the moon of Likon was faintly visible, small and pale at this distance, starboard off the freighter’s nose, dead-level in its bearing to the ship, purely by calculated design. No course correction needed – The Krell was locked on her drifting Intercept course, sadly not under Direct Thrust, fuel prices as they are.

His mind’s eye flashed another moon, this one boasting a child’s artistic impression of a face as seen from afar, bright against another starlit sky, and for another brief moment, Banx felt sadness for a place, a world, a home, that he couldn’t remember, no matter how hard he tried, no matter the frustrations or sorrow it caused. The data wasn’t there.

Not anymore.

Nothing but wispy fragments.

Except for the dreams, all those images so strange and alien, yet so familiar.

But as quickly as it came, it went, like the scattered dream debris of before, like the strange words and terms that come to him at strange times, in strange places.

Like now.

Banx pulled the blanket in a little tighter, feeling it smoothing out along his legs, his sealed wound barely noticed now, the spread of warmth even and tranquilizing. As his eyes narrowed on the cold grandeur of the Cosmos beyond theviewscreen, rest forcing its way in, yanking toward slumber, pulling toward more misty dream stuff from that other place…an odd sentence birthed, playing itself as the first untethered sleep narrative threatened to begin…

‘…snug, as a bug, in a rug…’

Like so much in the murky recesses of his mind, Banx knew he knew the term…but didn’t know why.

Shaking it off, a new sentiment bubbled to the surface, his eyes half-lidded and sliding…

…it’s good to have friends…

Sleep, soft and warm, claimed him then.

—

The small darkened craft drifted through the vacuum, on course to the next score, the dim running lights vanishing among the starlight, swallowed by the Cosmos.

THE END