From Novel in Progress: Final Flight of the Starfish

Chapter 1: Package at the Broken Claw

                                                                        1

     Almana. By the name of the planet, Rondol had gotten the impression that it would be a quaint port planet, complete with fancy drink shops, and stores at which people could by galactic goods. That image was quickly shattered by the deplorable scene laid out before him the moment he and his companion stepped off of the transport ship and onto the concrete dock. Decrepit structures reached upward through a mist of dark clouds; perhaps on a clear day the tops were visible, but since the planet was ninety percent water Rondol doubted very much if there was ever a clear day. The air was thick with the smell of the surrounding sea, and the low, thundering rumble of waves that crashed against the being-created foundation the city had been built upon. All around them, flying vehicles dipped in and out of the mist, entering and exiting through the dark, narrow valleys between the buildings. Bright, multi-colored lights flashed around signs, inviting patrons to come and try out every available vice the galaxy had to offer. Some suggested you could find any drink a being could imagine, even several that were outlawed in many star-systems. Peddlers pushing around rickety carts offered merchandise that couldn’t be found anywhere else, or at the very least, not for a cheaper price. Among them, several beings handed out advertisements to various establishments in the area. On the surface, it all seemed pretty innocuous, but Rondol had been on enough port planets to know this place for what it really was, a den of thieves, outlaws, murderers, cutthroats, pirates, and other shady individuals seeking refuge from one thing or another. He also knew that if he wasn’t careful, this place would get him killed.

     Rondol looked down at the directions he had been given. They were written in childish script which made it impossible for him to decipher. He turned to his companion, Bongo, a large, muscular being covered from head to toe in a thin layer of dark black hair which was indicative of Bongo’s species. He held up the directions over his own head so that Bongo could have a look at them. “Any idea what this says?”

     Bongo squinted at the paper for a moment before answering in his booming voice. “Bongo can’t read, Rondol.”

     Bongo was about as bright as a burnt out star, but what he lacked in intelligence he more than made up for in strength. Rondol often reflected about how much they had been through since they had met on the Starfish and become fast friends. In fact, Rondol considered himself indebted to Bongo, due to the many scrapes that Bongo had helped him come out of alive.

     “Yeah, I knew that. Just testing you pal.” Rondol looked back down at the directions, hoping in vain to make some sense of them, but quickly conceded that it was not going to happen. “I think I remember somebody saying something about taking a left at the first road.” He turned uncertainly to Bongo who was waiting patiently behind him. “Well, at least we know what the place is called.” Rondol said with a sigh. “Let’s get going.” With a silent acknowledgment from Bongo they began their trek into the city.

2

     After what seemed like hours of searching, Rondol finally spied the weather-beaten sign which bore the name, “The Broken Claw.” When they reached the large entrance, Rondol reached up and put his hand on Bongo’s shoulder. “I’m going inside to get the package. I need you to wait here. If anything happens that you don’t trust, come in and get me.” Rondol looked into Bongo’s face, wondering if he were truly understanding what had been said.

     “You be in there long time?” Bongo asked, a worried look in his eye.

     “No longer than I have to be. Okay?”

     Bongo nodded and Rondol patted him on the shoulder trying to reassure him that everything was going to be fine. After a deep breath, Rondol pulled open the door and entered.

     As he walked into the dank, dark and smoky bar, a multitude of voices ceased their pointless chatter. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the establishment. As he looked around, he saw that the place was filled with all manner of questionable looking beings. A majority of them had smoldering burn-sticks poking out of their mouths. At the back of the room were several old looking round tables that were obviously being used for some illicit form of gambling. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with pictures of various drinks held by the females of many different species. As his vision finally adjusted he realized that every being in the place was staring at him.

     Of course, this wasn’t a big surprise. Rondol knew that the question on everyone’s mind was, why is a human walking into a place like this? It was for the same reason, that he knew what they were seeing. At first glance, everything about him was passively human, from the shaggy brown hair on his head, to his feet that were almost, but not quite too big for him. He was even as tall as the average human being.

     After a few more steps he finally heard the first snicker. He knew that it was sinking in for them now. They were finally seeing that his eyes were considerably larger than that of a human, and in a moment they were going to see his thin furry tail swishing back and forth behind him. They would know that he was not human, but worse than that, they would see the keeper-ring that had been around his neck his entire life. They would know he was a ship-slave.

     It started with a great guffaw from a wretched looking creature, with two wrinkled noses set side by side on its abnormally scarred face. Then, the rest of the room exploded into laughter.

     Rondol was used to this, but the fact that it happened all the time didn’t make it much easier. He could feel his anger rising as he took a few more steps forward. Suddenly, he was startled by a large ball of fur that landed on the table in front of him. He looked down at it wonderingly until the fur-ball shook and rose up an inch or two and he realized it was alive.

     “What business does a little Wendling slave like you have here?” the fur-ball asked; the question was followed by a low growl from the depths of whatever served as the creature’s throat. Several folds of fur pulled back to expose rows of jagged teeth mottled by black and yellow spots. The stench that rode on the breath of the creature was almost unbearable.

     Suddenly a deep voice spoke up from across the room. “That’s none of your business, you crooked-toothed puffball. Now get away from him before I make you get away.” The owner of the new voice was tall and seemed to have muscles almost bursting out of it’s orange skin. Several strands of braided hair slunk off of either side of the creatures head, and a full mane surrounded his thick neck. The orange creature held a glass in one hand and a dirty towel in the other; a third hand rubbed lazily against the tattered apron he wore. It was obvious that this was the owner of the bar. With another deep growl the ball of fur jumped off the table and retreated to a dark corner in the back.

     “Are you Rondol?” the Bartender asked.

     “Yes sir.” Rondol replied.

     “Then get your stinking self over here. We have business to take care of.” The bartender took a step backward, opened a door behind him, and walked in, before calling out, “Come on, I don’t have all day.”

     Ignoring the stares of the rest of the bar’s patrons, Rondol walked hurriedly across the room and stepped through the open door. As Rondol walked into the kitchen he could see the far wall was lined with several sinks, each one filled to the brim with dirty dishes. An island stood in the middle of the room with a stainless steel countertop. More dirty dishes were piled on there as well. As Rondol looked around, he was hard pressed to find any clean dishes at all.

     “Get your feet moving ship-slave.” the bartender belched. Rondol looked ahead and saw the hulking bartender lumbering through another open door on the other side of the room. Rondol followed and found himself in a storeroom. Both sides of the walkway were lined with boxes marked with various labels. Some Rondol could read, but others were in a language he didn’t know. The bartender poked his head from around a corner further up. “What in the world is taking you so long?” Rondol could hear the increasing level of irritation in the bartender’s voice and assumed it would not be wise to make him wait any longer. Rondol picked up the pace.

     Just as he rounded the corner he saw the bartender standing there, looking at him as if he had been waiting an hour. He was leaning against a large box made out of wooden planks. It had been a long time since Roland had seen a box made from anything other than the usual hard-block casing. Something instantly began to nag at the back of his mind, something he had heard about why they had stopped using wooden boxes for shipping, but he couldn’t exactly put his finger on what the reason was. One thing was perfectly clear; this was what he had been sent to collect.

     “You have my money?” the bartender asked.

     Rondol reached into his pocket and pulled out five shining cards. He held them out to the bartender, who snatched them up greedily. “There are twenty thousand credits on each card.” Rondol informed him.

     The bartender laughed heartily. Obviously the money had put him in a better mood. The bartender came close to Rondol, so much so, that Rondol could feel the bartender’s breath blasting against his face. “I don’t know what’s in this box, but somebody sure paid a pretty penny for my services. I’m not trying to scare you or anything, but I’m willing to bet that there’s going to be somebody else who wants this as bad as he does. You better take care getting back to your ship. In fact, I’m going to recommend something, only out of the goodness of my heart, mind you.” The bartender swept the hand clutching the dish towel to where Rondol could only assume his heart to be. “For one hundred more credits I’ll send two of my best body guards to chaperone you on your way.”

     Rondol was not very surprised that one-hundred thousand credits wasn’t enough to warrant the use of bodyguards, but not only did he not have the money to pay for it, he also wanted to be out of the company of the bartender as soon as possible. He didn’t think that being in the company of his bodyguards would be much better. “No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I have someone waiting outside.”

    The bartenders face shifted, as if he had been deeply insulted. “Suite yourself, ship-slave. If you think you can do more to protect this cargo than my finest, then you go ahead and get yourself, and this box, out of my establishment." He looked around a moment before adding, "You should take the back door though. There are some with greedy eyes out front.” The box had already been placed on top of a levitation cart. The bartender reached forward and flipped a switch that turned the cart on, causing it to raise up off of the ground enough to be pushed freely. “Well what are you waiting for?” The bartender snarled. “Get out of my face.”