Freelance Spacefarer
Fallen Feathers of a Kingfisher
For most, time is an unyielding line. A straight arrow pointing towards entropy, albeit not conformed by coherence.
As the Corellians say, the weeks dawdle, while the years rush by.
That is true, for most.
As the Corellians say, the weeks dawdle, while the years rush by.
That is true, for most.
His naked body rests cross-legged against the cold durasteel, hands over his knees, with palms facing towards the low ceiling of his captain's quarters. The ship, as per his request, had tuned down many of the life support systems to a bare minimum. The heat, trapped inside the hull, was seeping into the vacuum of space. But it felt to him like the cold was creeping in.
Drawing on the Force, Spek Zhio kept himself warm. A technique called Tapas, and one that he gradually mastered since leaving Kashyyyk, when he became a spacer without port. He had no home. Only a transitional harbor.
Alcyone had begrudgingly turned off the heat, in order to assist him with a course correction. Reaching out to the cosmos, felt like holding onto water inside a closed fist. Yet, whenever external conditions forced his body to take shelter inside the mind, it was more akin to doing so with a cupped hand.
Zhio closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, this time with the mind. He saw past the layers of plasteel, alusteel, and durasteel. Past the frigid emptiness. Past the glowing spheres of nuclear fusion, distant beyond conceivability. It felt like shutting down lights on a circuit board.
He saw the tethers of hyperspace, and pulled at them.
Suddenly, he was back on Fisher King III.
Drawing on the Force, Spek Zhio kept himself warm. A technique called Tapas, and one that he gradually mastered since leaving Kashyyyk, when he became a spacer without port. He had no home. Only a transitional harbor.
Alcyone had begrudgingly turned off the heat, in order to assist him with a course correction. Reaching out to the cosmos, felt like holding onto water inside a closed fist. Yet, whenever external conditions forced his body to take shelter inside the mind, it was more akin to doing so with a cupped hand.
Zhio closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, this time with the mind. He saw past the layers of plasteel, alusteel, and durasteel. Past the frigid emptiness. Past the glowing spheres of nuclear fusion, distant beyond conceivability. It felt like shutting down lights on a circuit board.
He saw the tethers of hyperspace, and pulled at them.
Suddenly, he was back on Fisher King III.
King's Bounty
Space Station orbiting Drongar, Outer Rim Territories
861 ABY
Centuries ago, the uninhabitable tropical Drongar was discovered to be a source of bota. A rare species of plant, found on the planet, deemed a miracle drug by many. But, to Zhio, it only felt like there was some coarse irony to be found, in the fact that something with such powerful healing properties, was the cause of so many conflicts and deaths. A joke made in poor taste.
He knew some details surrounding its history. How rival factions fought over the planet for the right to extract and produce the stuff. And, how the conflict only ended after the plant mutated and it became worthless. It is surely frightening though, how capitalism always finds a way. Therefore, centuries later, the original strand was reverse engineered.
Suddenly, as if they had never left, numerous space ports arranged themselves on a belt clenching the planet's equatorial line, and the profits that they could squeeze out of it. Only, this time, no blood would run. Only credits. Even if not always of the most licit kind.
Which, now that Zhio thought about it, were actually concomitant events.
Alas, the Zeltron male could not care less for the history surrounding the plant, the planet, or even this station orbiting it. The one where he found himself looking for a place to sit and have a drink. Maybe also, find some company of the less unblemished variety.
He was a navigator, and an expert one at that. Lacking a crew of his own, Spek Zhio instead worked for whoever was willing to pay for his addictions - and sustenance. Rarely taking part on round trips, he never knew where he might end up next.
This time, his voyages took him to this spot near the edge of the galaxy, and the last paycheck was dangerously running thin. Next time, who knows? What he did knew, was that the best way to find a new employer, was on a place like the one he was searching for. That such a place could provide both business and pleasure to him, was just his good luck at work.
"The Fisher King III," he said out loud, to no one, as he raised his head to look - and seemingly burn his retinas - at the glowing neon words atop the durasteel door.
The doors moved aside of their own accord, with his approach, as if inviting him inside the cantina. He accepted their kind offer with a smirk on his face, as the scents, sights, and sounds, flowed and struck him like a wave that carried the promises of pleasures to come. Without his knowledge or consent, his body began releasing potent pheromones.
"Wonder what ever happened to the other two..."
He knew some details surrounding its history. How rival factions fought over the planet for the right to extract and produce the stuff. And, how the conflict only ended after the plant mutated and it became worthless. It is surely frightening though, how capitalism always finds a way. Therefore, centuries later, the original strand was reverse engineered.
Suddenly, as if they had never left, numerous space ports arranged themselves on a belt clenching the planet's equatorial line, and the profits that they could squeeze out of it. Only, this time, no blood would run. Only credits. Even if not always of the most licit kind.
Which, now that Zhio thought about it, were actually concomitant events.
Alas, the Zeltron male could not care less for the history surrounding the plant, the planet, or even this station orbiting it. The one where he found himself looking for a place to sit and have a drink. Maybe also, find some company of the less unblemished variety.
He was a navigator, and an expert one at that. Lacking a crew of his own, Spek Zhio instead worked for whoever was willing to pay for his addictions - and sustenance. Rarely taking part on round trips, he never knew where he might end up next.
This time, his voyages took him to this spot near the edge of the galaxy, and the last paycheck was dangerously running thin. Next time, who knows? What he did knew, was that the best way to find a new employer, was on a place like the one he was searching for. That such a place could provide both business and pleasure to him, was just his good luck at work.
"The Fisher King III," he said out loud, to no one, as he raised his head to look - and seemingly burn his retinas - at the glowing neon words atop the durasteel door.
The doors moved aside of their own accord, with his approach, as if inviting him inside the cantina. He accepted their kind offer with a smirk on his face, as the scents, sights, and sounds, flowed and struck him like a wave that carried the promises of pleasures to come. Without his knowledge or consent, his body began releasing potent pheromones.
"Wonder what ever happened to the other two..."
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