"I'm a little short today, Edison, hook me up?" The question was asked in a way that there was no way to answer in the negative. This was part of a routine. Once or twice a week the scene would play out the same, and Kyle would be hungry the rest of the day. Standing up for himself was not an option. Brian's disadvantages in the realm of learning gave him several advantages in physicality, he had several others alongside him with similar bulk, and the nature of the one-size-fits-all punishment policies meant that even if Kyle was to withstand a fight, he'd be out of school just the same as those against him. Thus, he handed over his three dollars wordlessly, and went to sit outside.
It was a crisp October day as Kyle sat at a table that he had claimed for himself. As the days had grown colder most of the students had chosen to remain inside, either to talk, flirt, or to try desperately to finish their homework that was due later that day. Kyle didn't mind, he enjoyed the weather and the silence in the courtyard. Brian had been paid off, so he typically would leave him alone the rest of the day, and he hadn't seen the friends he did have, who by now had usually commandeered a table in the name of his fellow outcasts. He didn't come outside to read, or to listen to music, he just leaned back, and listened to himself think.
At least that was the original plan as he heard books slam down next to him, and the exasperation of one of his aforementioned friends. "I'm getting tired of it, Kyle, I can't take her any more!" The voice was that of John Clarkson, a sophomore alongside Kyle and the closest thing he had to a best friend.
"So don't take her. Wait, you took her?" Kyle smirked as he spoke without opening his eyes. This was another thing that happened frequently, although this had been going on every few days for years.
"NO! God, no. You're sick. What's in your head, man?"
Kyle shook his head, and sighed. Silent time was over. "You're the one that asked her out. You've known her how long?"
"I asked her out a year ago, and she still gives me shit for it. I'd expect Jim to, but nooo, it's always her."
"You probably shouldn't have asked her out then." This was a familiar dance. John and Kyle didn't have much in common but Kyle was a good person to rant to, mostly because of his silence and his desperate desire to stay neutral.
"She was wearing a skirt that day! You know that's my weakness! And ever since that date, she's just non stop 'lalala find any girls yet, John?' 'Go to any nice restaurants, John?' I TOOK HER TO A RESTAURANT!"
"...It was fast food."
"It was nice! It was a first date!"
"You made her pay."
John sighed, unwrapped his sandwich, and took a bite. With his mouth full, he continued. "I'm a believer in Women's lib. Ever since we had that class. Those girls burned their bras, Kyle! Apple?" He knew Brian's tricks all too well, which was one reason he always brought his own lunch. Brian had no interest in whatever concoction John would come up with day to day. With Kyle nodding, he tossed it to him.
Kyle considered the apple, then took a bite. Like John, speaking with his mouth full. "I don't think they burned their bras so they could buy dinner on a date."
"Whatever man, equality. You hook up with that Shanna chick yet?" Kyle just looked at him, but John was unstoppable when he got going. "Don't look at me like that, you always look at me like that. You gotta make a move."
"John, she's a cheerleader."
"So? Cheerleaders just a thing, a way to get extra credit. Doesn't make her special. Though the skirts..."
"She's not gonna have anything to do with me, I doubt she even remembers my name."
"Then make sure she remembers it! You've got that class with us, hell you sit right next to her! Introduce yourself, give her a rose, write her poetry. Girls love that shit!"
"If you're so knowledgeable with girls, John, why are you always hanging out with me?"
"Just sharing what I know. Give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to date, he'll..."
"OKAY! I get it. Fine. But Shanna's not going to be interested, you know how this works. She's beautiful, smart, you know, everything. And I'm..." Kyle grew quiet. He knew who he was. Kyle Edison. Drifting into school, through it, and out again. Day in, day out. John sensed the change in mood and moved the subject to the big movie that had come out the other day, and the two finished their lunch.
Immediately after lunch was the very class that Kyle sat next to Shanna in, along with John on his other side. "Computer Science" was the convenient catch-all name for essentially anything to do with computers, which usually boiled down to a few remedial lessons on typing, a few entry-level coding programs, and a lot of free time for those who were able to grasp the intricacies of email and the start button. This was his favorite class for two reasons. Shanna Ewing, of course, and also being able to largely hide behind a computer screen and forget where he was for forty-five precious minutes. But mainly for Shanna. Mostly she would keep to herself, but occasionally she would nudge him and ask him a question about something she had noticed him looking at. He wondered if she knew how uncomfortable he was when he stuttered through an answer or a comment. He never really thought about why she would be looking at his computer, only that she always finished whatever the day's assignment was faster than anyone else in the class.
After the sweet suffering that was Computer Science lay Phys Ed. While far more dumbed down from the glory days when lawsuits were not something to be feared in a classroom, there were still frequent runs and low-impact ball throwing to do, balanced heavily by sitting and learning about the fine details of various sports, few of which Kyle had any interest in. It wasn't exactly a torturous time but as with most of the day he wished he was somewhere, anywhere else.
Finally, in some sort of cruel irony, the day ended with a study hall, the enjoyment of which heavily depended on which teacher drew the short straw. Some teachers would allow the pupils to essentially get away with murder as long as they were quiet about it, and others would practically require everyone to sit up straight and focus on homework or else. Today was a banner day, as it was the principal, Mr. Tompkins, sitting in and quietly discussing what was sure to be important matters with Mrs. Smith, a stern believer of the latter principle. Tompkins was a balding, small little man, like so many in his profession having a inflated sense of self-worth along with a prized Mustang named Lucille, which was only well known because that was its license plate. Smith alone ensured a long plodding period of boredom punctuated by sneaking a non-school book, or a well planned out nap. With Tompkins alongside her, it was expected for everyone to be on their best behavior.
The clock said 3pm but Kyle's internal clock read three years when the final bell rang, and to say that he bolted out of the converted auditorium would be an understatement. Forty-five minutes of boredom alongside a strong desire to get as far away from the building as possible led Kyle to his locker, throwing in books and taking out his jacket, and out the door before some students had even left their classroom. Before his lack of athletic endurance caught up to him halfway home, he was on pace for a record time. He didn't have any guilt about not saying goodbye to his few friends, he'd see them online or the next day. They would usually be tied up with conversation (or in John's case, probably detention) and waiting around in a school that he was no longer beholden to that day was not a priority. As he reached home, he threw his jacket in a corner, tossed his backpack somewhere, and crashed on the couch.
Even home though, he still had obligations to his schoolwork, and despite his regular lack of interest, he didn't procrastinate. Procrastination, while appealing, led to questions from his father, and came with it a encroaching dread that every second lost to distraction was a second less that this could just be finished. As well, the work today was easy, so a little over an hour after arriving home the homework was done, and Kyle was free to do absolutely nothing. Which was fortunately one of the things he excelled at. He settled in behind the living room computer, and in a blaze of random internet websites and games, the clock hit 9pm, and Kyle heard
a sound that made his insides go slightly cold: A truck door slamming from outside.
It wasn't that Kyle disliked his father, far from it. After his mom had left, his father was the only real family he knew. He was provided and cared for, and he knew that others in his school had double the parents but were not nearly as lucky. It was more that he liked the freedom and privacy of being alone even if he never took advantage of it. His father being home meant a real dinner at the table, whereas the planned dinner shortly was a can of spaghetti rings. Dinner meant questions, both cliché "How was your day" type things and also more pointed questions. Kyle thought his father should be happy enough that the house wasn't burnt down, which had happened to a freshman last year with too much freedom and not enough sense.
His father came in, and the air changed. They exchanged awkward pleasantries, the son not really wanting his father around, and the father not really sure how to interact with any teenager, let alone his own. They exchanged small talk, on Kyle's part mainly "Yes", "Sure", and so forth, and eventually the two sat down to a dinner of reheated pork chops and applesauce. It wasn't really a tense atmosphere, just questions, as Kyle predicted, which eventually led to his father attempting to tell stories that would inspire, yet without the shared life experience he just couldn't relate to much of anything that he was saying. Eventually the meal ended in silence, pleasant "Good Evenings", and Kyle retreating to his room.
With the security of his room and his belongings, and knowing that his father wasn't likely to follow him, Kyle changed into his night clothes, and feeling a wave of tiredness, laid down. The room was dark, and for the first time all day, he felt at peace. The silence of the night surrounded him, and it was the one time where he could snuff out the dread of the day and school and communicating with his parent and Brian and everything else, save a few thoughts for Shanna. As he drifted off to sleep, and Monday eventually rolled into Tuesday, there was calm in Kyle Edison's life for one last time.
3
The soft purple evening light illuminated the hard rocky expanse of Kastabellos, a long dead asteroid that, having found itself in orbit of a similarly dead planet, was considered a moon only barely by the standard measurements of the day. Granted, it's classification was never an issue important enough to think about, let alone raise in any official capacity. While there had been an attempt to teraform its mother planet Cyroni some twenty thousand Marconian cycles before, the planet itself rejected the systematic change, leaving it even more barren than when it started. What little life there was gathered under the protective domes of the small frontier societies on the five moons, their economy depending mainly on the singular refueling station located on the equator of Kastabellos, the one place on the desolate rock where the temperature was low enough to survive outside as long as you held your breath. While there was a generated atmosphere around the refueling station and the few connected stores, few species could breathe the combination of vacuum and fuel-filled air. Most visitors stayed in their ships during the fueling. But there were a few that braved the outside to get to the adjoining 'refreshment station'. The fact that the planet and moons were lifeless and solitary meant that there was little in the way of the law. The Galactic policing division of the Marconian military corps rarely made visits this far outside of the main shipping lanes, so the station had to take care of itself. So the 'refreshment station', called such due to the old rusty lettering that still adorned it's roof, became a den for all kinds of low business. Criminal deals, piracy, raids, all were planned behind its doors. If you were to go to the station, whether while your ship refueled or while passing through, it was to be assumed that you were not planning anything good.
What the station wasn't, was a place for safety. Every being that walked through the automatic doors was guaranteed to be armed to the teeth and most likely looking for an excuse to test their aim. None more armed and ready than the station's bartender, Sharonik. She had no patience for anything that would disrupt business. She had already killed to gain control of the bar, and it was known and understood by everyone that happened by that she had no problem getting rid of anyone else that would cause problems. So it was a great surprise when there was a banging at the door, and when the aging gears of its electronics finally clacked into place, an Akkarian with exquisitely designed and sculptured horns came stumbling in, almost pitching over before righting himself as he ran to the bar. As he ran, all of the twenty or so species that watched him, including an ill-tempered Kirthian who was drumming his metal claws on the table, had hands and various appendages reaching for the variety of weapons they carried upon themselves. He screamed as he went, yelling that the devil was behind him. He begged for help from someone, anyone, and he reached the front bar only to be met by the bartender herself, who hissed with every 's' syllable she made.
"WHAT IS THISSSSSS" she growled at him, stretching out her hiss in a successful attempt to unnerve the terrified Akkarian. As he tried valiantly to catch his breath after inadvertently taking a gulp of the awful 'air' outside , she almost instantly pulled a Tikarian rifle, pointing it's three barrels at his face.
If the gun scared him more, the Akkarian didn't show it. "HE'S COMING! HE'S COMING!" He screeched, pleading with his eyes for someone to come save him. She looked at him in disgust, and glanced up at the automatic door as a shrill beep announced its opening, and the station's latest patron.
The man's dark orange pupils instantly caught the attention of the onlookers, most of which by now had drawn their own weapons, even if they didn't know who to shoot. The dark eyes were signs of importance, of purest born Marconian, which in this day and age was as rare as it could get considering the seclusion of the king and the infighting between the various factions. The rest of the man did not live up to his eyes, however. The designation of "man" meant that he was humanoid, a common configuration throughout the universe in both incredibly advanced species, and also among the lowest. It gave them no special traits or advantages, leaving them fully at the whim of their races lasting long enough to evolve enough to leave their world. His hair was jet black and rumpled, as though some attempt at a comb had been tried sometime in the last week but was quickly abandoned. He looked strong yet not strong enough to accomplish any great feats of strength. His clothes were badly in need of a wash at least a month prior, and his loose shirt and pants appeared to be caked with dirt from a dozen different planets which hid their original brown color. His boots when new were the finest black, yet now the color had nearly faded completely off. But the eyes were enough for most of the group to turn their weapons back towards the first intruder, facing the bartender and still screaming “HE’S COMING!” continuously. Finally, the man had walked up behind the oblivious Akkarian, and stood close behind him, only to whisper two words in old-Akkarian speech, an almost lost language to any but the denizens of the savage planet.
"He's here." With that the man with the dark pupils grabbed the hair on the back of the Akkarian's head and slammed him face first into the bar. With green blood pouring down on his face, his fight-or-flight response finally kicked in, and he attempted to turn around quickly with a hard punch, which did not connect. The man blocked away the Akkarian's attack easily, and struck him, sending him down to the floor. As he was breathing heavy, the man looked at the bartender, who scowled at him.
"You're not supposed to bring your trash in here."
The man looked down at the Akkarian, who was trying to lift himself up. He placed a solid boot on his back, and forced him back down as he continued facing Sharonik. "He's your trash, I'm just returning him to you."
Sharonik glanced back behind the bar at the numerous posters detailing wanted individuals. Criminals of all varieties from races all over the universe littered the wall, each with various rewards posted. Their crimes ranged from genocide down to talking loudly in a religious ceremony for the glory of the Five. She noticed the Akkarian's picture, and tore down the poster, reading it quickly and glaring at the man. "Paper says wanted dea
d." The man looked down at the Akkarian, still struggling, shrugged, and pulled out a Cyronnian laser, a small pistol barely bigger than the man's hand. Without consideration he pulled the trigger. There was a flash of red from the pistol, a splash of green from the Akkarian, then he was still.
"So it does." The man lifted his boot off of the dead Akkarian and wiped the sole against the bar's side. "What's it say about payment?"
Sharonik rolled her eyes, knowing that all eyes in the bar were on the man, the Akkarian, and her. Knowing that she couldn't welch out on her responsibilities despite the sizable sum the dead horned intruder was worth, she moved behind the curtain that separated the bar from the small room she called home. When she returned a moment later, the man had taken a seat at the bar, and had already taken a container from the back shelf, intending to pour a steaming orange liquid into a small glass. As he did so, she double checked some figures against her less imminent debts, as well as sent a signal to her cleanup crew, who quickly filed in to remove the fresh body from the floor. As they gathered the Akkarian up, He tossed the liquid back into his mouth, and for a moment his face glowed the same orange as the drink, but it quickly dissipated, leaving only a tingly feeling, and slightly fuzzy vision. She sighed, wondering why she ever agreed to make this place a way station for these types of people, a type she distrusted and wanted less to do with than any of the usual malcontents that frequented her bar. Being a member of the Bounty Hunter Coalition was a good way to ensure a steady stream of customers, but it was also a way to court trouble on a regular basis, as was happening here. And worse, when these hunters would come through, she could count on less of her most unsavory clientele to visit, as many of them had bounties of their own to dodge. This one in particular looked to be settling in for a while. He had the appearance of a long-forgotten soldier. She knew that there hadn't been a major war since the Second War of the Shards ended three hundred Marconian cycles ago, yet this man seemed like he had been fighting for a long time. If she hadn't hated his profession, she would pity him.
The Joining: The Saga of the Shards Book One (The Cycle of the Shards 1) Page 4
