A single vid call. Apparently, that's all it took to make a man return to the scene of his own desolation.
The hulk of the
Dread Harbor
drifted through the Kornous Asteroid Belt like the pale-gold carcass of a gutted shipwreck. She hung there in the void, glimmering in the distant starlight of the otherwise-empty system's tiny dwarf star. Through the darkened cockpit of his ship, the
Deliverance
, Deckard Pryce stared at the frame of the behemoth. His tired eyes passing across its contours for the first time in nearly a decade.
"There she is." He murmured to his ship, letting out a breath of nicotine. Smoke hung heavy in the darkness of his cramped cockpit, like misty fog swirling in the starlight. "...Seems like a lifetime ago since we left, huh?" The
Deliverance
's hull rattled in response. Deckard grunted at the ship's silent admonishment and put out his cigarette on the dashboard, tossing it amongst the others.
"Cool your valves, we're almost there." Deckard flipped off the autopilot and took hold of the flight stick. He kicked the throttle up a notch, feeling an appreciable pull as his modified freighter streaked towards the foreboding starbase.
Dread Harbor
was many things, but a pretty station it was not. It lurked in the crowded asteroid field like a malignant gremlin. Bulky, boxy and practical to the point of unpleasantness, the Dwarves designed their vessels to be sturdy, not appealing. Deckard let out a soft sigh.
"I suppose I should have known it would come to this, huh?" He patted the console of his ship, letting out an appreciative huff of air. "I know. Still gives me the creeps, too."
He opened comms. They crackled with white noise. For a brief, terrible moment Deckard wondered if there was anyone on the other side waiting to answer the call... and then a bored sounding human on the other end began droning in his ear.
"Identification?"
"Deckard Pryce, Captain of the
Deliverance
." He pressed a button on his console. "ID transmitted."
"Confirmed." Came the disinterested voice on the other line. "Proceed to Docking Bay K."
"Home Sweet Home." Deckard muttered. Hardly the most auspicious return for the savior of
Dread Harbor
.
* * *
Deckard strolled through the northern residential deck of the station, feeling in many ways like a ghost wandering amongst the living.
Corani hadn't lied to him in her message:
Dread Harbor
had changed. The station had been a hub for outgoing colony ships headed to distant systems once, and as such their population had been largely transitory.
No longer. Now that most of those colonies were settled, there was no need for such a large transport hub. The station had become instead a gateway into the wider galaxy, with more than half of the populace living permanently on the station.
The changes were visible on an almost microscopic level. Where once the walls had been bare chromium and functional lighting hung from the ceilings, now the thoroughfare was a riot of color and neon light. Graffiti dotted the walls, and gaudy holographic signs attempted to goad Deckard into stepping into one of the dozens of Megacorp-owned subsidiaries and purchasing their fine products.
The culture was different too. Gone were the quiet migrants huddling together in temporary hab blocks like transients waiting on a shuttle flight. They had been replaced by the rough and tumble folk that Deckard had come to know well from life on the frontier: men and women, humans and aliens alike. Grifters, cheats, liars, criminals, bounty hunters and mercenaries.
Scum of the Galaxy. His kind of people.
He dimly recalled Corani once telling him that this portion of the station had been known as the Warrens. And Deckard could see why. The sheer mass of sapient life crowded together made him feel claustrophobic. He kept his hands in the pockets of his Kevlar-padded duster coat, his right hand hovering mere inches from the pistol at his hip.
He made his way through the hazy mass of people, shuffling through the crowd till he reached the place Corani said she'd meet him at: an old bar called
The Ratty Kat
. It's curving green letters rippled across the holographic front of the bar like an open invitation to alcoholism.
Without a word the weary veteran stepped through the portal, his eyes sweeping the room for his old friend. More than a dozen Loupians, Catians and Humans crowded the narrow tables, soaking in the dim ambiance. He swiftly deduced that she wasn't amongst them.
The bar itself was an ancient throwback: wood paneling ensorcelling a sturdy countertop, with bottles and bottles of assorted alien alcohol crowding the shelves behind the bar like a raucous crowd at a concert. Upon the wall behind the bartender's head reclined a naked Catian, her pale skin contrasting with the vibrant colors of a holographic jungle all around. A large vasas snake draped itself across her form, covering but not quite concealing her genitalia.
As Deckard stared at the old walls, thinking about what this place must have looked like less than ten years ago, he felt an old feeling well up inside him. Something strange, like nostalgia and despair all rolled into one.
Oh well. Nothing straight whiskey couldn't cure.
Deckard stepped up to the front of the bar, shooting eyes at the feline-looking Catian who was tending bar. She caught his look and smiled, slinking over to him with her species' typical smoothness. Deckard smirked and wiped a hand across the rough blonde of his stubble.
"What can I get you, sir?" She asked, her catlike ears pricking up.
"Whiskey. Neat." He said.
"Comin' right up!" She said. Her hands were a blur as she poured and served him almost before he could blink. Catians were exceedingly dexterous.
Deckard took the glass from her hand with a smile. "
Shai-gai-yoh
." He said, thanking her in her native tongue.
The Catian smirked in a mischievous manner. "...Do you even know what that means?"
Deckard shrugged and downed his glass. "It means thank you."
"It means a bit more than that to us Catians."
"Sure." Deckard said, raising his eyes to meet hers. The neon light of the dim bar made her eyes glimmer like phosphorescent beams.
"You speak with the correct inflection. You must use that pick-up line a lot." The Bartender stopped polishing her glass and leaned upon the bartop, staring him down. "You 'speak' Catian, then?"
