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.
YOU ARE READING
The Joining: The Cycle of the Shards Book One
Science FictionA disgraced soldier from the other side of the universe must join forces with an average teenage human and his friends in order to find two powerful artifacts before the ignition of an intergalactic war.