Race Against Oblivion

The stale air of The Rusty Nebula tasted like regret and cheap synthehol. It clung to my throat, a familiar discomfort that usually dulled the edges of my bleak existence. Tonight, however, it did little to soothe the gnawing unease that had settled in my gut since Paluma’s desperate plea echoed in my mind. A yellow-skinned alien with eyes like polished obsidian and the skin of a creature from the deepest oceans, warning me of a weapon capable of shattering worlds. And the Zogi, rhino-like brutes from across the void, wanting it.

My left arm, the cold, polished chrome of its robotic replacement, felt heavier than usual. It was a constant reminder of the price of justice, of the price of standing against the powers that be on Xenotopia. The law men, the so-called peacekeepers of this orbiting metropolis, were too busy lining their pockets with the meager earnings of the asteroid miners and the desperate farmers on Earth to care about a whispered threat from a two-million-light-year-distant star system.

“Another one, barkeep,” I rasped, pushing my empty glass across the scarred counter. The bartender, a grizzled man whose face looked like it had been carved from moon rock, grunted and refilled it without question. He knew my habits. He knew my demons. And he knew better than to ask questions when I was in this mood.