by Edward Zajac
Somnians tended to have opalescent skin, aquiline noses, and dark, ebon eyes. There were Bylarians with their ageless beauty; thin and lanky, their taut skin outlining every bone in their skull. There were Lassens with their golden skin and Corsens with their mottled faces.
The list went on and on.
But they were all pretty much the same. At least, on the outside. And many species could even interbreed, even though they had evolved light-years away from each other.
For some, this proved the existence of a God for only a divine deity, as if there were any other kind, would demand such order in a chaotic universe. For others, this seemed altogether reasonable in a universe full of carbon and hydrogen, where water seemed to be the building block for all sentient and non-sentient life. There were even a select few who believed that this reality was simply the creation of a hack writer whose brain was too insignificant and imagination too limited to imagine anything more complex than this quotidian existence.
Zagarat considered that last theory for a moment. But then reconsidered his consideration when he considered the fact that many who had promoted the Hack Writer Theory of Existence had died horrible, unspeakable deaths after voicing their consideration, which considering this consideration was probably a consideration worth considering, all things considered.
The main thoroughfare was like one enormous zoo, filled with exotic sentients Zag had never even seen before. Not even on the nexus. There were bipeds and tripeds, as well as a few no-peds at all. There were huge, amorphous creatures with tentacles instead of arms, and eyes in very odd places. There was even one enormous creature that must have been eight feet tall; his skin azure blue and his body one big wall of muscle.
At least, so it felt when Zag accidentally bumped into him.
“Merree so-reee,” boomed the creature, tapping Zag lightly on the head before leaving.
“What was that?” asked Zagarat, transfixed by the sight.
“That, my friend, was a Weiylan,” said Fletcher. “One of the lucky ones.”
“Oh,” gasped Zagarat. “Wow.”
“Come on,” said Fletcher. “Let me show you around the place.”
Fletcher began his tour in alpha sector, the main thoroughfare of Aluna Station. In the center of the station was a giant arboretum where ever-blooming flowers from various planets cast their heady scent into the air, gracing the area with a bit of redolence and color. The main attraction was a Yoren tree that must have been at least three miles long. It started in the bowels of the station and stretched all the way to the plasticene dome above where a wave gate was operating off in the distance. The main offices of the Magi Corporation were located nearby, opaque plastiglass walls looking down at the station below.
There were countless pubs and restaurants scattered throughout the station—from your highbrow establishments to those places where even the cockroaches had too much integrity to enter. Fletcher seemed to know them all, which seemed to say a great deal about the privateer.
Merchants peddled their wares at every corner, ranging from inner-system farmers to electronics merchants, to those who sold rather questionable wares that my cousin found while rummaging through his ship and I could not possibly sell it to you for less than five hundred credits. All right. One hundred. But don’t tell anyone else. I have a reputation to maintain.
Evidently, those vendors were the toughest to find because they never stayed in any one part of the station, but wandered wherever the winds of commerce would take them.
Delta Sector was where the affluent sentients spent most of their time. And most of their credits. The entire place was immaculately white, automobots running along the walls, floors, and ceilings, attacking any blemish with reckless abandon. There was a central atrium with a café, lounge, and a posh restaurant called MINO.
Zagarat assumed MINO stood for Money Is No Object.
Enormous murals decorated the walls outside MINO, changing their picturesque setting every few minutes. The force field shielded openings on the walls looked like vivid vignettes of space life while high above, a transparent dome perfectly framed a wave gate for all to admire.
“It must be nice to be rich,” Zagarat mused aloud.
“Nice, but boring,” said Fletcher. “If you want to meet the interesting sentients in the universe, then come with me to Grey Sector.”
Zag frowned. “The Aluna Station Info Guide didn’t say anything about a grey sector.”
“Like I said,” said Fletcher. “You can’t learn everything from a PCD.”
Fletcher led Zagarat down to the bowels of the station. Or so it felt. The walls were grey and grimy, riddled with graffiti and what Zagarat hoped was only chocolate.
Although, it didn’t smell very much like chocolate.
“Officially, this section is known as Epsilon Sector,” said Fletcher, weaving his way through the throng. “But most of the locals call it grey sector. Or the bowels of hell. Or ugly, which it is in many respects. I personally think of it as a spiritual place.”
“A spiritual place?” said Zagarat, looking around at the filth. “This?”
“Absolutely,” said Fletcher. “You better be fairly certain where you are going in the afterlife because someone down here is going to try and hasten your journey there.” The privateer smirked. “But it’s a whole lot more fun.”
Zagarat rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious,” Fletcher continued. “Even the billboard vids here are much more interesting. In alpha sector, they’re all the same sterile ads and Public Service Vids, from the same ever-smiling, ever-vapid looking models. ‘Welcome to Aluna Station. Your patronage is much appreciated. Security is our utmost priority, so please report any suspicious activity to station security. Thank you for dealing with the Magi Corporation and please enjoy your stay on Aluna Station.’ All boring ads, sanitized for your approval.” Fletcher drew Zagarat in close, pointing him towards a vidwall. “Now the vids in grey sector, they are much more interesting.”
An ad began to play. “Have you been experiencing some mild discomfort below? You know, the kind of itch that just won’t go away. Then stop sleeping with prostitutes, you idiot! This message brought to you by the Committee for a Cleaner and Brighter Tomorrow.”
Another ad began to play. “Do you or someone you know have a gambling problem? Dr. Olef Houng will give you 10:1 odds on a full recovery. Located right between Big Stan’s Slot Emporium and L’ee L’long’s Casino Expectular, mention this ad and we’ll enter you in a raffle to win a brand new hovercraft. Dr. Houng bets on a brighter future, won’t you?”
“Ooh,” said Fletcher excitedly, pulling Zagarat in closer. “This one’s my favorite.”
Another ad started innocently enough. “To all Aluna Station visitors. We regret to inform you that due to recent budget cuts our security detail has been cut in half. Because of this, petty crime has been on the rise. So, please check your valuables and report anything lost or stolen to your nearest authorities. Thank you for dealing with us and enjoy your stay on Aluna Station.”
Fletcher slapped his knee in delight. “Wasn’t that stellar?”
“I don’t get it,” said Zagarat. “It was just a PSA. What’s so stellar about that?”
“That’s what’s awesome,” said Fletcher. “Everyone thinks it’s just another Magi PSA. And so, every time that message plays, all the newbies to grey sector begin patting their pockets or chest or wherever they keep their valuables. Now, do you see?”
“Uh,” said Zagarat, awkwardly. “Not really, no.”
“When that happens, all the pickpockets get to see where the newbies keep their valuables.”
Zagarat gasped. “You mean that’s a hacked PSA? Do the authorities know about that?”
Fletcher shrugged. “Who knows? But it’s sunning great to watch.”
“You mean, it actually works?” said Zagarat.
Just then, a nondescript stranger bumped into Zag. The stranger apologized meekly and turned to leave when F
letcher grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“You could say that,” said Fletcher, retrieving an item from the stranger’s coat pocket.
“Hey, that’s my sonic dissembler!” exclaimed Zagarat.
“Oh, goodness,” said the nondescript man. (And it wasn’t easy for him to be a nondescript man. He had to spend hours before the mirror in order to look so utterly unremarkable. Damn his parents and their gorgeous genes.) “How did that get in there?”
“Get the hell out of here,” said Fletcher, tossing the thief aside. The nondescript man quickly disappeared amongst the throng.
Zagarat’s mouth gaped open. No vid could have taught him, nor any nexus chat elucidated how utterly foreign, alien, and all together frightful all this would be.
And strangely intriguing which was even more frightful.
“Are you all right?” asked Fletcher, sounding concerned.
“Yeah,” said Zagarat, checking all his pockets to make sure nothing else was stolen. He even checked his Lerandanhood just in case some thief had exceptionally deft hands. Luckily, all the essentials seemed to be there. “It’s all just so weird.”
“You’ll get used to it,” said Fletcher. “But just in case, take this comm and…” He reached inside his pocket. “Oh, that sunning grack. He took my… Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
And with that, Fletcher left him all alone. Alone in a station full of strangers. Zag pulled his tawny coat tight and buttoned it closed securing any pockets that could be secured.
But he definitely wasn’t scared. He definitely wasn’t…
The smell of nesson powder stopped Zag mid-denial. It was a pungent scent, the ground chellen peppers watering his eyes as the Somnian spices liquidated the contents of his nostrils.
And that could mean only one thing. He was in the Somnian section of grey sector. The nesson powder was a dead giveaway. Mostly because the dead were the only ones who would take it.
Curiosity drew Zagarat forward. Various skinned creatures dangled from hooks. Some looked like small rodents, while others looked like small pets that had gone astray on their way to grandma’s farm. Next to the food stalls, were stalls for electronics, stalls for clothes, and stalls for jewelry. All of it exotic and oddly appealing.
Zagarat stopped his ocular grazing when a particular pendant caught his eye. It was a gold star dangling from an equally golden necklace. In the center of the star was a beautiful Xeliot gem–a multifaceted opaque jewel with a glowing white light at its center.
“Haas see mann haa ve-ee goo taze,” said the Somnian proprietor of Ye Newie Oldie Goodie Thingies. His opalescent skin was nearly translucent, green and red veins running up and down his face. “Sa is Cosmi Star fom Sommia Pime. Ve-ee rehr.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Zagarat, holding it up to the light.
“De Xe-ee-ot gem wee shine for twenny yee. Ge-on-tee.”
“And the chain and the star?”
“Hunet pecent Quoren gold. Ge-on-tee. Five hunet kedits and yours. Done and done.”
“Five hundred?” said Zagarat. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Too moch?” said the proprietor. “No pobem. Two hunet kedits. Done and done.”
Zagarat grimaced. “That’s still a lot. Although, my mother would love it.”
“Oh, fo mama?” said the proprietor, holding his hands to his chest. “Say no mo. Fifee kedits and Quoren neckace youse. Done and done.”
“Don’t do it,” said Fletcher, sidling up to the stall. “It’s a rip-off.”
The proprietor actually gasped as if personally affronted by the mere notion.
“How do you know?” asked Zagarat.
“First of all, the heart of a Xeliot gem doesn’t shine that brightly. That’s more than likely a desson bulb inside a plastiglass gem. And the necklace isn’t Quoren gold. It’s Quoran gold, a cheap knockoff. Unfortunately, most sentients can’t tell the difference.”
“How day you,” said the proprietor. “That is gen-ine Quoren. Done and done.”
“Really?” said Fletcher incredulously. He swiped the jewel from Zagarat, bit down hard on the metal, then instantly fell to the ground, his body wracking as he moaned in agony.
“You see,” he said weakly, grimacing in pain. “Quoren gold doesn’t have so much a flavor as a feeling that starts ever so subtly on your tongue then shoots up into the nerves of your teeth until your mouth sings in agony. Quoran gold is lined with a synthetic chemical that mimics the mind-numbing sensation, but never truly emulates the utter pain and slightly minty flavor that makes Quoren gold Quoren gold.” He pushed himself upright. “A true aficionado can detect the difference in a single bite, if the pain doesn’t kill him in the process.”
“Never mind then,” said Zagarat, handing the jewel back. “Thank you.”
“Thanks a lot, you sunning spegnet,” said the merchant, suddenly losing his accent. “You cost me a sale.”
“Hey, don’t blame me,” said Fletcher. “You’re the one who didn’t use enough of the chemical. You gotta take more pride in your work.”
“I know,” said the merchant, shaking his head dejectedly. “But the baby just wouldn’t fall asleep last night. He tossed the jewel at Zag. “Here. Keep it.”
Zagarat awkwardly caught the jewel, clutching it to his chest. “Um, thanks.”
“My name’s Montee, by the way. Come back in a few fiscal weeks. I’ll have new stock by then.” He tapped his nose knowingly. “The kind of stuff you would like.”
“It’s a deal,” said Fletcher. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Fletcher led the way through the mobbed thoroughfare.
“Should I keep it?” asked Zagarat, admiring the jewel as they walked.
“If you want,” said Fletcher, shrugging. “It’s a nice piece.”
“But it’s not real Quoren gold,” said Zagarat.
“So,” said Fletcher. “Is it pretty?” Zag nodded. “Do you like it?” Zag nodded again. “Then what do you care?”
“It’s for my mom.”
“Ah, got ya,” said Fletcher, weaving his way through the throng. “It has to be genuine or it won’t do. Women can be so weird sometimes. I swear, if it wasn’t for their soft skin, warm lips, and loving nature, I might consider the other end of the sexual paradigm.” Fletcher shook his head, sighing. “Eh, who am I kidding? With my luck, I’d find a cuddler.”
Zagarat pocketed the jewel then consulted his PCD. “It says here that you can also detect ersatz Quoren gold by running a small electrical charge through it. Quoren gold is ten times more conductive than Quoran gold.”
“Is that right?” said Fletcher, rubbing his jaw. “Well, you learn something new every day.”
“Where are we going now?” asked Zagarat.
“We’re gonna go meet a friend of mine. Although, I should probably warn you. She can be kind of temperamental at times.”
he doors to the Magi Corporate Offices swished open and Fletcher poked his head inside. “Hello, Elyta.”
He poked his head back out again just as a plastiglass vase came flying through the open doorway. “Drop dead, you sunning spegnet!”
“I love you, too!” yelled Fletcher into the room. He then turned towards Zag and smiled as if this was a common day occurrence. “I still got it.”
“And she’s a friend of yours?” quipped Zagarat. “How do your enemies treat you?”
“With any luck, you’ll never find out,” said Fletcher. He poked his head inside again. “Elyta, I’m really sorry about…”
This time a plastiglass mug flew through the open doorway, barely missing Fletcher. He tried the same thing three more times, and each time a normally inanimate object suddenly took flight at him. There was a Delon apple, a craggy meteorite, and a model 45S Magi datapad, now with twice the resolution and a new personal assistant named Keeley.
Zag’s assistant was named Derrin. And he was an ass.
“Okay,” said Fletcher. “Change of plans. You go in there and talk to her.�
�
“I’m sorry? What now?”
“It’ll be fine,” Fletcher assured him. “Just go in there and talk to her. Here.” He handed Zag the datapad. “Say you found this outside.”
“But I don’t want…”
Before Zagarat could finish his sentence, Fletcher hustled him inside the office, shoving him hard in the back. Zag stumbled into the room then quickly held up the datapad, shielding his face. He only wished he had another datapad for little Zagarat down below.
Well, not so little. It was just cold on the station right now.
“I’m not Fletcher,” he pleaded to anyone who could hear him. “Please don’t kill me.”
Zagarat tensed every muscle in his body, bracing himself against the inevitable flying object.
But the inevitable did not come.
He slowly lowered the datapad just enough to peek over the top of it. A Meyon woman with flaxen hair, skin the color of a cup of Dorian Cocoa, and a small pug nose blinked lithely at him.
“Welcome to the Magi offices here on Aluna Station,” she said sweetly. “How may I be of service?”
“I, um,” said Zagarat, glancing nervously back over his shoulder. Fletcher was nowhere to be seen. “I, um, I found this datapad outside and I just wanted to return it.”
“How kind of you,” she said, her saccharine tone causing Zag’s blood sugar level to rise. She took the datapad and placed it on the counter. “The Magi Corporation thanks you so much for your cooperation. Was there anything else?”
“Actually yes,” said Zagarat, glancing back towards the door. “I might have, sort of been lying earlier. I am actually here with Fletcher.” He quickly shielded his head with his forearms as he crossed his knees in order to protect Coles yet to come. “Please don’t kill me.”
And to Zag’s delight, she didn’t. But when he peeked over his clenched fists, he did notice her staring at him. Well, glaring really, with malice aforethought, afterthought, and every other thought.
“And what does he want?” she said, her eyes like narrow slits in space.
“Um,” said Zagarat, testing his improv skills and finding them… not good. “He, um, he wanted to say he was sorry for everything that happened.”
