THE JOINING: The Cycle of the Shards Book One

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 dead.” 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.

It wasn’t pity that he was after, she knew. The sooner he was paid, the sooner he would leave her to return to the usual night activities, which mainly involved collecting tabs and turning down most advances that were offered up from the more amorous of low-lifes frequenting the bar. So she quickly programmed a credit chit and slid it across the bar. “It’s all there, you’ll see, minus the cost of the Straggle you’re polishing off.”

The man caught the chit with his palm and slid it into a small container he concealed within his boot. He poured another drink, much to the bartender’s aggravation. He knew she was aggravated, but he had done his job and now he was going to take a little reward. After the solid Tyrian cycle this hunt had taken, he needed a break. The money on the chit would be more than enough to keep him solvent for the next several cycles at least, and after everything he had been through, didn’t he at least deserve a break?

The dark-haired Marconian relaxed as best he could and tossed back his second drink. One or two more, then he could get out of this place and back to...Civilization? Nah, he’d seen cities often enough. Probably someplace with trees, this time. Real forests were a rarity throughout the galaxies he had visited lately, and it was time to spend some time in peace. As he drank, the world grew fuzzier, and he laid his head down on the bar for a moment, paying no mind to the sound of the electronic doors creaking open, and a sudden uproar from the patrons, as well as the Bartender. “GET OUT.” Came the yell, far too close to his head for the noise. “Comets aren’t served here or anywhere else on this rock. Fly away.”

The man raised his head slightly. A soul? Here? He glanced up and saw what most unlearned people would think to be an apparition. A small, white wisp, floating through space as though dancing on air. Its largest part was its front, filled with a floating white murkiness, which trailed off into a tail behind it. For all its sentience all it appeared to be was a floating comet, albeit one only slightly larger than the bottles on the table. From its body emanated an exasperated voice, one that caused it’s body to glow with every syllable that it said. While it was certainly not an indication of gender, the voice sounded masculine enough for the man to consider him male, despite the lack of anything that would denote any differences.

“I’m on..I’m on...” Every time the wisp began to speak he was drowned out by the shouting and angry comments from the patrons. Every time he tried to repeat himself he got slightly louder until finally he was yelling, which did not help his situation. “I’M ON OFFICAL MARCONIA QUA’ROTI BUSINESS!” At that, the man couldn’t take it any more, walking over and grabbing the wisp out of the air, taking advantage of the distraction to ensure the ‘soul’ could not shift dimensions slightly and render himself untouchable.

“Would you please shut up?” The man hissed at the wisp as he dragged him back to his seat, the wisp itself still surprised at the assault. “You’re going to start something that none of us need.” As he sat down, the patrons were visibly agitated at the intruder, and had all moved their appendages back towards their weaponry, some of them even moving to draw their blades and guns. The Kirthian’s claws had scratched down the wooden table, digging four straight lines in a row. The wisp tried to talk, but the man’s hand was covering the front where its sound emanated from, so all that came out was muffled warbling. The man sighed. “If I let go, are you gonna be quiet?” A single syllable remark was uttered, and the man was satisfied. He let his hand loose, and the wisp floated slowly up, his white light dimmer than before.

The wisp shook slightly. “You could’ve just asked before grabbing me.”

The man sat stone-faced and choked down another drink, knowing he was nearing his limit, both with the drink and the company. He didn’t want to deal with this right now, or ever, in fact. “It wasn’t time for conversation. You start yelling about the Qua’roti, you’re asking for trouble. Or can’t you souls even get hurt?”

The wisp didn’t bother replying. Arguing with a drunk wasn’t going to be worth his time, and it was unlikely he was going to find his target here, just like the other dozen places just like this one he had found himself. But, he was resigned to his duty, and besides, the quicker he made the connection with the bar owner, the quicker he could get back to more hospitable climates, at least those where laser pistols weren’t pointing at him from the moment it entered the room. He floated over to the bartender. “I just need a moment of your time...”

“Did you miss when I said to get out? You have no place here.” Between the bounty hunter, the Akkarian, and now the soul, Sharonik had had just about enough excitement for one evening.

For the wisp’s part, he was used to such treatment. While most places were nicer about their degradation, wisps simply did not fit in accepted society. Instead of a being, they were treated as a transitional stage between the regular humanoid Marconian and the true monstrous self most tried hard to never reveal. The vast, vast majority of Marconians stayed in humanoid form all of the time. Some desired a more animalistic life and stayed in a much larger and much more destructive form that was slightly different for every individual. Some even seamlessly moved back and forth, but of course no more than once a standard Marconian day due to the vast amounts of energy it took to convert themselves. The wisp and those like him were beholden to a more deeper calling, not quite the same as a religion but more of a devotion to the true self, which they maintained could only be found by the floating stillness of staying a wisp permanently. They eschewed the trappings of bodies, either horrifying or human. Most served the Marconian elites, as the wisp was doing now. Many of the rest of the universe considered them outcasts and as with the bar would have nothing to do with them. So the wisp had dealt with individuals like this before and he thought he knew how to deal with them.

“I just need to make a short announcement, then I will be out of your hair. If you, um, had any.” She snarled, not happy with the accidental insult against her races’ shortcomings.

“In my bar, only I give the announcements. Get out before I give my people the go to shoot you out of the air.”

A sigh came from the wisp as it realized it would have to take another tack, one that it was always hesitant to use. “As I said, I’m on Qua’roti business. You know the law. You wouldn’t want the military to come comparing your wanted posters to your clientele, would you?”

Sharonik was silent. “The Qua’roti don’t control the military, and they haven’t come this far outside of their territory in a hundred cycles. We have an agreement.”

The wisp could not be deterred. “Agreements change with new leadership. I’m assuming you haven’t been keeping up on recent news. They wouldn’t have sent me here if they didn’t have jurisdiction. All I want is a moment. ” Sharonik stared at the ‘soul’, and made her decision. She waved for him to go ahead, then yelled loud enough for the whole bar and even those outside could hear her.

“ALL RIGHT INGRATES, PAY ATTENTION. THIS THING HAS FLOATED ALL THE WAY FROM MARCONIA TO SAY SOMETHING. QUICKLY.” The last part she added directly to the wisp, who nodded as much as he could nod, then turned his body to the assemblage, which was already out of patience.

He took a deep breath, and began. “This is a message from the Marconian Qua’roti, long may they reign. We are in urgent search of an individual of some renown. There is a task that only will be offered to him. The need is great, the reward will be large.” He paused as many of the bar began to yell, their bigotry forgotten with the offer of potential reward. The yells of “I’m him!” “Pick me!” “I’ll do it!” were familiar, as they were called out everywhere the wisp went. The next words never failed to silence them, however.

“The Marconian we are searching for is General Critock.”

As expected, there was total silence. Nobody in their right mind (or minds, depending on the species) would want to be mistaken for the traitor Critock. The wisp expected this, but fortunately for the mission one of the evolutionary quirks of the wisp form, no matter which form they were in, was access to a nigh-photographic memory. He scanned the room, allowing for age and potential surgeries or hair growth. Nothing...Until he glanced at the bar.

“Not possible.” He said in disbelief, but there was no mistaking. The body shape had not changed, the facial structure beneath the two weeks facial hair was identical, and the look of his eyes could not be changed without ripping them out. The man that had killed the Akkarian, the man that had fought for the Marconians in the first War of the Shards, then cost them the very things they were fighting for, was sitting right in front of him.

Critock was that man.

For a moment, the wisp was taken aback. He actually hadn’t expected to actually find his target. He was just one of a dozen wisps doing the same work for the Qua’roti, and he had already been to several locations. He supposed this made sense. If he was now a bounty hunter, living off the grid and trying to avoid attention from the Universe at large that thought him as bad as the Loyalists, this was exactly the sort of place he should have expected to find him.

Critock himself at this moment had pushed the drink away. He knew that it was only going to be a moment before he was made, and needed to escape before that happened. But it was too late, as the wisp reached him. “You’re here! I’ve found you! We need...” Again Critock grabbed the wisp to shut him up.

"Quiet." Already eyes around the room were following the wisp. They could not fail to notice the excitement on the wisp, it’s bright white color strobing, and the determination on Critock’s face to make sure that nobody else would know who he really was. Patrons began rising to their feet, almost all of them now revealing their weapons from their holsters, and begun shouting towards the pair.

“TRAITOR!”

“LOYALIST LOVER!”

The Kirthian had stood as well, his metal claws fully bared. They had not been used for some time, and they itched terribly, as they had ever since the declawing torture that had left him the recipient of the terrible gifts. Of course, they had shortly been used on his former captors, and then later every one of his enemies. His bounty was the highest on the board behind the bar, and summarily ignored by every Bounty Hunter that valued their lives. No race had suffered more from the fallout from the Wars of the Shards than Kirthians, and much of that blame was laid, right or wrong, at Critock’s feet. He stared at his race’s enemy, and growled softly.

“Damn it.” Critock muttered to himself, realizing that he was out of time,and only had a few options available to him. He released the wisp, and softly spoke to him. “What’s your name, soul?”

“Tomkari Zatharn Jaruthi Maktar, General.” Critock got the feeling that if a wisp could salute, Tomkari would have.

“All right, ‘Tomk’, we need to get out of here quickly, otherwise we both die. You see the exit?” Tomkari was about to complain about the misuse of his name, but thought better of it, and then floated in the matter of a nod. “Good. When I make my move, you fly outside quick as you can. I’ll meet you.” At that, Critock stood up, facing an angry Sharonik, and slowly took his glass. He raised a hand behind him, and put up an index finger, beckoning the angry mob to wait. He raised the glass, and tossed it back into his throat. Swallowing, he then opened his hand, put the glass down, and turned. With his hands up showing surrender, he started. “Gentlemen...”

Then he quickly curled his leg around a stool and kicked it towards the front man of the group, who was in mid-yell when he caught the stool with his face. As the stool was flying, Critock had grabbed for a second stool, then rushed towards the mob. Stunned, none of them reacted until he had smashed the stool into a second rough-looking man, this one dropping a blaster. As the first shot flew from the back of the room, missing Critock by a yard and smashing into his bottle of Straggle, Critock ducked down and grabbed for the blaster, picking it up and putting his finger on the trigger. He spun around, firing as fast as he could, his unpracticed hand still remembering years of target practice both in his academy days and in real combat. Five attackers fell before Tomkari realized that he wasn’t following orders. He quickly flew towards the door, but not before noticing that one of the attackers, the Kirthian who had been blocked from being shot by another unlucky patron, was training his own laser pistol on Critock, who was still occupied with a dozen attackers in the front. He quickly zoomed down in front of the cat-creature and illuminated himself, straining the wisp enough that he grunted. The light blinded the harsh-looking Kirthian momentarily, causing his shot to go wide and into the back of the closest attacker to Critock. The Marconian looked up at Tomkari, smirked, and went back to shooting.

Critock had fought a lot worse battles than this solo, but he was out of practice and tiring a little. Tomkari made up the difference by being a wonderful distraction. As Critock both shot, punched, and kicked his way through the group, the wisp shined his light brightly, distracting every attacker in the room while Critock was able to keep his head down and trust his instincts. His goal was not to kill the group, merely to make it out alive. It felt like much longer but it was only mere moments before Critock reached the exit.

“TOMK! LETS GO.” He called, and the wisp turned. Knowing his best option, though it was going to leave him unable to move quickly, Tomkari rushed to Critock’s side.

“Close your eyes.” Without a questioning word, Critock did as he was told, and Tomkari illuminated himself to full brightness. To the room, it seemed like a sun had exploded in their retinas, and all they could see was a bright light for several seconds. They heard the door open, then close again, and as they blinked the light away, they saw...nothing. Their enemy and the wisp had disappeared. Almost as one, the remaining patrons, rushed towards the door expecting it to open as they entered it’s area of detection. The door failed to respond, and the first group hit the door hard. It hurt them, but not as much as when the second group crashed into them.

“GET THIS THING OPEN!” One of the attackers yelled, a four eared Noxkar with three fangs. Sharonik realized that their prey, assuming they weren’t just going to escape on foot, would be long gone before they fixed the sabotaged door. She knew her livelihood was finished then. No self respecting criminal in the universe would go to a place that allowed a wisp to speak, and gave service to the most notorious war criminal in this section of space. She let out a loud, wordless yell of frustration and anguish, and those attackers momentarily lost their anger at their prey and were instead fearful of who they were now trapped inside with.

Outside, Critock and Tomkari moved quickly away from the ‘refreshment station’, and towards the shipyards. The fumes bothered Critock to the point of coughing, but he wasn’t planning on staying out long, and as a Wisp, Tomkari didn’t need to breathe.

In between coughs, Critock pointed towards the lights of the shipyards. Keeping themselves out of the lights, they headed towards the main hanger bay, inside of which each of their vessels were located. Just as they entered Tomkari veered off towards his ship, a sleek silver model with four engines and the finest thrusters known to Marconia. As he moved closer he was suddenly grabbed by Critock, and moved forcefully behind a cargo crate.

“What are you doing? We need to get out of here!” Tomkari phased from his solid form to escape Critock’s grasp.

“Take a closer look. Your ship is surrounded.” Tomkari floated slightly above the sightline of the crate to see that Critock was correct, that there were indeed about a dozen angry looking figures holding weapons, and looking for anything out of place. “Looks like word travels fast.” Critock whispered, not eager to start yet another fight today.

“I don’t understand, why are they around just my ship! The rest of these heaps aren’t guarded at all!” If it was possible to float indignantly, Tomkari was doing just that. Critock just shook his head.

“You really haven’t done this much, have you? These ‘heaps’, one of which is mine thank you, look alike. Most of them are unmarked. Means nobody knows which one belongs to who. Now look at the one that stands out. No secret which one the guys that just kicked your ass would run to.”

“So what do we do?”

“‘We’ do nothing. I am going to get on my ship and fly out of here, and maybe try to salvage some part of my life that you just ruined. You get to grab one the other ones, hightail it back to Marconia, and tell the Qua’roti that Critock died sometime ago in a pool filled with Straggle and Jivian love-sellers.”

Tomkari flew directly in Critock’s face. “That’s not an option. Marconia and the Qua’roti have gone to great lengths just to narrow down what quadrant you were in. They need your help. As a son of Marconia...”

“Tip for next time you do this. Don’t use the patriotic angle on an enemy of the state. I’ve got no interest in Marconian needs anymore. I’ve already done enough for King and planet.”

Tomkari could not be deterred. “It’s about more than that. They want to hire you for a job. They promise great reward should you accept.”

Critock shook his head. “Qua’roti promises are worth nothing. I’ve heard reward from their mouths a thousand cycles ago. Still waiting.” He went to stand up and Tomkari wrapped a white tendril around his arm and pulled him down for a change.

“There’s an advance on your reward. Ten thousand credits, payable upon reaching the Qua’roti. Ten grand just to talk to them, Critock. Whatever happened before was a long time ago.”

Critock interrupted. “It’s never long enough. You don’t know, do you? You don’t know what I’ve been through, what I’m still going through. All of this, just because one wisp just mentions my name. You think you can pay back all of that with ten thousand credits?”

Tomkari was unfazed. “Yes. You’re a hard man to find but everyone talks about the untouchable bounty hunter. Doesn’t take many jobs, but does them quickly. Very choosy about his selections. You don’t take a lot, so you don’t earn a lot. I’d think that ten thousand is probably more than you’ve earned in the last five cycles combined. I’m not a rich Wisp, but I don’t think I’d turn down ten grand to sit with all the devils in the eight hells. Can you?”

Critock sat back down, and thought for a moment, his back to the crate. Living off the ship alone and struggling just to have enough fuel to get to another job was tiresome. While he was very good at what he did, Tomkari was right, he would only choose specific tasks that caught his eye. Ones where the target’s guilt was not in doubt, and where the crime was ghastly. Ten thousand would free him from that, pay for another ten cycles of flight time, and perhaps he’d be able to get used to real meat again instead of the synthesized stuff. To him, the Qua’roti were equal at least to the aforementioned devils. But he had to agree with the soul, the offer was too good to pass up. And at least he would have the satisfaction to tell those sanctimonious assholes to their faces that he wasn’t their soldier anymore, no matter what they were offering.

He turned to Tomkari. “Fine. You follow me. We fly straight to Marconia, I get my credits, I’ll listen to the holy rollers, and then I’m gone. You don’t try and find me again, got it?”

Tomkari quickly agreed. “Good! Great! Let’s get going before they find us!” While Critock was thinking it over, the wisp had noticed that that about half the group had left the ship and were now heading outwards, and would reach the other ships in a few moments.

Waving a hand forward, Critock started moving in a crouching formation, with Tomkari close behind. They moved together behind and under several cargo ships before reaching their destination, Critock’s small hopper that was almost entirely rust colored, which caused Tomkari to think that it was an odd decision until he realized that it was actual rust. They saw a purple faced Cyrian, his long white hair standing straight up adding a foot to his height, and ducked quickly behind the rear wing of the ship.

"This thing is going to get us to Marconia?” Tomkari was slightly unbelieving.

“Hull is double-enforced. Outer hull is kinda flaky looking but the inner hull is good for another twenty cycles, thirty if I push it.” Critock peered around the corner, and saw the Cyrian heading their way. He plastered himself against the wall, held out a hand to Tomkari to stop, and waited. The Cyrian reached the rear of the ship, grimaced and scratched his knee, then kept moving past the pair. As he walked away, Critock crouched again and the two moved forward along the hull. Reaching a particularly rust free part of the ship, they heard a loud hissing sound. Both Critock and Tomkari looked to their left, and saw the Kirthian, who had somehow made it outside of the bar. His claws were extended, shining in the lights from the shipyard. He snarled, and then quickly began advancing on the pair.

Critock didn’t panic, even though he wasn’t sure if he could survive the fight with the bloodthirsty animal. He quickly knocked on the hull three times. Instantly a large door opened with a grinding sort of noise, causing the Cyrian to turn around and see Critock jump into the ship with Tomkari quickly following him, just before the Kirthian reached them. As they entered the door closed.

“HEY! THEY WENT IN THIS ONE! HEY!” The Cyrian called. As the group turned and began closing in on the ship, Critock quickly ran through the catwalks and hard brownish floors to the control chair. When he sat in the chair, the control systems instantly came to life, and the view screen opened, revealing several large guards heading towards them. He started tapping the screen, as Tomkari floated, transfixed.

“You’ve got a TK421 Supernova Hopper and you’re using manual controls?”

Critock didn’t stop entering the opening flight plans and instructions. “I’m not a soul, I’m keeping my hands. I work faster by instinct, not by thinking about it. Get comfortable, we’re almost out of here.”

Outside, the guards were pounding on the outside of the ship. The Kirthian, preferring to use his claws, was scratching at the metal to attempt to rip a hole straight through. Try as they might, they could not get the door to open, and eventually they gave up that tactic, and all but the Kirthian and the Cyrian moved around to the rear of the ship, to a much more vulnerable spot. While the ship’s metal resisted lasers and other assorted blasters due to the unique makeup of the material, like most ships it still exhausted energy through it’s engine ports to the rear. They lined up at the rear of the ship and began firing directly into the engine ports themselves. Unfortunately for them, it was exactly what Critock was hoping for.

Without warning, the engine ports erupted in blue solid flame that fired straight back, and directly into their attackers. The sheer power of the engines combined with the energy needed for a quick take off immediately incinerated most of the group, and those that survived were engulfed in flame. Critock’s hopper lurched forward and up, gliding over another ship in the hanger. As he moved his fingers across the screen, controlling the ship with precision, it turned and dove out of the main hangar area, and then soared skyward, directly over Sharonik’s ‘refreshment station’, hoping that breaking the sound barrier right then would further anger the bartender. Not like he was ever coming back here anyway.

The two survivors that had been either smart or lucky enough not to shoot at the engines watched the ship fly away. The Kirthian seethed, having missed his chance to avenge his race’s misfortunes. “I can’t believe it! Critock was here!” He turned to the Cyrian, holding a blaster rifle and gazing skyward. He looked star struck, despite the fact that he was trying to kill the bounty hunter only moments before. The Kirthian growled, grabbed the blaster rifle easily out of his hands, and whipped the Cyrian hard across his face. He fell to the ground bleeding and unconscious as the Kirthian looked back to the sky, hoping that someday he would get another chance…

Critock sat back in his control chair as the ship soared through the last moments of atmosphere, and enjoyed the sight as pure blackness replaced the slight dark purplish sky of Kastabellos. He turned to Tomkari, who seemed a little shocked at the excitement they had just went through. “Just hang out for a bit, we’re safe, we’re on course, we’ll be there before you know it.” He leaned back his head, and relaxed as the hopper finished clearing the atmosphere of the moon, passed Cyroni, and flew off into the stars.