Starhold Vesta

Part 1 Chapter 1

As the tension between me and my opponent stiffens the already thick humidity in the room, I become increasingly aware of the weight of my pistols against my thighs. I'm trying not to react, but when the surrounding hostility is on the precipice of falling over into full-blown engagement, I have to know what I have at my disposal.

"I am telling you for the last time, unknown expletive," the thin, knobby creature slurs in its language of burps and sputters. My useless translator inserts its own filler for the words it can't provide. "Leave."

This asshole, tall with knobby, bulbous protrusions from his joints that look like deformed fruit, wobbles on his elbows and raises his weapons at me from behind the bar. At this angle they look lethal—definitely illegal in the common ports. I turn sideways in my stool to nurse my drink, giving him my cold, dusty shoulder.

"You are not welcome here," he says.

Two glucks. One on my right hip and one on my left thigh. My hand is already holding its ghost on my lap as I lean forward on the bar top and lift my drink to my lips. "Fuck off. This is a free port."

The spiny quills on his arms rise and fall in frustration. "This establishment is mine. No shine-dealer is welcome."

I also have a knife. Knives are completely primitive in space, but useful. I feel its cold silhouette against my ankle where it rests between my boot and sock. Moon still mocks me, but he should be one to talk. His weapon of choice is a fucking stick. Sure, it's a stick made of the very thing that makes us gods and outlaws depending on where we land, but it's still just a stick.

"I'm not here for business. My partner and I are only here for a drink. We're not causing any trouble," I say, finally facing the barkeep.

"Unknown Expletive," the bar owner's untranslatable curses dribble over puffy blue lips. "He will not know a peaceful welcome in this stop as long as I am alive. Neither will you. Go now."

In a furtive glance at the door, I notice Moon still hasn't returned from the bathroom. I bet he's having a similar conversation with others just out of earshot. Lifting my glass, I sniff the weak contents and roll my eyes. "Like I said, we're not here for deals. We've been traveling a long time and are just looking to stretch our legs and get a few drinks. Common port law states you aren't allowed to deny business to anyone seeking reprieve from travel. So get the fuck over yourself and pour me something stiffer. You've washed this stuff out." I flip the glass over so the yellow liquid oozes out and spreads across the stone bartop.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that weak. I probably shouldn't have done that.

"Disrespect!" His quills shake. "Disrespect in my business. You have shown me disrespect."

Three weapons hum to life behind me.

I rub my temples. "I just wanted a drink. I just wanted to relax."

One of the bar's patrons shoots from behind, melting the empty stool at my side.

Fuck this.

The scales pressed firmly down my back flip up, lifting like antennae toward danger. The dullness around me zaps to sharp attention just in time to perceive the sound of a second shot well before the beam of electric current leaves the barrel of its weapon. I have enough time to drop from my spot on the hard stool and watch the jet of blue fly past me. My scales rise fully like hackles.

In an instant, the room bursts to life. I feel every speck of dirt against my skin from the countless blips we've spent aboard my ship without proper ways to clean ourselves. I hear each patron and their specific dialect as they panic and urge each other to hurry toward the exit before this idiot humanoid destroys the establishment. At my core, an unnamable spark hits me like striking flint. I acknowledge it and crush it back down. Worst of all, I taste the residual drink in my mouth and realize, yes, without my scales up, it was not watered down at all. A wave of drink-induced vertigo hits me and I stumble as I pull myself off the floor.