Futuristic Into the Void

[Proficiently Awkward]

The cloying staleness of recycled atmosphere was the ever-present perfume of a drifter colony; Enceladus 9 was no exception. From the flattened scrap-metal ‘ground’ to the towering, obsolete mechanical obelisks that served as a pantomime of living accommodations, it reeked of poorly filtered oxygen. Of spent fossil fuels and the crisp sterility of artificially created conditions. Beyond whatever cultural quagmire of languages – the languages of the ‘citizens’ residing on the orbiting bastion – was the constant static of nuclear generators. An unending, sizzling riot of technology. A wan, source-less light shivered over every nook and cranny. It was some trick of engineering or alien technology, but the false daylight left nothing to shadow. It was eerie, almost cartoon like in the manner the light cast everything in a sharp relief. And the lights never dimmed, setting Enceladus 9 forever at noon-time brightness. Even so, the drifter colony was a listless, unrelieved grey. Not even the wonders of nuclear-powered daylight could make it look appealing.

Streets and walkways were paved with the hammered decks of interplanetary ships, old cruiser docking stations – whatever scrap metal could be dredged up from the limitless cosmos. And things were ever being added. Salvage. The empty shells of ships. All of it was haphazardly welded together in an unending, glistening metropolis. Residences were crafted from stacked shipping containers or the hollowed out bulk of out-of-date cruisers, civilian and military alike. None of it matched, however. There was not a single known sentient race whose technology hadn’t contributed to the odd mash-up. Bits of space stations from the Milky Way Galaxy. Andromedan fission reactor shells. Even bits of Cinntak engineering – a queer bio-ware that was more living organism than steel.

And amid all the fracas lay the marketplace. Which was about the only reason any respectable interstellar traveler would chart a pit stop on Enceladus 9. There wasn’t a thing in the galaxy that couldn’t be bought or sold on a drifter colony. That wasn’t to say it was a nefarious sort of place…but neither was it on the up and up. Every soul mad enough to make a permanent existence on a drifter colony was desperate. Desperate to buy, desperate to sell, and plain desperate for survival. You couldn’t grow food on top of cold steel; hydroponically grown vegetation was nearly priceless….often going for as high a price as a replacement anti-gravity core, or a handful of nubile concubines. So, in an effort to draw traders, the marketplace itself was the only stretch of steel where an outside ship could dock. Dodging hawkers and criers advertising their wares was impossible. And it was in this particular conundrum in which Icarus Quill currently found himself.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

The air boasted the syrupy thickness of artificial gravity – never quite correctly calibrated for a terrestrial’s molecular density – yet Quill suffered on through. Braving the crisp, chemical sterility of recycled oxygen and less than agreeable atmospheric pressure was a necessary discomfort. Opportunities to resupply, after all, were few and far between. And gaining a chance to experience a few creature comforts sweetened the pot. After agonizing months in the void vacuum of space, just the idea of a meal that didn’t come out of a pre-portioned packet was worth slogging through the port – no matter how strange and alien said meal might have proved to be.

Idly, Quill drummed an index finger against the shell of his ear, tapping experimentally at the audio-relay where it nestled deep in his ear canal; the only response came as an empty static. The miniscule communicator tickled fiercely, warming the junker to the idea of forking over the cash for a nice bio-ware implant, instead. Fidgeting and prodding, the human attempted to worry the communicator into a more comfortable position. Head tilted queerly to one side, Quill walked lazily down into the docking bay.

Though a relative rarity, humans gathered little real attention. They were often overlooked by the sheer act of being unimpressive; Quill was no different. While he might have been considered aesthetically pleasing by his own species’ standard, out in the grand scheme of things, the man was plain. Quill was not colorful, nor was he fierce – sticking out like a sore thumb. It was an ancient human adage, but one the man felt was startlingly relevant. He was a point of interest only because he was so uninteresting. Unarmored, unadorned…and quite fragile. Earthlings, even from the time their varied species crawled out of the primordial ooze early in Earth’s development, were viewed as delicate. After all, every time a meteor had struck Earth, all life on the planet had to start all over again. Their lifespans, overall, were short. So, while Quill felt scrutinized during his jaunt toward the market, the man knew it was a fleeting concern. Once the crowd had an eyeful, he’d be forgotten.

An akimbo tangle of dark auburn hair obscured the human’s features, unkempt tendrils having slipped from the loose tie-up near the base of his neck. It was a pitiful attempt at styling; the low slung, short ponytail had been MacGyver-secured with a measure of half-stripped copper wiring. Skin that heritage deemed ought to have been a sepia-tan had the cool, white pallor that came from lack of sunlight. Though, spattered in oil and grease-stains, it was difficult to tell. A hint of stubble roughened the man’s cheekbones and shin, evidence that shaving had not been on the priority list for at least a few days. The bridge of his nose was straight and aquiline, bisected by a thin, silvered ridge of scar tissue. What ought to have been a derelict or nefarious demeanor was softened by inquisitive green eyes; it made the man seem as though he’d seen far less years than he truly had. Quill had a simple, unassuming look.

Sleeve-less and made from a pliable, second-skin synthetic fabric, the shirt Quill wore was a simple under layer. The dark wetsuit-like material was meant to serve as an insulating layer, but the nearly balmy warmth of the drifter colony’s faux atmosphere made bundling up for the chill of space irrelevant. Even his thick, matte-grey jumpsuit had been sloughed off his top half, the sleeves knotted at the waist. Sinewy and coltishly tall, Quill looked almost undersized in the attached and overgenerous cargo pants.

“…Quit fussing with your comm…” Dei’tara’s clipped, guttural tone slipped through the static on the ear piece.

“It itches.” Quill muttered petulantly, speaking out of one side of his mouth. Still, the human heeded his Captain’s reprimand and grudgingly stopped battering the minuscule ear piece.

“Do you never stop complaining?” Terse, Dei’tara’s impatient tone did not go unnoticed.

Quill offered a lopsided smirk; it gave the man a simple, dreamy look – a pantomime exaggerated to embellish his reply, even though his Captain couldn’t see it. “To tell you the truth, I enjoy complaining about my problems almost more than having them fixed. “

The communicator was dead silent, only the incessant crackle of static. Apparently, Dei’tara had not deemed that worthy of a response. “Anyway,” Quill continued, heaving a playfully exasperated sigh. “It’s only a supply run. What could go wrong?”

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Iridescent, prismatic colors flittered faintly over-top of puddles; oil-slicked wetness where wetness ought to not have been. Gingerly, Quill side-stepped a particularly damp patch of the rivet-dented metal street paneling, trying in vain to not wonder just where the puddle had manifested from – or what had made it. Less than satisfactory sanitary conditions aside, it was a somewhat pleasant change from the inorganic sterility of deep space. The acrid tang of bodies mulling together in the stiff, climate-controlled heat stung the human’s dull nostrils and the incessant yammering of scores of indiscernible languages sent his translator to squalling; the hardware pathetically putting forth the effort of filtering through the riot. It was real. Genuine. But Quill knew he would tire of it, as he always did - the man never could settle. One the novelty of the being at-dock wore off, the human would turn tail and retreat to the sanctity of the Scintilla; the derelict ship was the closest thing the displaced terrestrial had to a home.

Winding through the horde of haphazardly-shaped beings, Quill tried his best to be inconspicuous. Humans were viewed as a species to pity. Planet-less, standing upon the precipice of total extinction, and being nothing immensely special to look at, humanity had gotten the short end of the stick. And, much to Quill’s lamenting, the rest of the galaxy knew it. Self-consciousness ignited an incessant itching at the base of his skull. It was entirely imagined, that feeling of countless eyes falling on him as he perused the plethora of merchant stalls. Still. It did give the human cause to cast more than one wary glance over his shoulder.

Divided attention, or lack of it entirely, sent Quill crashing into…a rather formal-sounding something. Someone. A tinny whine eked into his eardrum: ‘My apologies’, the translator hummed. The human offered up his own apologetic simper – a quick flash of even, white teeth. It was genuine, but a tad sloppy; Quill had the awkward habit of only smiling with one side of his mouth. The Earthling merely shook his head, taking that instant to respond, if only to get an eyeful of the man who’d bumped into him. Nobody apologized in a drifter colony. All that stale air made the temper sour. And it piqued Quill’s impish curiosity. Quizzically, smile still in place, Quill peered upward as the man turned, moving with him in a causal, but rather pressing manner.

“No harm done. I’m gonna go out on a limb, here…but I’m guessin’ you’re not exactly a local.” Quill’s tone was crisp, but came slowly – as if it took those words a long time to drip down off his tongue.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

The Arethusian's blatant solicitation struck Quill as suspicious. The bribe had come quick, too quick for the mundane excuse Sulya had given. But the terrestrial said nothing – nor did his features change to give indication that he’d even heard. Only a causal curiosity glinted in the mossy depths of his gaze. Measuring the stranger, sizing up the opportunity, Quill finally let that half-hearted, crooked smirk of his come to rest on his features. Nodding, the human jerked his chin toward where the crowds began to dissipate, away from the hub of the market.

“Hydroponics ought’a be your best bet…” Lazily, the human struck off in the indicated direction, pausing to cast a glance over his shoulder at the Arethusian.

Icarus Quill, though well-traveled in his own right, had never set eyes on an Arethusian before. Nor had he read about them. Parentless and planet-less, the human hadn’t been privy to a formal education. No history lessons, no books. All the man knew of the galaxy was what he had experienced firsthand, or else picked up along the way. Galactic history, either orated or scribed, had never served a purpose in Quill’s life. Sulya’s iridescent scales and queer secrecy were nothing more than points of interest to him. The plight of the Arethusian race, often prized for their exotic nature, was completely lost on the man. Instead, his interest as he peered past the shadowed cowl Sulya wore, was entirely innocent.

“Icarus Quill.” The human offered a hand along with his introduction. Thin, silvered scars bisected his calloused fingertips; the roughened hands of a laborer. Oil-spattered the pale pallor of his skin from the wrists up, as if all he’d bothered to wash that morning was his hands.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Incredulously, Quill’s dark brows knitted; Sulya’s query pegged him not only a foreigner, but a cultural neophyte. Basic knowledge of what commodities were in supply and demand came with the territory of interstellar travel. Being off-planet, agricultural goods were quite a hot commodity. Not only was it exceedingly difficult for vegetation to grow and thrive in synthetic environments, anything imported direct from a terrestrial source was highly regulated. Highly contagious blights and fungal rot riddled vegetation populations with disease, rendering them inedible. It was a case of too little export policing too late in the game. With a myriad of words dotting the cosmos came an equally abundant, and uncontrollable, myriad of infectious blights.

Curiosity creased the human’s features from his brow to the tip of his aquiline nose, but Quill made no comment on the strangeness of Sulya’s question. Instead, the man offered up his unwavering attention. One hydroponics market was much like any other –cultivating more ill will than actual greens – while the Arethusian was quite a point of interest. Settling jade eyes idly on Sulya, Quill offered a facetious shrug.

“Yeah. S’an understatement.” Tongue-in-cheek, the human nodded toward the lackluster crop that had drawn in so many people; leaves crisp and yellowed with a sickly pallor. “Drifter colonies get the worst of it…lack of know-how, maybe. Or resources. A good agricultural scientist is worth his weight in gold – so, naturally, none of ‘em make it out this far. Some new blight or another is always evolving. S’just too hard to get anything to grow. Gene splicing keeps planetary markets and trade-depots ahead of the game, though. Usually. Seems like every stop we make, there’s always some new fruit or another on the market. Fresh, never-before-seen, and blight resistant. At least until the next growing season when the viruses mutate. It’s worse in some quadrants than others, but it’s gotten my gut real familiar with synthetic supplements and dehydrated rations.”

A wry simper began to bloom on the human’s lips but a crackle of static in his ear drained the wattage out of the gesture: “Keep in mind, this is not a social visit. If you are so keen to play the good samaritan, do so quickly.” Dei’tara’s clipped, guttural tone seethed impatiently into his earpiece. “Do not forget that you have your own business to conduct.”

Dei’tara’s chaperoning ended with audio transmission. The Cinntak, though a communicational omnipresence, was blind. The female could see nothing of Quill’s strange companion, or her own interested may have been piqued. Arethusian’s were an oddity, to be sure, but one that Dei’tara was not so unfamiliar with. At least from a literary standpoint. Yet the female could sense a thread of foreboding, even from the stale air inside the ship’s hull. She could only hope Quill would comply and hurry things along.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Incandescent. Ethereal. Resplendent. Quill groped for words that might make a suitable description for the beauty but his low-brow, urchin’s education forced him to settle on ‘pretty’. Still, merely saying the Arethusian was pretty hardly covered it. The iridescence of cobalt-blue scales shimmering in under the harsh radiance of the artificial light made the woman positively glow. Like a shiny, new chrome conductor in a grime-coated combustion capacitor, she stood out. Not a single, solitary soul in the hydro-market could boast being half so stunning. Exotic. That was the word for it. Even amid the galactic melting-pot of a drifter colony, where normalcy was set to a different standard. Where exotic was commonplace. True enough, Sulya shared that particular flavor of otherworldly aesthetics, but the male didn’t flaunt them. There was a sense of…decorum about the Arethusian man which had obviously passed the woman by. She seemed to be the sort that was accustomed to being fawned over; doted upon. And even from halfway across the market, Quill could smell the calamity.

Attracting attention wasn’t pretty in a drifter colony; it was a recipe for disaster. Like flies drawing to a corpse, everything here was out to feed. To fill empty pockets and bellies and whatever else the thousands of contributing societies had dredged up. An awkward stillness gripped Quill as they traversed the crowd, his thoughts belied by the sudden stiffness of his joints – almost ominously immersed in his own thoughts when Sulya’s hushed query finally wormed it’s way into his ear.

“Wouldn’t know.” The human’s answer came as equally dry. Briefly, the man wetted his lips. “I’m only here to pick up a shell for a core reactor. But..”

But Viskari nearly always meant trouble. Which is why you scarcely saw one, no matter what sort of outpost or colony they dwelt upon. And when you did catch sight of one, they were never alone. And never without some purpose or another. Curiosity caused Quill to catch Sulya’s eye, following the Arethusian’s keen gaze. One, two, three.. As quill counted the primordial, cold-blooded figures stalking through the crowd were already too numerous for his liking. Chaos was on the wind. With the predatory glint in those slit-pupiled eyes, the man could only guess what the Viskari might have in store for their target. The other ethereal Arethusian. Sulya’s sibling. Only keeping himself present minded kept Quill from dissecting that plausible inaccuracy further. While not conventionally book-smart, Quill was intelligent enough, and it took minimal observation to come to the conclusion that the only aspect in which Sulya and Synneva were similar was their planet of origin.

Before Quill could continue speaking, or raise a justified barrage of questions, Sulya dipped behind him. An indignant sort of confusion wrinkled the human’s nose and narrowed mossy green eyes as glanced over a slim shoulder at the Arethusian. Weaponless and harldy combat conditioned, the man was starting to regret his earlier good samaritan attitude. Dei’tara had been right…the Cinntak woman near always was.

“Dei’tara…” Quill quipped briskly into his communicator. “…you’re gonna wanna fire up the engines. Don’t really have time to explain this one.”

“Quill.”

“Sorry.”

“Quill!”

Already ignoring his captain’s sharp reprimanding, Quill pressed the miniscule button on his earpiece. The signal went dead. Carefully, the man scanned the hydroponics district. A panicked sort of stillness settled over the man, beads of sweat rolling down his temple; half heat, half dread. There had to be something that could offer some sort of advantage – Quill scarcely realized he was planning something. Instinct had taken over – survival and adaptation, after all, were the human race’s claim to fame. Another hasty wetting of his lips and Quill shot a tense glance back at the Arethusian.

“I ain’t askin’ questions…but I didn’t volunteer for…whatever the dalix this is about to turn into. So…roll with me on this one, yeah?” Quill spat some curse in an alien dialect, nodding toward Synneva as he wrapped up the quick speech.

“Just…don’t let me get shot. If…if this ends up working out…Docking Bay 17. Ship’s called the Hireath. Get there.” With a lackluster plan settled straight in his mind, Quill ducked away from Sulya and slipped into the midst of the accumulated crowd.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Quill was deaf to sound save for the panicked tempo of his own heartbeat. Apprehension had drowned out the incessant ruckus of the hydroponics district and tunneled his vision. Conflict, though Quill was no stranger to it, was not something the human enjoyed indulging in. Even now, as he traipsed inconspicuously through the alien crowd, he was second-guessing his grandiose offer to aid. Being brashly helpful was a hard-wired personality trait. And one that often landed him into trouble. Without any sort of game plan, Quill had thrown himself into the fracas. As the Viskari gathered ‘round the duo of Arethusians, the human was still spinning his wheels on just how to diffuse the situation. Sidling up against one of the haphazardly stocked hydo-stalls, Quill saw it.

A cluster of vertical pipes lay nestled against the side-wall nearest the encroaching pack, running in waywardly soldered zig-zags all along the joint where scrap-iron ceiling met wall. It was the tell-tale humming hiss of moisture eking from the poorly jointed pipes that gave them away. A water reclamation system. Drawing moisture from the run-off water used to nourish the plants, and other less-than-sanitary systems, the pipeline ferried the water from various sources and was super-heated for sterilization before being looped back to cool and eventually be re-used. Quill eyed the rickety hydration system hastily before altering his course. Shoving his rawboned frame through the assembled crowd, the human began following the wall where those pipes slithered flush with the wall – a bare space just between two shops.

Testing the temperature of the pipe with a gingerly outstretched fingertip, Quill was not at all surprised with the resulting effect. The tip of his finger nearly stuck to the outside of the pipe with a sizzling hiss of flesh against searing iron. Jerking his hand away, Quill hastily gathered up one of the tied-off sleeves of his jumpsuit where it hung knotted at his waist. Wrapping his palm and fingers in the thick, canvas-like fabric, Quill grabbed a hold of a jutting valve on the side of the pipe. While the coating of cloth saved him the brunt of the heat, a thin wisp of steam spat angrily against his exposed forearm, raising a wicked red welt. Quill gritted his teeth and snarled audibly, wrenching his hand away from the blistering hot valve once it had been turned enough. A shivering clank rung out deep within the piping. Already, the pressure was building, backing up the hydro-reclamation entirely. Without outlet and access to the cooling pipe systems, hot water and steam could only accumulate. As Quill moved away again with as much nonchalance as his frayed nerves allowed, the needle on the series of pressure gauges began to dance wildly.

Making his way ahead of the pack and out of sight, Qull lay a quivering hand against the small of his own back. Tucked flush with the tight, synthetic fabric of his sleeve-less shirt was a flat holster. Just point and shoot, Quill reminded himself. Blasters, or firearms of any kind, weren’t a comfort for Quill. The man knew the principles; how to assemble a weapon, the ways to improve or modify a weapon. These were the areas in which the human felt comfortable Tinkering with them. Not necessarily their use. It was only upon his Captain’s insistence that Quill carried one at all. Slipping his palm and thumb about the handle of the small plasma-cored shooter, it looked almost confidant. It was only the tiny voice in the back of his head that forced him to move with assurance and speed.

If you don’t fire fast…fire NOW…it’ll get noticed. YOU’LL get noticed.

Wetting his lips apprehensively, Quill raised the short barrel of the weapon and un-clicked the safety. In one smooth motion, he drew the weapon up, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. Absolute silence – that was the queer thing about Cinntak-Tech, or any other super advanced plasma-based technology. There was no real combustion happening within the gun. No gunpowder. No igniting spark. Instead, the blaster produced a short beam of lavender light. The oddly incorporeal projectile left a silently searing mark in the metal wall some inches to the left of where he had aimed. Quill missed the pipe. Just as one of the shopkeepers warbled, pointing at him and starting up an animated, incessant call, Quill aimed again. Pure, dumb luck. The beam of plasma collided with the pipe – even at a distance, Quill could see the meal bloating and lurching – and a deafening ‘pop’ reverberated through the market. In an explosion of scalding steam, the pipe gave way. Concealing clouds of steam poured forth, a blistering fog that roiled forth and began to devour the outer edges of the intimidating ring of Viskari. It wasn’t enough to hit the whole pack, not without enveloping Sulya and his sibling, but it was enough. A distraction. Something to break the semi-circle of aggressors and leave and opening for escape.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Insurrection. Hysteria. Quill’s carcass hadn’t been the only one attempting to hastily escape the sudden chaos that gripped hydroponics; each and every step toward freedom was hard won. Bodies buffeted and jostled in consternation, panic driving them like a dim-witted, stampeding herd. Steeling himself against the barrage, Quill tried ineffectually to hold his ground. And to catch a glimpse of his handiwork. Despite a nervous beading of sweat slithering down his spine, the human wore a sly, tentative smirk. The noxious cloud of steam had done the trick – the market was clearing out. Civilians scattered. Shopkeepers stealthily snatched up what wares they could carry and made hasty retreats. And in the midst of it all was a fight. And what a fight!

Through the shroud of steam, Quill could make out what remained of the Viskari circling Sulya, slavering like a pack of hounds. Even from a distance the eerie shine of the Arethusian’s blade was evident. Side-stepping the prospect of rushing back into the fray to aid Sulya nearly cost Quill quite a price. A single, tentative step forward was cut off by the sharp squall of rapidly liquefying metal. Syrupy retches of steel oozed down from the piping above his head, collecting in a noxious pool on the panels underfoot. Both the sound of the projectile and the resulting unpleasantness forced Quill to duck and make an ungainly leap to one side. It was time to take a hint and make his own exit. As Sulya began ripping through the Viskari, Quill waded through the opposing bodies. The main exit was clogged with fleeing creatures, yet the service entrance – should Quill be able to open it – was clean and clear! Swimming upstream through the hydro-market was slow going, yet he had reached the halfway mark by the time Sulya’s fist found the fabric of his shirt and held tight.

Relief sparked a sardonic smile to life; crooked and hasty as the man raptly moved to follow Sulya’s orders. “My hero.” As sarcastic as the quip was, there was truth in it. Humans, after all, did break easy.

This time, Quill decided to go with the flow. Falling into step just a half pace ahead of Sulya, the human led them through the main exit. Initially, he was surprised at how simple it was to merely walk out of the marketplace. Amid the hysteria, no one bothered to look for the source or cause of the ruckus. They were practically invisible, save for the trail of Viskari on their tail. No pressure. No pressure at all. Veering to the left, Quill picked up the pace as they broke free of the thundering mob and started off toward the docking bays. Cutting through the trade district would have been quicker, but it was full of nooks and crannies and questionable company – there were too many blind spots. Places where the Viskari could potentially creep from without their notice. Instead, bursting through an automatic pair of blast doors, Quill led them toward the private docking bays. There, there was nowhere to creep from. Nowhere to hide or escape from should the need arise...but the odds never were stacked one hundred percent in anyone’s favor. It was a tradeoff.

And, retrospectively, Quill was nursing on the words Sulya had so bitterly snapped at…well. Definitely not his sibling. My Lady, the male Arethusian had called her. And there was a sense of decorum about his actions, cursing and threat-throwing aside. Still. Quill didn’t have time to masticate and digest all of the possibilities. Not on the run. And currently out of breath, there just wasn’t enough recycled oxygen making it to his brain to dwell on it. It seemed like when they stopped – if they made it through – that both the Arethusians were going to have a bit of explaining to do.

Another set of blast doors eventually barred their escape. Breathless, the human slammed his hand down just to the left of the immense metal bay door and scrambled drunkenly to peel open the access panel. Fingernails buried in the near-microscopic joint that kept the panel closed and flush with the wall. After a few haggard breaths the small panel popped open with a hydraulic-sounding hiss. Now. Just to settle his nerves enough to punch the correct code in. Upon arrival, each docking vessel was issued an entry code – a means of entering and exiting the oxygen sealed docking bays and tracking just who went where in the ever-changing mini-metropolis. Quivering fingertips hovered over the keypad with its alien symbols; being illiterate did Quill no favors. Typically, the human merely memorized the shape of whatever digit or numeral he was meant to recall – it worked well enough. When panic and exhaustion weren’t covering his mental faculties with a damp blanket. As his panting slowed, Quill punched in the first symbol.

“You might just get that wish granted, sister.” Quill quipped, finally offering a retort at the female on Sulya’s behalf.

Quill punched another key. “Really, what ought’a be slidin’ off that tongue of yours is…’thank you’.” The human’s last to words came with a sticky smile and a matter-of-fact brow raise. “ N’less you’d rather be lizard bait.”

Hammering in the last digit on the keypad, Quill flourished an arm wide as the bay door hissed open. “All aboard.” The human hastily barked, urging the Arethusians in alongside him before the doors slipped closed once more.

Beyond the hydraulic-seal of the blast doors was row after row of docked ships. Any make or model that the galaxy’s get had ever crafted could be found at the docks at one time or another. The bay itself was nothing more than a meager strip – no more than one hundred feet wide – that went on for an age. The end of the bay merely shifted to a fading point on a non-existent horizon. Above, and to the far right, the entire side and ceiling of that narrow hall was polished glass. Or, rather, a semi-transparent carbonate polymer that acted as glass. It provided a see-through window out into the desolate emptiness of space. Starlight filtered into the space, casting Quill in an eerie glow as he continued to usher them further on.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

By luck of the draw, Quill had come out the other side of the Arethusian escapade unscathed. Outdistancing the queer acid-retching projectiles and sizzling electricity bolts had been managed only by Sulya’s forced proximity. Lead, the Arethusian had bid him, and so he had done. Save for the rapidly raising welt on his forearm, a souvenir from his quick-thinking in the hydroponic district, the human was more or less intact. Sides heaving from exertion, Quill watched with a decidedly quirked brow as Sulya effective jammed the door. A good move on his part. Even with the keypad out of commission, it couldn’t be long until the Viskari got the bay doors working again. Security measures and accurately calibrated computer systems weren’t exactly a Drifter Colony’s claim to fame.

"Sir Quill. Your ship? I suspect we don't have much time with that door."

Offering a flash of teeth that was more wince than smile, Quill balked. “Just Quill.” The human’s awkward visage melted some, settling to a more genuine grin, strained as the situation made it. “And you, m’lady,” Quill echoed Sulya’s title for the female, mocking fealty with a dip of his head. “…we can all argue over this all later, yeah?”

All of it was a farce; that smile. His ease with the situation. Inwardly, Quill was sweating bullets. Nervous agitation set him to gnawing at the inside of his cheek, anything to detract from the serious of the situation. It was apparent to Quill, now, that neither Arethusian had intention to stay on the Drifter Colony. Enceladus 9 was a death trap. Still unapparent was just why the Viskari wanted to get ahold of the Arethusians in the first place – nevermind the fact that Quill had never seen nor heard of the elusive Arethusians. Up until this point, the human had merely assumed that they were another of the many uncountable number of species with which he was unfamiliar with. Everyone walked, or slithered, or seeped. It was all the same to quill. But, Dei’tara wouldn’t be so undiscerning.

Curiously, Quill shot a glance at Sulya’s injured arm as they took up a ground-eating jog; bare, scale-less skin – with the human’s untrained eye, nothing seemed amiss, save for the wound. And, perhaps, the strange lack of iridescent scales. It was a nasty injury, and Quill knew at least enough about Viskari weaponry to know that the wound was going to need a fair bit of attention. At least the medical bay aboard the Hireath was stocked and in good order. And provided Dei’tara didn’t toss the entire lousy lot of them back down the gang-plank once they got aboard, it gave Sulya a fighting chance.

Tapping experimentally at the communicator nestled in his ear canal, Quill clicked the miniscule pressure plate that switched the audio feed back on – immediately wishing he hadn’t. A vicious barrage of obscenities squalled in over the earpiece that made the human immediately yank the communicator out to save his eardrums. A yowl of unexpected pain escaped Quill as he half-bent to shove the tiny piece of equipment into one of the many pockets of his pants. No. Dei’tara was not happy at all. Cinntak were a species well known for their unshakeable resolve and cool-headedness. The fact that she had been yowling into the dead earpiece at him for who knew how long was not a promising sign.

Trepidation slowed Quill’s pace as they came to the last row of vessels docked. Licking a bead of sweat from his upper lip, the human offered a breathless nod in the direction of an immense cargo cruiser. And an ancient-looking thing it was. The scarred gunmetal grey hull had been endlessly patched; the space between the furrowed patches and pockmarks was near indiscernible. Roughened welded patches stood out against what was once a sleek outer shell. Overall, the cruiser was an oblong rectangle, tapering at the front-end just enough to make it aerodynamic in atmospheric landings or take offs. The vessel boasted a deep belly - as would any cargo ship- peppered from end to end with looked to be a homebrew weapons system. Salvaged from another vessel entirely, the Hireath’s defense systems were quite up to date. Which, on such a derelict ship, was cause for question. Already Quill could hear the familiar humming growl of the engines – Dei’tara had kept her hot. The vessel’s gang-plank had been laid out like a brittle iron tongue, but began retracting the closer their little group came to it. Quill’s Captain was no slouch, and despite her irritation, was not about to stick around once the trio got aboard. A quick and hasty exit was in order.

Quill didn’t skip a beat, launching himself with a less than graceful clatter onto the surface of the slowly receding ramp. Pivoting, the human offered out an open hand to help yank Sulya and Synne aboard.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Sulya’s indignation, his sloppy barrage of curses – Quill missed out on the dramatics that both Arethusians were so immersed in. The near-inaudible crackle of bio-mechanic relays had narrowed the human’s attention to a pinpoint. He stared at Sulya’s frayed bio-ware with the unabashed surprise of a child. Wires? Initially, Quill’s brain stalled. Given the intricate design, he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around just what it was he was looking at. Most bio-mechanics, though sophisticated in their own right, were clunky; mis-matched against skin and overall lacking in discretion. But these itty bitty synapses and nerve relays were unbelievable! Thread-thin and fizzing temperamentally, Quill nearly couldn’t contain his interest. The haze of utter ignorance cleared from his gaze, those pallid green eyes keen with desire. It forced him to ignore the growing discomfort in his own injury. It wasn’t until Synne forced a fistful of paper notes into his grip that his attentions swayed. Stupidly, the human stared at the female as he attempted to gather up what was left of his wits.

Medical bay. Right. Quill had time to do little more than nod an affirmation before the overhead speakers hummed to life. A woman’s voice rang out in accented omnipresence over the intercom system: “Circumstances being as they are, I will reserve my judgement regarding your new additions until we reach the Sirian Quadrant. Do not mistake this for lenience. I do not suffer stow-aways. Retreat to lick your wounds, Quill, and those of…your companions. I will address this drauuk later.”

Quill bared his teeth in a sheepish grimace, actually ducking his head like a scolded child as the intercom sizzled back to silence. Dei’tara had a strange manner of speaking – guttural and clipped as though she were half-swallowing her words. Still, the tone was never unpleasant. It had a rolling, dedicated preciseness that was easy to listen to. However, even over the speakers, Quill caught the subtle hollowness in her words. Yes, she was seriously miffed…and he supposed he couldn’t blame her for that. They’d touched down on the Drifter Colony to resupply and barter for a few urgently needed parts – which his Arethusian escapade had botched. Looking down at the crumpled currency in his hand, Quill offered it back out to Synne.

“Better that you keep it, I think. Bartering with a Cinntak ain’t easy…’least seems like she idn’t mad enough to force us all out the air-lock.” Quill’s tone was chipper, but only half jesting.

Once relieved of the handful of paper notes, Quill crouched next to Sulya and unceremoniously hitched the man’s uninjured arm over one shoulder. “Up ya’ get.” Despite his underfed stature, the human was able to stand the Arethusian upright. It took a bit of uncomfortable adjusting, but Quill was sure he could hobble Sulya to the medical bay without too much trouble. “Pilot and Captain. Same person.” The human finally answered. “An’ I’ve seen her outmaneuver worse situations. Cinntak are known for their tactical combat skills. Worst you got to worry about is that arm of yours. For the moment.”

It was no short trip to medical. The gang-plank had emptied them into the cargo hold – the variable belly of the ship itself. The wide, empty cargo bay was sparsely strewn with metal shipping containers and little else. Far to the end lay an iron stairwell that led upward to a landing that encircled the entire lower level. Beyond that, the stairs continued upward and into another hall. Quill led them from the chilled gut of the Hirearth and up into the living quarters. A long wide hallway, peppered with closed doorways, ushered them to the furthest reach of the ship. The frosted retractable door of the medical bay hissed open even before they’d reached the end of the hall.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Quill let a chuckle slip through his worrisome smile; the sound eked queerly through gritted teeth. “Don’t you go worrying your pretty little head about that. She’s a Cinntak.”

Any offer of aid would have no doubt gone rebuked by the cantankerous captain. Even if her mood weren’t so foul, it was a matter of proficiency. Not one among the lot of them would have known how to properly calibrate Cinntak munitions systems – being a militant species, the Cinntak kept the knowledge of their defensive and offensive strategies close to the heart, so to speak. It wasn’t an outright rule not to educate outsiders on the use of their technology, but neither was it encouraged. Even Quill had limited enough experience even with his intentions being purely academic. No. The Cinntaki were a widely acknowledged species when it came to their tactical skills – which was high praise for a race that could count less than a hundred thousand individuals. It was better that Dei’tara handle the mess that was no doubt about to unfold outside the ship’s hull.

“Adrenaline is what you want. ‘Least as far as I can figure.”

As another blast rocked the side of the ship, Quill braced a hand against the long stretch of frosted glass cabinet doors. All that rawboned gawkiness seemed more like the poise of a dancer, now. Gentle sways and side-steps that adjusted for the sudden dips and jolts the Hirearth made to avoid taking fire. With a commonplace air, Quill pressed his thumb over a silvery panel of glass and waited for the dull pop of the locking mechanism to release. Shuffling through a myriad of bottles and packets, the human finally withdrew a short, fat bottle of liquid. With a cursory glance at the printed label, Quill nodded absently. Fishing about in another drawer and he had procured a syringe.

Rounding back toward Sulya, already drawing up a measure of the crystal-clear liquid into the hypodermic needle, Quill was hit with a quandary. Arethusians were a separate species altogether, not to mention a life-form that the human had never encountered. True enough, most of the medications that stocked the Hirearth worked cross-species on bipedal mammals from his experience…but his demographic testing pool was shallow, consisting only of himself and Dei’tara. And Quill was no medic.

Your scaleless person language is absolutely bizarre, and so small, how do you find anything?

“S’gotta be small, doesn’t it? To fit it all on that little bottle.” Silently thankful behind his smirk, Quill was glad of the little bit of amusement the female’s comment generated.

Giving the plastic syringe a few cursory flicks with an index finger, Quill stepped over to Sulya’s uninjured side. Though unsure of just how sophisticated Sulya’s artificial appendage was, the human could hazard a guess that it didn’t have veins and arteries running through it. And, even if it did, there was no way to tell just how the biomechanics would process foreign substances. Not to mention the Arethusian’s natural biology. The adrenaline shot might not have any effect. Or worse, it could have too much effect. Licking his lips, Quill carefully leaned down to speak almost directly into Sulya’s ear.

“I’m really hopin’ we didn’t just get through all’a that for me to kill you by accident. Here goes nothin’ yeah?”

Pressing a scar-flecked thumb at the crook of Sulya’s arm, Quill applied pressure just where he figured the right vein ought to run. Where it would run were it any other human. The man rolled his thumb tenderly, moving micrometers to the left or right; hesitating. Quill’s thin, dark brows knit in concentration – being a mechanic, organic patch-jobs put him at a loss. Fixing people wasn’t in his repertoire. Then, after what seemed like an age – though mere seconds had passed – Quill thought he could feel…thought he could see what he was looking for. Without ceremony, Quill shoved the needle deftly beneath the skin and pushed down the butt-end of the syringe. Keeping pressure with his thumb against Sulya’s inner elbow, he withdrew the needle just as swiftly. Spurred on by the intensity of the moment, Quill hadn’t thought to grab gauze or dressing to keep the Arethusian’s veins from springing a leak. Pressure would have to do for now.

“If, ah…” Quill stammered, pinned between a wish to lighten the mood and insatiable curiosity. “…I mean, provided you don’t…die. I’d love a closer look at your hardware. Fascinating stuff.” With the doleful look of a hound begging for scraps, the man shot a look at Sulya’s opposite arm with its still-fizzling wires.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

A lopsided grimace rippled across Quill’s features as the Arethusian retched – either a product of the poison coursing through biometic veins or the unsteady lurching of the Hirearth. The empathetic cast of his green eyes, however, cleared at the tidbit Sulya offered up. It was a tad embarrassing to be so intrigued by what amounted to the body part of a perfect stranger, but yes. Quill wished for a chance, beyond almost anything else in that instant, to have a mechanics fuss. As Synne had so perfectly put it. Sheepishly, the human dipped his head – contrite, but not feeling poorly enough about the situation to let his smile wane.

“Money, I ain’t got use for. Not much, anyhow. Knowledge…I’ll take that any day.” Whetting his lips, Quill let one pencil thin brow raise. “You mentioned that the hardware is self-healing? Nano-technology? Or…”

Already, the wheels in Quill’s head were spinning ‘round the possibilities. There was a lot of alien technology floating around in the cosmos, but this was a particular flavor he hadn’t yet been introduced to. It wasn’t that this was more sophisticated, or more impressive, just that it was decidedly different. Most individuals sporting biomechanics showed it loud and proud. Artificial limbs where over-done; immense swiss-army type gadgets with an air of theatrics about them. Optical implants shimmered and switched iris colors about on a whim. Everything meant to enhance was so visible, so lavishly done, that Sulya’s was more intriguing by its lack of gaucheness.

“…it’s modest.” Quill stated with an air of compliment, actually moving to take Sulya’s palm in his own had to turn the limb gingerly. “Integrated bioengineering? I can’t even begin to tell where it ends and the rest of you starts…’cept for these.” The human carefully tapped a fingertip over the Arethusian’s scales, where they began again on his own bare skin.

Then, on an afterthought, Quill pointed to the still-open glass cabinet he’d withdrawn the adrenaline vial from. “Would you mind…?” Leaving his question open ended, the human was silently asking for Synne’s name. In all the scuffle with the Viskari, the man had missed it. “…there’s another bottle. Should be the brown glass one, just there. If the adrenaline didn’t outright kill you, ‘least our systems are similar enough that I can help with the nausea. And pain, yeah?”

Pain. Until Quill let the word slip, he had forgotten his own injury. The angry, raised red welt covered the whole underside of his left forearm, slithering up into the bend of his elbow. Opaque blisters had bubbled the flesh, half splitting open and seeping. It was only the memory of the injury that made the man withdraw his hand from prodding at Sulya’s skin. Clearing his throat, Quill didn’t look down at his injury.

“Provided Dei’tara likes your story ‘nuff to let you stay, we’ve got a couple empty quarters we can get cleared out. Probably not what you’re used to…” The last bit was directed at Synne – apologetic, but smiling. “…you. Ah. Don’t think I’m tryin’ to insult you, but you seem sorta…”

Quill noisomely cleared his throat, yet again. What, exactly, was the proper way to bring up the fact that Synne had the air of importance about her? The man might not have known much at all about Arethusian’s or their culture, but he wasn’t thick. Viskari didn’t come out in full force like that unless there was something substantial in it for them. And it had been the female, not Sulya, who had gotten their full attention. At least initially. But, being the sort of man that he was, Quill didn’t want to press too hard. On the Hirearth nothing really mattered about an individual’s past. People came and went, either purchasing passage or else needing a temporary job…but there was always a sense of anonymity. Nobody talked about their past unless they wanted to, and no one asked about it. All but Dei’tara and himself, anyhow. They knew each other’s story…years on the same rust bucket of a ship and you sort of ran out of things to talk about, otherwise.

“…who flashes that much cash on a Drifter Colony. Hell. In a different situation, different day, I might’a been tempted to rob you.” Quill sounded playfully exasperated. “You important, or something?”

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

“Half’a mouthful ought’a do it. You’d do well to take a swig, too, matter of fact.”

Quill offered an absent nod toward the brown bottle; it was little more than an educated guess. Traipsing across the galaxy had gained the human nothing past basic medical know-how. Luck would have it that the Hirearth was adequately equipped and stocked with pharmaceuticals enough to ease whatever minor lumps, bumps, and bruises their interstellar travels tossed their way. More severe injuries were treated by the Bio-Dok. Though the system medical specifics were calibrated to Cinntak anatomy, the smart-system was fully automated and capable enough to preform laparoscopic surgeries, or run retroactive diagnostics. Still. For matters of alien anatomy, or issues that required little more than a band-aid, a human hand sufficed.

Following the delicate curl of the Arethusian’s fingers about his wrist quizzically, the human sniffed – only just seeming to notice the injury. The sight of the oozing, blistered flesh had finally set his nerve endings to firing, starting up a sharp throbbing along his forearm. Almost sheepishly, Quill smiled. Not acid, of course. No. A few decades among the stars and the human hadn’t a single battle-scar to show for all his escapades. Though shot with silvery scars from fingertip to palm, not a once of them was from anything daring – a mechanic’s worn hands.

“Steam.” The word came out lazily, sticking stubbornly to his tongue. “Top drawer, on your left. There’s a sort of flat, silver packet. Peel the back off and slap it on. It’ll work for that mess of your’s, too.” Quill gestured absently to Synne’s injury.

Quill’s cogs were spinning along another train of thought entirely. Royalty? Torture? Slavery? Death? While he didn’t quite regret his heroic theatrics, it certainly raised quite a few more questions. Questions he was quite sure Dei’tara wasn’t going to relish asking. It complicated things – well. It certainly complicated things more than Quill had initially expected. Breathing a heavy sigh out through his nostrils, the human settled a somewhat more serious eye on Synne and Sulya.

“Listen. Truth is, names and titles don’t mean much, here. Dei’tara and me, we’re not in the business of digging around in peoples’ past. I don’t wanna give you a whole ‘second chances and new beginnings’ speech, but it’s pretty much a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ sort of situation. Provided the Captain sees fit to lettin’ you both stay on…if you wanna stay on…otherwise, we can drop you someplace. But, seeing as how trouble seems to be followin’ you fairly close at the moment…your call.”

Ending the speech with a nonplussed shrug, Quill jerked his chin sharply toward Sulya. “But we’ll wait for your gut to settle some. Lick our wounds.” Another jolting shock shook the ship, but did little more than slow Quill’s swords. “Once we’re out of the firing range, we can march up to the bridge and you can give Dei’tara your pitch – she’s pretty agreeable, for a Cinntak.”