by C. Vandyke
“Then what’s your angle?”
Arlan slid his hand around Melody’s waist and gave a light squeeze. “Don’t be rude.”
“It’s okay, Arlan,” Gyl said, raising a hand. “It’s good to have a healthy dose of skepticism. And yet…”
“And yet what?” Melody asked, inching Arlan’s hand off of her with her own.
“And yet you’ve heard the winds. I can see it in your face. Just like I saw it in his years ago.” Gyl gave a subtle nod to Arlan. “Not many have. At least not many that have truly heard them.”
Melody swallowed as her heart picked up pace. She eyed Gyl as they turned toward the bar and raised a hand into the air.
“One mug of Udder Chaos for the lass,” they called to the barkeep. Within moments, a white, frothy beverage appeared on the bar. Gyl lifted it toward her, waiting for her to take it.
“What is it?”
“Crimson Cog special,” Arlan said, taking the mug from Gyl and raising it to his lips. When he lowered the cup, a small milky moustache stayed behind. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth and offered the mug to Melody. “Rustowne’s the only place you can get it. Made from milk imported from Elysium. It’s divine.”
“Let me ask you,” Gyl said, focusing on Melody. “What did you hear?”
Melody averted her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Arlan here has heard many things. Do you doubt his experience?”
“No, of course not.” She glanced up to meet Arlan’s face. He looked down at her with expectant eyes, the color dim in low light.
“Then what did the winds say to you?”
“If you really are Gyl of ancient Bolwall, then wouldn’t you know what they say? Or do you just enjoy tugging people’s sails?”
“The storms speak to those who are worthy. While it’s true I was there when they began, I’ve never crossed through them and back to my old city. I have my theories just as the rest of them.”
Melody crossed her arms and let out a small sigh. “I heard the word ‘hatch’, I think. Yeah… hatch gall-something. Jibberish.”
The bar grew silent as the patrons turned toward her. Melody’s eyes traveled across the room at the faces staring at her.
“What’d I say?”
Gyl assessed the growing tension in the room. “Hatch Galahad?”
“She heard from Hatch Galahad!” a voice burst from across the room as murmured whispers erupted throughout the tavern.
Gyl looked to Arlan, a smile growing across their face. “You seem to have found your missing piece.”
Arlan pulled his hat off and removed the fragile parchment from the lining. He laid it out on the bar and ran a finger over his inscriptions. Gyl offered an inked quill from somewhere behind the bar, and Arlan began absentmindedly scrawling something onto the page. Melody squeezed between them and peered over Arlan’s shoulder at his hand as it swept across the page, leaving droplets of ink in its wake.
Gyl lowered his voice, speaking to Melody in a volume meant only for her. “Hatch Galahad was the young boy who fell into the well, before the well was as it is now. The boy who created the storms. The boy who started my journey over a century ago.”
Melody huffed, adjusting in her seat. “I don’t believe in sailor legends and pirates’ tales. You’re as much a con as I am. I know ‘em when I see them. And you’re here, taking advantage of people from all over who want a taste of make-believe. How many people fell to the storms for you to humor yourself?”
“You’re right. But not about all of it. I am a con. A con in that I don’t truly know what lies beyond the storms. I know as much as you, or your fellow, or anyone else seeking a bit of enlightenment or adventure. But I do know there’s something unexplained there. Pirates and thrill-seekers have tried endlessly to explore it. Deep down, I think you know. You don’t drop everything and travel across the horizon with a man like Arlan and accidentally end up in a place like this—a place where the raging storms speak their secrets to those willing to listen. And as much as you don’t want to accept it… you like a bit of adventure, yourself.”
“So what if I do?”
“Because I believe you’re his key, if not the key to all of it. Arlan learned what he could, but Hatch wasn’t willing to let him cross. Not on his own, anyway. Living forever shouldn’t be available to everyone. I should know.”
Melody shot a glance to Arlan, still furiously scribbling. “What do you mean ‘his key?’”
“It’s the same as I told Arlan: you must have a purpose in order to survive endlessly.”
“What’s your purpose then?”
“I believe it’s to ensure I save as many explorers as I can. And you’re right… I have many deaths on my hands from those who wouldn’t heed my warnings. If anything, I exist as a warning of what immortality costs. I didn’t have a choice when I befell my fate, so I’m meant to hold another’s hand as they choose theirs.”
Melody couldn’t bring herself to look at Arlan. “And him? What’s Arlan’s purpose?”
“Exploration,” Arlan breathed, turning to join their conversation, a smile plastered across his face. “Us. Exploring together. Just like we planned.”
“Those were daydreams.” Melody frowned, placing her hand to Arlan’s cheek. “Not reality.”
“What if they could be?” Arlan held up the parchment, the gold flickering like small flames in his eyes. “What do you say? Live forever with me?”
Creators of the Sky
Illustrated by TBL Kobka
BOOK 4: PIRATES OF THE STARS
Map of the World’s End Galaxy
Illustrated by Chris Van Dyke
Last Ship to Trenchfall
Harry F. Rey
For a man who hated standing still, Abraxes sure wasn’t traveling very far. Except the ten feet from the bar to the bathroom. A captain without an interstellar license was as useless as a pirate with a conscience, and Abraxes was firmly both.
“Get you another?” Asked the bar-bot, mechanical bones clicking under cheap skin cells hued a sickly green. Only the turbulent haze of the Maelstrom illuminated the darkness of Bandomas’ Bar. Warning lights flashing around the asteroids made up for the lack of a sun to structure an orbit. Here in the Maelstrom, it was always night, and on this part of Tunis at least, always damp.
“Why not?” Abraxes said, stroking the fraying dreadlocks of his wiry black beard. The bar-bot squirted liquid the color of weak piss into an iron goblet, stuck by heavy magnets to the table given the frequent ‘roid quakes. Abraxes stared through the port-hole windows at the passing rocks and the dirty rainbow trails they left behind. Boots against the bar stool, Abraxes wiped condensation from the window and peered down, catching sight of the asteroid’s large lower ridge where Seawatch sat. Antenna and radio ‘scopes swarmed the lower third of Tunis, straining to catch any hint of the Kraken.
Abraxes gazed in quiet awe at the distant glint of shining jewels from the Ekidnolk Golem, the fabled multi-tentacular arachnidian statue surging upwards from Seawatch, searching for signs of the Kraken in a way few humans understood. Abraxes knew it was infinitely more effective than any array of white-dish radio telescopes could ever be. If anyone bothered to ask him, humanity’s focus should be on searching the galaxy for the last of the fifteen Ekidnolk Gems to complete the Golem. Then the multi-dimensional Kraken would supposedly burst forth from the Lighthouse and it could be captured. Such were the legends Abraxes had heard since he was old enough to sneak through vents and listen to secret conversations. If only that adventurous little boy could have known wanderlust would lead close enough to the Kraken for everything he’d ever held dear to be snatched away like some passing comet. But the Watchers didn’t want Abraxes’ hard-earned opinions. In fact, they didn’t even want him anywhere near Seawatch.
“That’s what you’re giving me?” Abraxes complained to the artificial intelligence behind the bar. Although intelligence was a strong word to use. He snapped his magnetized goblet from the bar and sn
iffed the barely fizzing beverage.
“Nogah ale pumps are operating at an acceptable capacity.”
“You’re not putting this on my tab.”
“Please provide your MVT code to register a complaint.”
“Oh, buzz off.” Abraxes jumped from the stool, scaring the bar-bot. He might as well drink the frothy, fizz-free ale. He wasn’t planning on paying the tab, anyway. From the depths of his long coat, now frayed with mold thanks to Tunis’ forever-damp walls and leaking pipes, Abraxes pulled out his closed electron pad. He snapped open the thin metal sticks and spread it across the damp bar, and the pad sparked into life.
Bazman invests billions into Forden’s Cove cleanup operation. Abraxes quickly glanced over his shoulder, but the bar was still empty, save for drips from the ceiling pipes and animatronic scurrying along the floor. He could safely read on.
Bazman’s Planetary Council has formally approved funding to repair the damage following the brazen raid by galactic outlaw Abraxes. The shocking invasion saw engine powered asteroids rain down across the pleasure continent, destroying wildlife and damaging resort hotels, not to mention the personal property thieved by Abraxes’ interstellar pirates. Qozarx champion Dianna D’Argon, injured in the raid, increased the reward offered for any information which could lead to—
“Reading about yourself again, Abraxes?”
“Meital!” Abraxes said, spinning round as his first officer leaned across the bar, flicking back long silver hair across their mechanized body suit, today configured into the form of a buxom human female. “Infinity, I thought you were the Revenue Service.”
“Nah,” Meital replied, their piston-powered hand snapping the goblet from the bar and taking a long sip. Ale dribbled down their chin, running down the bare skin of their neck and shoulders, quietly sizzling as it reached the ridged line across Meital’s chest where body suit met skin. “Muffy Dillinger’s jaw would drop if he caught sight of these tits and this ass.” Meital smacked the half-empty goblet onto the bar. “This ale tastes like Parson Thrull’s piss.”
“I’ll buy you a Lactarian Malt then, just tell me. Did you get into Seawatch?”
“I told you I would.”
“And?”
“I did.”
“So? Do they have a date for the Kraken’s reappearance? Will it be at the Lighthouse? Thu’Alar? The Emu’s Head? Give me something!”
“Trenchfall,” Meital said. Abraxes involuntarily shushed her.
“The protected planet?” he hissed. “Why would the Kraken—”
“No, you pegged-leg moon brain. Trenchfall is where we need to go.”
Abraxes leaned closer. No spacefarers were allowed on Trenchfall, and even flying to the Valdian Gateway orbiting above the closed world could raise serious questions.
“I found a Watchman who would talk,” Meital continued. “Well, I found several, but he was the most… well-equipped.” Meital flicked their hair and grinned.
“Spare me, please.”
“Fine. The rumors we heard on Cold Harbor about a multiverse map are true. He didn’t say they had it, but… he didn’t say they didn’t, either.” Meital took another drink of the ale before twisting their lips in disgust. “Anyway, to read said map, we need the last Ekidnolk Gem still to be discovered.”
“So?”
“So! It’s the decoding key.”
“The what?”
“Oh, come on, Abraxes. Did that sub-orbital invasion of Bazman screw your circuits? The legend of the decoding key Diamond De Beers smuggled up from Trenchfall. The one Captain Braddock allegedly lost when they got spooked by Parson Thrull.”
“Infinity, you’re right.” Abraxes gulped in shock. Finally, the fragments of stories smuggled like stolen goods knitted together in his mind.
“Bet their radio ‘scopes never knew that,” Meital said. “All we need to do is head to Valdian, find the decoding key, bring it to the Watchmen, read the map, and hey babango, we’ll know where the Kraken is meant to re-appear.”
“And finally capture the beast,” Abraxes whispered, shivering in the freezing memory of how the Kraken had ripped everything that had ever warmed his heart.
“I still prefer selling the information on and letting some other chump race through the multiverse to capture a deadly Kraken, but one system at a time.”
“Brilliant work,” Abraxes said, jumping up from the stool and snapping away his pad. Blood rushed through his aching body as adventure called. Just getting off this stinking, mouldy ‘roid would— Wait. I don’t have a license to fly. I’m outlawed. We’re banned from leaving the Maelstrom, how are we… why are you smiling? Meital, no. There must be another way. No. I won’t.”
“Oh yes, you will.”
“I can’t.”
Meital grabbed Abraxes’ coat collar and pulled him close.
“Listen, Captain. If I can slide open my hard drive to every Watchman in Tunis, you can make nice to Franx.”
“He won’t do it.”
“Like infinity he won’t. The chance to discover the last Ekidnolk Gem and have every scallywag in the Maelstrom licking his boots for a crumb of power? Franx would sacrifice his own mother for the chance to fly you there.”
“Even if she was the Empress of thu’Alar.”
“I can’t believe you fell for the tall tales of a Delving Prime scrap-heap boy.”
“What can I say,” Abraxes shrugged. “That scrap-heap scoundrel is cute.”
“If you say so.” Meital rolled their eyes. “Come on, I found us a place on a mining transport to Delving Prime.”
The more he thought about it, the more Abraxes had to admit Meital was right. Franx dreamed of forming his own powerful gang, even becoming Lord of the Maelstrom. He would dive feet first into this mission, probably tell everyone they were successful even if they came home empty-handed. Abraxes sucked in a deep breath and sighed. He suddenly wished he’d filled his unpaid bar tab with Lactarian Malts. It was time to go make nice to his young ex-lover, and hope Franx was the type to forgive and forget.
The journey to Restless Home, the asteroid home to Delving Prime and Franx, was bumpier than Abraxes anticipated. He didn’t care about the sudden drops or near misses of the mining shuttle through the generally unnavigable Maelstrom. He just cared that he wasn’t the one piloting the ship. That last raid on Baldomar had reverted his pilot’s license back into the molecules it had been made from, and the same fate would await Abraxes if he were caught behind the controls of a ship again. He knew enough bounty hunters to make himself a target worth tracking. Meital was the lucky one. Melting into a passenger’s bench, they shut off their body suit and were out like a light the minute the transport took off. Of course, falling asleep during a bumpy flight was exactly how Meital ended up in a body suit in the first place.
Every astringent asteroid tail that ricocheted against the hull and splattered rainbow space dust against the porthole window was another reminder of one of Abraxes’ death-defying escapes. Truly, he should have lost his life—or been cast in a body suit many moons ago. If the Kraken had anything to do with it, he would have died along with the rest of his crew... back then. He would have died along with the only sentient being he’d ever truly loved.
“Welcome to Restless Home,” chimed a robotic voice as the ore transport shuddered into a cavern deep inside the asteroid. They would have to dig even deeper to reach Delving Prime, the original ore mine who’s warren of tunnels should have been abandoned long ago.
After disembarking from the shuttle, Meital followed Abraxes through the arrivals hall, filled almost entirely with workers looking for their next job. They hung around stairways to nowhere, making camp under dripping ceilings or exhaust pipes. They carried their own tools on their backs; heavy electro-cutters or magno-trowels. Abraxes knew fine well those were more effective, and more often used, as weapons than ore extraction equipment.
At least there were no Revenue Service agents haunting these parts, just the rough dregs of vi
olent life that stalked the Maelstrom, grunting and glaring as they passed by. They’d shed the other passengers who’d disembarked with them, and now walked quickly through a wide, endless corridor with flickering anbaric lights and puddles of gas runoff eating through the floor. Abraxes stopped at a crossroads. He glanced over the rusty railing at another staircase below, disappearing forwards at least, into a dark tunnel. Maybe that was the right way? How to get down there was another question entirely.
“Lost?” Meital asked, examining their reflection in a dirty puddle of rainbow liquid. “Cuz maybe you wanna get found pretty soon.”
Abraxes glanced where Meital pointed. Thumping echoed along the corridor from a grump of too many mine workers in an air car, so it kept smacking into the ground. The workers waved their weapons—mine tools—straight at them.
“Oh shit,” Abraxes said, catching sight of the angriest of the half dozen workers. She held aloft a pronged flame-guarder, swinging her metal shoulders in every direction.
“Abraxes!” she screamed as the air car chundered up broken tiles from the floor. “I’m gonna kill you.”
“Hmm,” Meital said, arms casually folded while the angry workers shot straight for them. “Didn’t think that was your type.”
“Not really,” Abraxes said breathlessly, awkwardly climbing over the railing. Meital did it with a smooth body suit-powered backwards flip. “Typical misunderstanding.” His feet now dangling in the gap twenty feet at least to the stairway below, he tried to shimmy towards the wall. “That’s Sali. She owed me money… long time ago. I kidnapped one of her husbands. He fell in love with me.”
“With you?” Meital said, hopping from one ledge to the next with pressurized ease while Abraxes’ arms were ready to pop from their sockets.
“I was much younger then.”
“And here I was thinking you’d improved with age.” Meital was already on the staircase beneath. Abraxes heaved himself up, hoping to make a leap to the nearby ledge like Meital had done. Above, though, the boots of five angry workers pounded the floor as they ran straight for him, weapons revving up. The air car had shed its excess weight as only Sali was in it, reversing out of a dent in the wall.
