Close Nemesis

Interval: Night on Giurokaj

IDAJ:

Stars twinkle above the dusty prisoner settlement of Terratorr. I am on the top floor of a rusting six storey tower located at the edge of the town, staring up at the roof above.

As I lean over the rectangular railing to stare at the two rows of wooden cabins that make up the housing of Terratorr, I notice tall rock formations in the distance that are slowly succumbing to the radioactive erosion that gives them their colourful gloss.

Giurokaj's days are shorter, since it completes a full turn at a quicker pace. There's about six hours of daylight on Giurokaj, and four hours of night-time. I'm used to it by now. But I'd rather be on Podplanata III right now. I wish I could stop the civil war that looms as closely as Giurokaj's impending sunrise does.

Of course, Lygor's plan was stupid and sexist. But, if we had worked together instead of working apart, we might have succeeded.

Okay, maybe we wouldn't have. But, I just wish our plan had worked. I wish we could do something about the civil war. But I doubt we can do anything about it. I'd rather just move on. Maybe I can join another pirate crew. Or even better: reunite with my fellow crewmembers and become their new captain.

I just want some adventure. I need something to take my mind off my dead cousin, Sophalie.

And usually, pickpocketing does the trick.

Unfortunately, I can't pickpocket myself out of here. That'll just increase my sentence.

Of course, my sentence is technically decreasing by the minute, as the radiation is slowly taking seconds, if not minutes, off of my life span.

The metal floor below my mismatched boots shakes as someone walks up the stairs behind me. A high-pitched voice follows the clanking of boots on the metal floor.

"You're Idaj," the voice greets. "Lygor's first mate. How did you come 'ere?"

I know who the owner of the voice is. Soarle. He is a bald Islatopian with wooden skin the colour of a walnut and an eye the colour of mud.

Before he got captured and brought here, Soarle used to be the first mate aboard the Pulsar's Flare, a space galleon that been stolen by Captain Ortar, an Islatopian pirate who had heralded from the fourth planet in the Islatopian system, Atloor.

Even though we served on different crews, Soarle and I occasionally worked missions together before the fool Lygor led the crew of the Void's Marauder into a mightily ambitious raid over the glasslands of Verilik. As a result, everyone on the crew were captured by the authorities and exiled to Islatopia. For the next ten years on Islatopia until Rotcetorp showed up and 'legitimized' our crew, I heard nothing about Soarle, until, of course, the Void's Marauder encountered the crew of the Pulsar's Flare.

Apparently, Soarle had been deserted the crew and travelled to Giurokaj, which is surprising, considering he used to love the pirate shenanigans. It's strange to be hearing Soarle's voice after such a long time, especially since we may have slept together once or twice.

I turn to face him, and I let out a weak smile. He still carries a sword on his back. As do I. The prisoners of this planet are allowed to keep their weapons, as escaping this planet is near impossible. However, we don't draw our weapons. Instead, I extend a hand, and Soarle accepts it, shaking it. His skin is dry, and feels dirtier compared to mine.

"Hello, Ih-daj," he greets with a mispronunciation of my name.

"Soarle," I respond cautiously.

Soarle is still a pirate, and I know I can't trust him like I trust my crew (apart from Lygor, THAT PIECE OF BARK!).