by A. R. Knight
“How?” I whisper.
“This is designed only for Ooblot. No Sevora Flaum can drive this thing, can hit everything at once. It’d take an army of the critters and this place isn’t big enough for’em. Best way to ensure nobody steals it,” T’Oli says.
“There are thieves down here?”
The thing’s motor starts up and its metallic rumbling begins and then we’re rocking forward.
“Some,” T’Oli says. “Where Clarity’s Dawn is those of us who escaped our hosts and want to do something about it, there’s plenty who don’t care; the injured, the ones no Sevora wants to keep? They get discarded. The worst, though, are the ones that want their masters back. That try to hurt us to prove they’re still worth keeping.”
“What do they eat and drink down here?”
“All depends on your standards,” T’Oli replies. “The lower those get, the more options you have.”
With most of its body immersed in the controls, the only part of T’Oli that’s talking to me is two eye stalks and a small oval of cream smashed against the central terminal. When T’Oli quivers, the voice it produces now is a much higher pitch than before.
I step up beside T’Oli, look out towards the tube. The Beast’s bright lights are shining and guiding us. Now that I can actually see it, the tube’s insides are steely gray and caked with what must’ve been seasons and seasons of muck and grime. Who knows when it’s last been cleaned, or what disgusting things I’d been walking through.
I try to think of something else.
The Beast moves quick and before long were back at the vast central cylinder. And there, across it, I see Malo standing watch while Vieira, curled as far up as she could to get out of the dirt, seemingly sleeps.
“Can you hear me?” I say.
A moment later a light blinks green on one of the terminals.
“Now they can,” T’Oli chirps.
“Don’t worry,” I say, unsure of how to announce the fact that this giant machine monstrosity is not, in fact, an enemy. “It’s me, Kaishi.”
I can tell from the confused looks – Viera startles and almost falls into the muck – that they don’t understand. So I try again.
“I’m inside this thing, it’s like a moving building. Like the ships we were inside before.”
“Are you okay?” Malo shouts back.
“Fine, and I found a friend. We’re going to help you get over.”
“Is it another Sevora?” Viera asks.
“No such thing, and I’ll thank you not to call me that.” T’Oli burbles.
There’s a large chunk and the Beast emits the same metal whine it did when it pulled me in. Through the glass I see the metal grate that must’ve pushed me not long ago extending into the tube. It’s wide and flat, and slotted with holes. Like the nets we use back home - big enough to catch what T’Oli wants without bringing the slime along.
The grate extends out meter after meter and then stops. There’s another quick ding and the grate rotates until it becomes flat.
“We use this as a lift to from time to time,” T’Oli explains. “The thing is, Clarity’s Dawn doesn’t have a whole lot of machines, so we get the most out of what we have.”
“It’s too far,” I say.
There’s a good three meters from the edge of the grate to where Viera and Malo stand.
“I did say you’d have to jump,” T’Oli replies.
“It can’t go any farther!” I yell to Malo and Viera. “Do you think you can jump it?”
“No!” Viera yells back.
Malo, though, squats and stares. Straightens. “I think—“
There’s a bright flash from behind them. Red, and it echoes along the tube until the light floods the main central chamber, then keeps on going past us. Rolling behind the light is a rumbling noise that sounds like thunder.
“Echo bomb,” T’Oli says. “We gotta move. That light means the Sevora are bouncing sounds around here, trying to gauge what it hits. Guess you three are really valuable.”
“Hurry!” I shout.
Malo says something to Viera that I can’t hear. I lean forward and watch as Viera argues, sighs and shrugs. There’s a bang as a second cascade of red comes through and both Malo and Viera turn their heads to look back on the tube. Viera’s hands again grab at her waist for miners that aren’t there.
“Just hold it steady,” Malo yells our way.
Malo backs up, Viera kneels down, and, shaking her head, leans forward, gets her knees in the muck and presses her hands onto the hard tube floor at the very edge.
Malo runs. He clomps at first up towards the side of the tube, building up speed, then swings back to the middle - kicking up sprays of slop - and plants his left foot on Viera’s back. Squats and leaps, flying forward towards the metal grate.
I catch the moment: one sprawling second of Malo, Charre warrior, floating through the air with hands windmilling, legs splaying as he flies towards the metal grate. My breath catches in my throat and comes out in a rush when Malo clangs against the edge and, his fingers gripping into the holes, pulls himself up. Malo lays there for a second before springing back to his feet.
“Your turn Viera,” Malo says.
But she doesn’t have the boost. There’s no way.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“Being stupid,” Viera calls back.
Now the light behind them is white. The same sort of running light that the Beast has. They’re out of time.
Viera takes the steps, running hard, running fast, plants her foot at the edge of the tube, and it slips. She’s jumping, but it’s not far enough. Her hand stretches out and Malo slides to the edge of the grate and leans.
And catches Viera’s wrist.
Malo’s dangling there, holding on with his left hand. His feet - every toe slipped through the holes and holding - brace while his right hand reaches, scrabbles to pull Viera up.
Then the Sevora arrive.
10 Deals and Danger
If the Junkyard’s Rest looks every bit the workmanlike bar, Nova fails in its attempt to be a restaurant of class.
Sax’s experience with these places is limited - Vincere craft aren’t known for their upscale dining options - but he doesn’t have to look hard to see the many cracks in this operation.
Nova is nestled among a residential spoke, surrounded by the slim apartments every space station provides. Sax guesses, from the sizes and number of doorways, that this spoke is the lesser of the two Scrapper Station offers.
That opinion is seconded by the lighting, which strives for the bright blue of a healthy planet but settles for a hazy yellowed version instead, as if someone had released a cloud of mustard in the sky.
Nova announces itself by a spinning, bursting globe over its front doorway, a design that casts alternating white and sapphire-blue balls to the outer edges of its spiral.
The light show continues inside, where tables, chairs, food pits and other layouts meant for specific species dazzle Sax’s eyes with their constant effects.
How could anything survive in here without going insane?
“Interested in grabbing a seat?” a young Flaum, looking entirely bored with everything, asks him as Sax walks into the place.
“Looking for the owner,” Sax replies.
“She’s in back,” the Flaum says. “But if you’re going in, you’ll want one of these.”
The Flaum points to a basket of what look like rubberized bandannas.
“Those are?”
“Easier if you just try one on,” the Flaum, who’s showing no signs of fear at the sight of Sax’s clawed, scarred, monstrous self, tosses one of the black things at him.
Sax catches it with a claw. Stares at it. It looks just like a strip of clothing.
“You’ve got eyes, right?” the Flaum says. “Put it over them.”
“Is this a trick?”
“Nah. It’s part of the show. Twillo bought a whole container of these on a whim, which is why the
restaurant looks so bad.”
Sax hesitates, then figures that it’s unlikely the restaurant would have some method of incapacitating an Oratus right at its entrance, waiting for him.
So he slips the bandanna on. The rubber seems to come alive as it slides onto his head, growing to match his dimensions and settling over his eyes.
Which changes everything.
Now the glaring lights aren’t blinding, they’re mesmerizing. They don’t simply spin on the backs of tables and chairs, but seem to lift off and glide through the space, and when Sax takes a step, it’s like he’s walking through a world of stars.
“Pretty neat, right?” the Flaum says. “Bet this place would be doing better if Twillo could get people to put these on first.”
“How?” is the only thing Sax can think to ask.
Beyond the floating stars, Sax can see streaking comets, the occasional bursts of light too - as if one of the stars happens to go supernova.
“Different spectrums, projections and mirrors, I think,” the Flaum says. “Don’t really know, but it’s cool.” She hesitates while Sax takes another long look around the space. “You, uh, still want to go find Twillo?”
Sax gives an absent nod. He might be a murderous weapon hellbent on getting off this station, but he’ll take a moment to appreciate something beautiful.
Nova’s back is nothing like its front - trading enchantment and effects for the usual dirty gray drudgery of a space station kitchen. Species - mainly Flaum - run dishware and ovens, burning the solar energy the station gets from refracting mirrors on its hull. They spare Sax glances, and he gets some satisfaction from their twitches, but the staff otherwise holds to their duties with remarkable determination. He’ll have to tell this to Twillo.
Or at least, that’s his plan until he actually sees her, in a small office hiding beyond the kitchen.
“You’ve got a guest, Twillo,” the Flaum announces, then vanishes.
Twillo, though, responds more like what Sax would expect. As soon as the door shunts open, as soon as Twillo catches sight of Sax, of what Sax is, she bursts upward, cups her limbs into her and launches towards the far corner, tiny wings flapping furiously. When she makes the corner, her four limbs spring back out, their sticky fingers spreading like webs against the corner’s sides and locking her in place.
“Been a long time since I’ve seen a Quib,” Sax hisses, then steps into the office.
He looks up at Twillo, whose round ball of body is changing colors rapidly, trying, no doubt, to find the perfect shade of old metal gray to blend in.
“I can see you,” Sax continues, then reaches up with his right foreclaw, almost touching Twillo, who presses herself back. “And I could touch you, if I wanted to.”
The words have a deflating effect on Twillo, who stops her fluttering and shifts to a dull yellow color. As they slow down, her wings - solid, thin strips of flesh - settle against her sides like a layered blanket.
“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Twillo says, her voice high-pitched and vibrating, coming from the small proboscis extending between her four tiny eyes. “The last time I saw an Oratus, they were tearing apart my home.”
“It wasn’t yours any longer.” The Quib’s home planet had been overrun by Sevora, and not all that long ago in galactic timescales.
Only a cycle had passed since the Oratus had cleansed every last life from that planet. That the Quib still existed at all was due to the ones that had been offworld at the time, and the ones the Amigga had grown afterward.
“You can’t lose your home,” Twillo replies. “I take it with me, wherever I go.”
“Lovely,” Sax says. “But I’m not hear to talk about your home. There’s a Vyphen, Plake, who’s trying to sell you some food. I want you to buy it.”
Twillo ruffles her wings. Keeps her limbs tight. “Why should I care what you think?”
“Because this claw can carve you into pieces before anyone could, even if they would, help?”
Twillo’s four little eyes dart to Sax’s upraised foreclaw.
“What does that matter? I have a restaurant on Scrapper Station, one of the worst places in the galaxy. Killing me would be doing me a favor.”
“And the people that work for you? What would they do?”
“An Oratus appealing to compassion?” Twillo’s laugh sounds like a monotone buzz.
“Then what can I appeal to? Why won’t you buy the food?”
“Because I can’t!” Twillo shoots back. “The Ooblots control this station, and they determine who I can buy from.”
“They don’t like Plake?”
“I don’t know!” Twillo says. “They just told me I couldn’t get anything from her, no matter how good it looks. Have you seen the nutrients she has? I think they were meant for an Amigga!”
Sax settles back against the door. Closes his eyes for a moment. He’s well past his sleeping point for this shift, which means he’ll be tired while Bas is off. And it doesn’t look like he’ll have an answer for her yet.
“There’s nothing you can give me?” Sax says, and he hates the resignation in his voice.
“You want to go to the Ooblots, you’d better have something to offer,” Twillo replies. “They don’t give away anything for free. Anything.”
Sax flexes his claws again. Ooblots are hard to kill, though. They have a nasty habit of turning to rocks as soon as they’re threatened.
“I like your decorations,” Sax hisses, then turns and leaves before Twillo can respond.
With his time almost up, Sax heads back to the casino, already knowing he’ll need plenty of stimulant to get him through this shift.
Twillo’s remarks, though, give him a plan. Next time he’s off - after some necessary sleep - he’ll march to wherever those Ooblots running the station have set themselves and figure out some way of getting them to buy Plake’s food.
Sax hisses at the thought, causing a few species wandering past him to look over in alarm. There’s too many webs here, too many connections. It should be straightforward - Sax provides a service, namely, not wiping Plake from the galaxy, and in return she gets to keep her life and receives a little payoff from either the Vincere or Evva, whomever they happen to find first.
Sax turns this over in his head until he reaches the casino, at which point all thoughts of Plake, her ship, or the Ooblots vanish.
The casino itself is packed. Species jam themselves into every cranny, some climbing on others, just trying to get a look towards the middle. Even so, Sax doesn’t have much trouble pushing his way through - nobody wants to annoy something with this many claws.
Around the central bar, punctuated by plenty of broken bottles and sprays of powder, stand Bas facing off with D’Arscale and two of its Luto guards. Around them, scattered throughout the casino, are the ruins of a fight - broken furniture, sprays of blood and other things. The telltale burns of miners.
What Sax notices first, though, what narrows his eyes into a red-flint haze, is that Bas is bleeding. She’s cut and beat up, and while her claws are still ready, held wide and sharp, it’s clear she’s tired, wary.
“Here he comes, to add to this disaster,” D’Arscale announces as Sax pushes his way through. “Maybe you can get your pair to see reason.”
“They attacked me first,” Bas replies.
“Even so, slaughter will not be tolerated in my business,” D’Arscale says, then the Ooblot swivels an eye stalk to take in the crowd. “Though perhaps this will serve as a lesson to everyone that my staff is not to be toyed with.”
“This was an ambush,” Bas hisses, her claws clenching. “They wanted me dead.”
“Welcome to Scrapper Station - everyone’s wanted dead by someone here,” D’Arscale replies. “But we have to cling to the semblance of civilization anyway.”
“Where are they?” Sax interrupts.
“Oh, your pair took care of them well enough. This station’s down five residents today, all thanks to her.”
Sax strides over next to Bas, they touch their noses for a second. He smells no fear on her, only exhaustion, and Sax takes a deep breath through his vents.
Calm.
“They want to imprison me for defending myself,” Bas whispers. “Even though they came at me with knives, attacked my back, I’m the one who pays for it.”
“I believe they paid for it well enough,” D’Arscale gestures at several spatters of drying blood. “And you can bet repairing all this damage will cost me plenty too. I thought having Oratus would help me, would keep me safe, but you both attract more trouble than you’re worth.”
Imprisonment on Scrapper Station would lead to one of two things: being sold off the station for a profit to whomever wanted them, or being jettisoned out an airlock if a buyer couldn’t be found.
Neither is an appealing option.
D’Arscale waits, with his Luto guards, while the murmuring crowd looks on.
The Oratus make their decision with a tap of their tails on each other.
To call what happens next a fight would be an insult to the word - Sax and Bas leap, together, at the Luto guards and before either can pull a weapon, both Oratus have their tails wrapped tight around the Luto heads, leaving no illusions about what would happen should their victims struggle. Luto might be rock, but smash them against each other and they’ll break apart easy enough.
Eight claws and two slicing mouths turn towards D’Arscale, who reacts in the same way all Ooblot cowards do; by turning itself to near-solid stone.
“That will not save you,” Sax hisses.
It would buy D’Arscale a bit of time - as long as it takes Sax to throw his Luto away, pick up the Ooblot with his tail and start smashing it against the ground.
“Then let’s negotiate,” D’Arscale replies, the flapping words coming from the tiny section of flesh it’s left open for this purpose.
The Ooblot’s voice is small, meek and pathetic.
“You threatened us,” Bas replies. “Under Chorus rule, such an act gives us the right to eliminate you at our discretion.”
“Though not discretely,” Sax hisses.
“I get it, I get it,” D’Arscale patters. “But what will that get you? More guards will be here soon, and will you fight the entire station? Even you both could not manage that, and if you could without dying, what would you get?”