Successive novella segments will be linked in this header and at the bottom of each post.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Performer’s Park was a rather green slice of an otherwise artificial environment, which was Teslovia as a whole. What Kracker knew of civic engineering was little, but he knew enough that green spaces were vital in a city, particularly one of Teslovia’s continental-size, as cities trapped heat. As soon as he stepped foot into the park, he felt a good ten degrees cooler. Beyond that, greenery was vital to the senses. A natural connection. It seemed like hundreds of citizens had made their way to Performer’s Park for that connection. Kracker flipped off his sandals and let his feet sink into the soft, tightly trimmed grass. 

Buskers, bands, and artists filled public spaces or crowded hastily constructed platforms, performing with their various instruments. Kracker moved from small crowd to small crowd, sampling each musician’s style. Nothing seemed to click for him. 

Granted, every musician was talented, but nothing he had heard seemed to convey the mood he was aiming for. Disappointed, he made his way to the edge of the park and took a seat on a bench. It had been painted and tagged over by dozens of artists over the years. Layers of decals, paint, and do-it-yourself printing made the bench’s surface uneven, but still comfortable. He wondered if the years of art worked like a cushion. From here, the individual performers became a discordant mess, their individual refrains coagulating into a tumor of noise.

Then, as he sat, a simple guitar tune drifted by. It was something low-key, sure, but there was some underlying vibrancy in the notes. Kracker rose from the bench and looked in the direction from which he heard the music. He began to follow, and as he did, he felt the strumming quicken and the music grow more confident. His eyes darted around the park and down toward the various tall buildings on the perimeter. 

Then he saw a Gomben, guitar in hand, sitting against a small information kiosk, strumming absentmindedly. Kracker approached and noticed the small placard sitting in front of the guitarist. It featured the intergalactic symbol of patronage, an orange, rounded “P” shape, and a mobile code. Kracker knelt, typed the code into his own mobile, and threw some credits the Gomben’s way.

“Thanks, man,” the Gomben said. He continued to strum out an improvised melody.

“Not a problem, you’re really good.”

Kracker stood back up and continued to listen. The Gomben smiled and began to improvise a new melody, something a little lazier and more wistful. This was the kind of sound Kracker was looking for.

“You wouldn’t happen to be available for a party tonight, would you?”

The Gomben flashed a wry, toothy grin as his fingers plucked the strings.

…

“So, my friends, do you have any idea what your flight plan will be?” Spril asked.

Marken took a sip from his teacup, “Unfortunately, that is decided by GalactiCorp. The minute we know, we’ll send word your way. I wouldn’t mind having another ship grouped up with us for safety.”

Mara self-consciously picked at her salad, only now aware of how awkward her choice of food was given the present company.

A server approached the table and set a small salad before Spril.

“Thank you,” he said, and then immediately stuck several of the leafy greens with his fork, scooping them into his mouth.

Mara and Marken stared at the scene, unsure of what they were seeing. Spril paused for a moment, feeling their eyes on him. He swallowed and smiled.

“I assure you I didn’t just eat my cousin,” he looked directly at Mara, “though I can’t say if your lunch is a distant cousin or not… we all seem so similar sometimes.”

Mara’s eyes widened.

“I’m joking, Mara. Just because I have plant characteristics does not mean that I don’t need food. Vegetables are the most efficient food source there is. Besides, salads are delicious.”

Mara and Marken began to laugh. She took a bite of her own lunch, but then Spril chimed in, “Although your plate does remind me of a growth I once had…”

Mara set her fork down and furrowed her brow toward Marken. He smiled and then turned to Spril, “That’s enough, Spril.”

The Floraran flashed a wicked grin. “I just couldn’t resist.”

“Well, I am certainly regretting my lunch choice now,” Mara pouted.

“When in doubt, stew it out, at least that’s what I’ve always said.”

“You’ve never said that before, Marken.”

He leaned toward her, “I always say that. To myself.”

Spril took another bite of his salad. “Don’t worry, Mara, you’re fine. I may be related to plants, but then again… aren’t we all? I just skew a little closer and can take on their genetic characteristics.”

“That’s always fascinated me,” Mara said, “this galaxy is just full of interesting surprises, isn’t it? If I’m not mistaken, I think our security guard, Guugel, has some characteristics similar to yours… or at least that’s what his eating habits tell me.”

“Guugel? Oh, yes, that cute little Wot security guard of yours. How is he?”

Marken slurped down some stew.

“I think he’s off spending his bonus on some souvenirs or something.”

…

Guugel, at this point, had found himself wandering away from the major thoroughfares of the city into the more cramped corridors between the major buildings that made up the blocks. He was still mostly on the top-level of the city, though away from the central routes, more and more overhangs and walkways blocked out the sunlight. So far, he hadn’t found much of interest beyond his dancing Syrien doll. 

He stumbled into an intersection of two avenues that opened up into a small plaza and sat himself down for a moment on a curb. He pulled out the doll and jiggled it slightly, watching it perform its spring-powered dance.

He peered around the small plaza, particularly at the dried patch of grass in the center. He noticed the sun hit the patch in just the right way to dry out the grass, and he began to think how nice a tree would look in this little spot. Maybe his travels would bring him back here after a while, and he’d find it to be a bustling little spot of weary pedestrians resting in the shade.

Guugel put the doll away in his backpack and hopped to his feet. He decided to see if he could find a tree… but where to begin? Guugel studied the four avenues radiating from the plaza and made his way down the one he was most unsure of. 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought to himself.

…

The ambassador’s office was cramped and stuffy. Dash could see it from out in the secondary lounge where he found himself waiting, his initial visit approved. A tired-looking Terrekin of about 70 or so, on the cusp of middle age, was taking a meeting.

His eyes nestled into heavy, dark bags, and the sides of his olive-green face looked jowly and unshaven. He seemed to be talking to someone whom Dash couldn’t see. But he could see that the ambassador was growing increasingly agitated.

“Well, that’s certainly going to make my meeting interesting,” Dash said to himself.

He continued to watch until the ambassador rose and extended his hand to the other individual in his office. They shook, almost begrudgingly, and the other Terrekin stepped out. Dash couldn’t place what seemed off about him until he turned around to say something to the ambassador. Dash saw that the Terrekin’s shell was an artificial one – composed of treated plastic. 

Dash rose, knowing he was next in line to meet with the ambassador. The Terrekin with the artificial shell stormed off, dropping several sheets of paper. Dash knelt to pick them up, but by then the gentleman with the artificial shell had already wandered off. Dash shrugged, folded the papers, and tossed them into his bag. He’d find the guy later.

Dash stopped in front of the door and turned to the secretary, who seemed busy. He looked in on the ambassador, who also seemed overworked, already sorting through papers and datapads piled onto his desk. Dash shrugged and knocked lightly on the door frame. The ambassador’s head rose quickly; his look of frustration was readily apparent. He did his best to mask it with a smile and gestured for Dash to take a seat.

“How can I help you, Mister… uh…” the ambassador flicked through appointments on his terminal, “Kameku, yes? I’m Quinlen Sev.”

Dash nodded and took a seat. “Yessir. I was hoping your office could assist me in ferrying some sensitive equipment back to Ocia.”

“That seems like something that could be handled via a shipping company, though?”

Dash shrugged, “Under any other circumstances, I’d agree with you, but given the nature of the equipment and the networking fees involved, I figured I could classify this as a public works project.”

“How so?”

“Well, I want to ship a GIN relay to my home village, and because it is a potential addition to Ocia’s communication network, I figured there were maintenance and installation concerns, not to mention that this is a large, expensive piece of equipment to move over public shipping. Given this, I also know that I can ensure proper, safe delivery if it’s treated as a public works project, so-“

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down, kid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What village?”

“Movari. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“You’re right. Never heard of it.”

“I’m not surprised. We’re on a small island off the coast of Konshu.”

“Konshu, huh? My family was originally from there. Tell me more about this relay.”

“Well, Movari is quite small and doesn’t have great access to Ocia’s communications network. We have to use Konshu’s system, but we’re in a bad spot because we aren’t close enough to the island for a good signal, and we aren’t a large enough population to be granted a relay by the government.”

“So you’re taking it upon yourself to solve the problem?”

“Well, doing what I can. I came into some money I don’t need, so I figure I can put it toward a good cause.”

“That’s admirable. I think I may be able to help you in that regard. At least there’s something I can accomplish today.” Quinlen’s brow furrowed slightly.

“I imagine the pay you get as an ambassador more than makes up for it, though, right?”

“HAH! How much do you think we make?”

“I thought an ambassador would be rich.”

“Do you have any idea what a Federation ambassador makes? Our pockets don’t get lined like ambassadors from the Neutrality.”

“I had no idea, I didn’t mean to assume-“

“It’s no worry, kid, I understand. It’s not a great system we have, but I’ve found it to be worth doing what I can from inside. To be honest, I wish I had your gumption regarding another project.”

“What sort of project?”

“Well, my last visitor was my business partner. We’re trying to fund a prosthetic shell lab here on Teslovia. Most prosthetics have to come from Ocia and we figured a lab here would make a lot of sense because it’d be easier to ship the prosthetics if we grew them here.”

“I noticed his shell was a prosthesis…”

“Oh, no, no, we’re talking about full-grown shells that accept nerve connection, like our birth shells. Genetic matches and everything.”

“That’s a great idea. We can do that, now?”

“Absolutely. We’re at the forefront of this. It’s good work. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Problem is, my position as an ambassador requires that I don’t take a major stake in any businesses that I may potentially have influence over. If this thing can get launched, I was planning on retiring. Then, of course, there is the idea of raising the money-“

“Do you need another investor?”

“Desperately, but… well, I have to end my involvement here. I suggest you talk to Korl about it.”

Dash reached into his bag and pulled out the papers Korl dropped.

“He left these behind.”

“Good, good. Listen, go see him, I’ll give you his address.”

“Sure thing. About my-“

“Oh, of course, of course. I’ll make sure all the paperwork is in order for your relay. That won’t be an issue.”

Quinlen rose from his chair and extended his hooked arm ahead of him. Dash rose and did the same. The two touched forearms – the traditional Terrekin greeting.

“Thank you, Mister Kameku. You’ve certainly made my day a little bit brighter.”

…

The dingy waiting room of the augment clinic smelled like sweat and alcohol. In truth, it was less of a waiting room than a loading dock with sloppily constructed walls meant to provide some illusion of privacy. The seating was, for the most part, limited to crates, except for a threadbare sofa that Alix had claimed when she arrived. A couple of “patients” wandered around the room, idly occupying their time until their turn for surgery.

Getting here had been a challenge requiring some bribery and stealth. There was an inherent disappointment in realizing the operation was happening in such an unhygienic location. She made a note to herself to purchase some antibio patches, just to be on the safe side. She wished her options weren’t as limited as they were, but given her background and the nature of the information she needed to retain, an unregistered storage drive mod was her best option.

A nurse – a haggard gaur Alix could only describe as “lumpy”  –  opened the door and poked her head out, asking, “Kira Vaan?”

Alix rose and made her way over to the door. The nurse held it open in her strong, Gaur arms. Alix noticed the telltale injection scars on her forearms. Apparently, the nurse had some augmentations of her own or a potential drug problem.

Ah well, Alix thought, too late to back out now.

She followed the Gaur down the hallway. The Gaur’s steps were heavy and lumbering across stubby legs, and several times Alix noticed the nurse do the “knuckle-walk” – a result of the sheer amount of weight and the length of the arms of the Gaur as a species.

The nurse gestured to a door, and Alix stepped inside. The Tentachlid surgeon was already sitting at a counter, filling out paperwork.

“Please sit on the examination bed,” he said. He did not look up from his paperwork.

Alix looked at the door behind her, which was now shut, and considered simply walking away. She sighed and hopped onto the examination bed, which seemed tailored to a Blassnaught’s proportions.

“Alright, miss…”

“Kira.”

“Sure. Kira,” the doctor winked with a singular eye, that appeared more to be a drawn-out blink, “what are you looking for?”

“I need a portable drive implant and an access port implanted into my body.”

“Hm. Cosmetically-clean?”

“Yes, preferably to be covered by the fur on my arm.”

“Well, that’s going to run you at least 3000 credits for the drive, and another 450 for the cosmetic work.”

“I have the money.”

“Well then, let’s get started. Anesthetic?”

“T-that’s not included?”

“Surgical-grade anesthetic is expensive and in short supply for pop-ups like this. There’s a premium of 200 credits attached to it. 350 if you want the good stuff.”

Alix gritted her teeth. “Fine. Anesthetic. The good kind… but don’t skimp on it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The doctor tapped a small series of buttons on the side of the bed and forced it to recline, catching Alix off balance.

“Just let me know the drive and adapter you want, and where you want the implant.”

Alix stared at the door one last time and then turned her attention to the inventory list on the tablet the doctor held in front of her.

…

Mara, Marken, and Spril found themselves back on the Greensleeves, talking over the options of the gardening business. Suddenly, Mara felt the mobile in her pocket vibrate. She excused herself and stepped to the side to see that she had received a text from Guugel:

GUUGEL: Are you and Marken seeing that gardener today? Can you ask about a sapling for me? I’m looking for one.

Mara smiled and quickly hammered out a message:

MARA: Come see us on his ship. Dock 16, Section Orange, Budget Docking.

She felt a little devious. She could have easily asked for the sapling on Guugel’s behalf, but Spril had been so keen to learn about the Wot that she felt like maybe Spril was interested in him. It was worth a shot, at least, getting them in the same room. She tucked the mobile back into her pocket and made her way back to the others.

…

Kracker felt optimistic. The guitarist had eagerly accepted the commission to play for the party. He was a nice young Gomben named Jem who was courteous and took copious notes about what exactly Kracker was asking for.

He was on his way now to pick up some snacks and drinks for the party to be delivered to the ship. Nothing extravagant, of course, but something for everyone there. As he made his way down the crowded boulevard, a sign caught his eye. He studied it, recognizing the green diamond of the medical industry. He weaved through the crowd and stepped inside. The air was chilly, and he immediately knew that this was a Grey establishment. Shelves featured boxes of medical supplies and equipment, and behind the counter were locked cases of premium-quality pharmaceuticals. At the counter stood a rather bored-looking Grey.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Kracker approached and looked around. “I’m looking for a medical thing.”

The Grey had no discernible eyebrow, but the muscles above the left eye contorted, indicating confusion.

“This… is a medical supply shop.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m trying to find a gift for a friend, but I can’t… hm.”

The Grey sighed. “A tool?”

“My friend? Yes. Haha…”

The Grey’s brow muscle contorted again.

Kracker coughed, “I mean, yes, the thing I am looking for is a tool. Something to deal with triage…”

The Grey rubbed a temple with a finger in contemplation. “I assume you are referring to a diagnostic probe?”

Kracker nodded, “Uh-huh, uh-huh!”

The Grey briskly stepped around the side of the counter, and Kracker followed him to a shelf displaying different boxes of probes of various brands and specifications.

“Do you know what kind of probe your friend might be looking for?”

“No idea,” Kracker beamed.

The Grey sighed.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

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The post Cosmic Dash: Signing Bonus – Part Two appeared first on hpkomics.com.

Successive novella segments will be linked in this header and at the bottom of each post.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Altogether, it was the largest sum of money Dash had ever received in one go. Growing up in Movari village, on the moon of Ocia, he had never even entertained so many antecedent zeroes addressed to him and him alone. The rate of 50,000 credits per professional engineering contract was very much above standard, sure, but nothing too out of the ordinary. The additional 50,000 from signing the contractual agreement for Kimney, however, brought the total up to a solid 100,000 credits. It was more than double the collective net worth of his old village, even today.

He was technically worth more than his whole village’s worth of fishers, spears, boats, and homes. It was an odd and uncomfortable realization.

Dash hunched over the workbench of the engineering bay, elbows on the table, chin resting on his palms, studying his bank account on his mobile. It was too much. He pored over the options he had, and boy, did he have options. 100,000 credits could buy him a lot of information.

Maybe he could finally track down his father? No. That was a bad idea.

After Vark, after the incident… he put his father to rest. It was for the best. Life was too short and now too full of opportunities to dwell on the past; too full to dwell on the non-existent figure that had already screwed up most of his life, to begin with. The signing bonus was Kimney’s reward for Dash’s hard work. His hard work. Kimney had said as much himself. Dash had earned this, and no, he wouldn’t let the specter of his father taint this for him, like it had virtually everything else.

His thoughts drifted to his days at the University, and how much time he spent tracking down his father, and how much of life he’d missed. He thought about how he had treated Mara and how that’d nearly ruined their friendship.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The tangle in his chest loosened.

But this was still a lot of money. Too much. Dash continued to stare at the numbers – weighing options.

What use did he have for so much money, really?

…

“50,000 credits could swing one hell of a party, couldn’t it?”

Dorian stared at Kracker, dumbfounded. 

“You’re joking.”

“I’d never joke about a good time.”

Dorian took a bite out of a moist but bland sponge cake and went back to cleaning out and reorganizing his medical bag in the common room. There was so much space in the med-bay that he did not know how to organize it, yet. For now, he kept his bag full of his most-used supplies and instruments. Organizing the larger workspace was going to take a lot more concentration; concentration that would be impossible to reach with Kracker hanging about.

“I bet you’re just gonna shove your share of the credits in some savings account,” Kracker chuckled. “Or are you gonna invest?”

Dorian leaned back. “I wish,” he said as he turned to Kracker. “I still have my student loans to pay off. This will cover it, of course, but I’ll have maybe a couple hundred credits left over.”

“Ouch.”

“Aren’t you still paying off your loans?” 

Kracker took a cursory bite of the sponge cake, grimaced, and set the half-eaten piece back on the table. “The University covered a lot of my costs. Disability aid.”

Dorian interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Right…the whole wing thing-“

He noticed Kracker glaring at him. His eyes narrowed before he shifted away from Dorian.

“Yeah, the ‘wing thing.’ I also had a computer programming scholarship as well, but nobody thinks about that.”

Kracker stood up to stretch. He ran some fingertips against the grain of his feathers on his wing, enjoying the cool air flowing over the bits of skin that were seldom exposed.

“It’s not a big deal, though. I just do my flying in a cockpit. I figure that I fly more than anyone back home does. Even with Skyhaven being laid out the way it is.”

Dorian smiled before returning to his bag. Kracker continued his stretching.

“I gotta say, this place is growing on me,” the Parrack said as he peered around. “I thought this common room was a bit big at first, but there’s a lot of airflow. It feels nice.”

Kracker turned to look at the small hydroponic gardening station placed next to the stairwell down to the lower deck. “The garden is really cool, too.”

Dorian grunted in response. He was focused on an old-looking diagnostic probe. It made a rattling sound as he rolled it between his fingers. Kracker noticed the sound along with Dorian’s souring expression.

“What the heck is that thing anyway?” Kracker asked.

Dorian grabbed a small multi-tool and began to disassemble the probe.

“Diagnostic probe,” he said in his clipped, concentrating monotone. “It measures electromagnetic energy emanating from key anatomical points. Variations from standard readings compiled from established baselines can serve for quick diagnosis. It’s mostly a triage tool.”

Kracker scratched his head.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” he asked.

Dorian smirked. “If you were a medical student, you would.”

“Yeah, okay. So, that thing’s pretty important…right?”

Dorian was now reassembling the probe with practiced fluidity. “It’s a big help.”

Kracker grabbed his hat from the seat cushion and pulled it over his head.

“Whatever. While you’re busy being a nerd, I’m gonna set up a party.”

Dorian looked up at Kracker. “Jerk.”

However, Kracker was making his way down the stairs and was just out of earshot.

Dorian shook the probe. Somehow, the rattling had gotten worse.

…

“So you’re telling me even the robots got paid?”

Mara stood there in disbelief as Marken nodded.

He then shrugged, “Well, more like a stipend in the budget to ensure proper maintenance for our robot friends. Bucketbot… well… I guess it’s ‘Ship’ now-“

A tinny, robotic voice crackled over the speaker in Marken’s office, “You can still call me Bucketbot, sir. The name is familiar to me, and it should make it easier for you all to interface with me as the ship’s artificial intelligence. Mr. Kameku was quite kind in easing this transition for me. I assure you I will also continue to perform my duties as a bucket as well.”

Marken looked slightly alarmed, still not used to Bucketbot’s ability to communicate from anywhere on the ship. It was like a home haunted by the ghost of a mop bucket.

“Uh, right, thank you, Bucketbot…” Marken shuddered slightly and then continued, “Well, Bucketbot and Blu each have some money set aside in the general fund. I asked to put Dash and Alix in charge of those funds.”

Mara laughed a bit. “That’s pretty progressive. But it makes sense given what happened on Orlindia.”

“Well, it is Kimney we’re talking about. I was under the impression that he was quite rattled by that whole thing.”

Mara slid into the chair across from Marken’s desk as he continued to sort through datachips. He’d pop one into the terminal, verify its contents, pop it out, and toss it into a drawer for later organization.

“So, how are you planning on spending your 70k, Marken?” she asked.

Marken continued sorting through datachips as he considered his options.

“Honestly, I don’t want for much. We’re in such good shape now. I suppose I’ll just buy some nice food-tech and then hoard the rest. Maybe invest in a restaurant one day.”

“Actually, I had an idea I thought might appeal to you.”

Marken paused his sorting and looked up at Mara. In the darkness of his room, his eyes glowed eerily.

Mara continued, “Well, I’ve been talking with Spril after the whole unpleasantness with Vark. Just to make sure he was okay.”

“How is he?”

“He’s doing great, actually. He really bounced back; it’s kind of incredible how fast that was. We’ve been messaging back and forth since then.”

She leaned forward.

“Anyway, I’ve been looking into his business, and I was thinking about investing. The guy knows his plants, and his ship is perfect for that sort of thing. Do you know that some of his plants sell to colonies for thousands of credits?”

“They do?”

“Yeah, they’re hardy, fully-grown plants already in bloom, so colonists love them. He’s thinking about trading in the Greensleeves for a new ship. Something that would allow him to grow more plants and hire a couple more hands.”

“So you think we should invest?”

“Yeah, I figure at the volume he is looking at, a percentage would net us a very tidy profit over time. I’m looking to pool together a 30% stake in the ship, but I’d rather not go in alone.”

Marken paused his sorting and scratched at his chin for a few moments. He then smiled and looked at Mara.

“I’m in, but on one condition…”

…

“Big party tonight, Alix!”

Alix saw the Parrack leaning into her room. He smiled cheekily, which had become somewhat endearing to her over the past few days she had known him.

“Is it now? I assume this isn’t an excuse to get me alone?”

“I have you alone now, technically.”

“Well, I am busy at the moment, but I will make sure I finish up in time for the party. Frankly, I thought you’d had enough after the hangover from the other night.”

“I’m not so sure it was a hangover. I think maybe that assassin clocked me in the head as I was trying to pin him down…”

“Yes, you were very brave.”

Alix stood up and made her way to the door. Kracker backed out as she threw on her jacket that was hanging on a wall hook.

He looked puzzled. “Where are you heading off to?”

“I have a couple of errands to run, but I’ll be back in time. Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you need some help? I was running out for something and-“

“Maybe another time, this is a bit of a… personal issue.”

“O-oh. Okay.”

Alix smiled at the Parrack. “It’s nothing to worry about. Not blowing you off or anything. I am looking forward to tonight. I just have some things I need to get done.”

Kracker grew a little more chipper.

“Oh, sure, of course. See you tonight!”

…

The small Terrekin district that surrounded the embassy had some of the familiarity of Ocia, albeit simulated at best. The walkways, which were traditionally supposed to be a fusion of metal and concrete, like in most cities, were instead replaced by sandy paths that were heated from excess energy from various power lines and cooling system coils. Additionally, many of the buildings in the block also had painted murals or large screens that projected Ocian landscapes. 

The sight of these and the feeling of the sand between his toes made Dash a little wistful, and the feeling only increased as he passed by a small alcove where a vendor was selling fried strips of fatfish on skewers, drizzled in koba sauce. He immediately found himself stuck in place, absorbing the atmosphere and the delicious and pungent odor. He made his way over and ordered two of the skewers, along with a poca-melon juice. He then took his bounty to a wooden bench that was wrapped around a transplanted frond-tree and devoured his snack with a greedy glee.

He observed Terrekin spilling in and out of the embassy, and watching bemused aliens exploring the block, curious about the Terrekin culture and the sandy walkways. He noticed a small party of Grey, huddled together snapping vids and pics. Most of them looked wilted, even though, to Dash at least, the climate controls were actually a little on the cooler side.

He took in a little bit more of the atmosphere as he sucked the koba sauce off the skewers. He chucked the sauce-strained wood into a recycling bin and then proceeded to make his way into the embassy. Inside, he claimed his ticket and sat down in a traditional woven-reed chair, waiting for his turn to talk to one of the ambassador’s few, overworked representatives. He picked up a complimentary magazine and felt the textured plastic between his fingertips. He felt a greasy sensation and was disgusted by it until he realized it was very much the remnants of his snack, still on his fingertips. He peered around, making sure nobody noticed him take the now-greasy plastic mag and tuck it under the pile of mags in the center of the table.

I forgot just how sticky that stuff can be, he thought to himself.

…

Guugel felt various eyes upon him as he wandered the wide boulevards that made up Market Row. His bonus of 30,000 credits was burning a hole in his pockets… that is, if he wore pants. Instead, he had his backpack that carried a few bits and bobs, including some credit chips and some various impulse purchases he had made today. Among them was a small dancing Syrien doll that wiggled on springs. He wasn’t sure why he was compelled to buy it; it just seemed like a curiosity worth keeping with him. How many of the other Wot had dancing Syrien dolls? How many Wot, really, had set foot on Teslovia anyway? These days, they weren’t well-traveled people.

His feet had begun to hurt from the walk, so he decided to go for a rail-ride around the massive super-city to seek some new and interesting location to explore. He stepped onto one of the regular trams as the doors opened, and placed himself at a seat opposite a window so he could see the sights as they flew by. Much to his chagrin, though, a rather obese Gaur took the seat directly opposite him, blocking off the window. Guugel’s brow furrowed in annoyance.

Of course, he thought.

…

The club scene on Teslovia was quite literally on all day at the major clubs. Kracker hit up spot after spot, weaving in and out of the tangles of bodies and soaking up the mood, hoping to find some DJ who, for a reasonable fee, could be coaxed into doing a private show on the Strike. Unfortunately, with the scene the way it was in the city, most DJs were almost entirely booked up or hesitant to give up what little rest time they had. Teslovia was in many ways a party world.

This was frustrating, to say the least. A dinky playlist over the ship’s sound system was not the sort of vibe he was looking for. He wanted a real banger, something that’d get even the super-reserved Dorian up and on the dance floor. It had been a pretty crazy year for everyone, and the last party ended up being pretty reserved and low-key, at least until someone tried to kill Mr. Kimney. Needless to say, it wasn’t that great of a party after all…

Of course, by the time he hit the fifth club, he had begun to reconsider his whole approach. Maybe a banger wasn’t what was needed? Kracker took a sip from his flask and tucked it back into his pocket. He decided that maybe a smaller, more intimate arrangement would be better. He signaled a scooter and hopped on, instructing the driver to take him to a place where some amateurs played.

…

Spril looked pretty good, and by his attitude, it was impossible to tell that a few months earlier, he had been sharing a ship with a complete maniac who had assaulted him, the same maniac who had been stalking Dash and nearly killed him. Spril sat on a pile of bags at the base of the ramp of the Greensleeves, looking calm and unbothered.

“Thanks so much for coming to see me, friends. I was a little afraid you wouldn’t.”

Mara stepped away toward the underside of the ship, analyzing its condition. Marken stepped toward Spril.

“Nonsense,” the Astro-mole said, “you were in no way at fault regarding the unpleasantness a few months ago. You were just as much a victim. I’m glad to see you’re doing so fine.”

Spril laughed airily, “Well, we’re pretty hardy, us Florarans. Speaking of which, I have a gift.”

Spril plucked a seed out of a pouch on his hip, flicked it into the air, and caught it, weighing it in his closed palm. “Mara told me about your garden on the ship. I’m incredibly happy to hear that you have one. Please, take this.”

He held out his fist, and Marken reached out a tentative palm. Spril dropped the seed into Marken’s paw.

“It’s a pepper I’ve been experimenting with. It takes on characteristics based on the other vegetables it’s cooked with. It’s a good way to stretch your real flavorful veggies.”

“I’m not much of a gardener,” Marken said.

“Me neither,” Mara added.

“Oh, no worries, my plants are guaranteed to grow. Just place it in the soil, and you should be fine. There’s a little bit of me in each one.”

Marken pocketed the seed as Mara returned to the pair.

Marken shrugged, “Thank you, Spril. I wish we had brought something for you.”

“Well, if you are interested in my little venture, then I am positive we can arrange for something!” Spril laughed. It took on a flutey tone.

…

Teslovia’s district of “Wastetown” took every opportunity it could to assert its namesake. Wastetown wasn’t the actual, planned name of that section of the city, which was actually originally known as Oldtown, but to everyone on the planet, it was simply Wastetown. For the most part, the upper reaches of the city that branched off from Old Teslovia and Cityheart were acceptable for most residents. Most visitors were less likely to be anywhere near the area, though, as the lower sections were widely considered to be lawless, dangerous, and were generally sealed off for most residents.

Teslovia had long since given up trying to handle Wastetown and its many problems. Now they simply quarantine the rot, but the rot persisted and would one day spread. By then, Teslovia would expand and build shiny new towers on what were today’s visions of progress. It was all wallpaper over brittle wood.

With that said, if you wanted to get into Wastetown, it was totally possible, but it took some work. Work that Alix had been putting in for the past couple of hours.

Getting down to the second level from the third level was simply a matter of bribing the right security officer to use a private elevator, as the public ones had become too dangerous. It was not unusual for some curious travelers to try to head down to the lower levels using a public elevator, only to be immediately mugged or kidnapped when they stepped out. Using the security elevator eliminated that risk. It was a bit disconcerting to step into the second-level security station and be completely ignored. As long as the right palms were greased, anyone seemed to be able to wander in and out as they pleased.

Getting down to the first level, though… that was the real challenge.

“Hey, there pretty thing…”

Alix didn’t turn toward the voice. She could smell the drugs wafting off the Gomben. The chemical odors were powerful and allowed her to position him through a simple sniff.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to ya!”

The Gomben reached for her arm, but Alix spun around and drew her knife to his throat. He whimpered as she backed him into an alley.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” The Gomben was no match for her and trembled violently as Alix backed him into a darkened nook.

She looked him over. He was definitely a waster, through and through, and was of no real use to her. She hissed and threw him to the side. He stumbled forward and caught himself on a wall. He peered back at her and then wiped some residue from his trunk before he hurriedly stumbled out of the alley.

Alix slipped the knife back into its sheath behind the small of her back. The only way to get to the first level safely was to buy passage. Thankfully, she had a recent cash infusion to get her to where she needed to be.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

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