Captain Solon

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Jules wondered, however, if the same applied to the artificially-induced atmosphere around freighter hulls. We may find out soon enough…

Jules pored over the filters of the vomit sieves. With a heavy sigh, he pinched his nose and held his breath to mitigate the smell. His practiced right hand sifted the steel mesh trays in small circles and bits of gold amalgam glinted at him from the brown slurry. Rare metals were a dietary staple of some alien patrons of The Cavalry; mining the vomit sieves offset the inherent "differences of custom" costs in serving humanity’s exotic neighbors.

Jules was around 14. Around, because he couldn't be sure of his real age. His old, worn clothes covered a skeletal body that supported a youthful face. His green eyes stood apart from his dirty skin, scanning the world with brightness. He popped a worn safety cap and slapped an industrial‑yellow button panel hanging from its umbilical to the ceiling.

WHUH‑RUMMMMM...

He sat and wiped his brow. The slurry had a novel composition: nobly fruitcake stewed in weeks‑old lemonade. Making sure the waste sludge was processed completely was the last duty on his twenty-hour shift. Twenty lashes if the drain clogs… Jules' back muscles gave a twitch which was followed by an involuntary smile.

Never again. Jules rubbed his face, returning to himself.

Jules tightened his rhetorics when he ushered stubborn chunks of alien vomit into the vortex. In the dark of our night, I think of the blight, smoothen the rougher airs, straighten the crooked streak, begin the reign of prudent affairs, by the tyrant’s blood leak… While the other boys in the Orphanarium shook in their seats waiting for the mock battles in imaginary power armor during the spare hour, Jules voraciously consumed books. He was obsessed with the histories: Thermopylae, Andromeda Expansion War, the Boxer Rebellion, Vietnam, Civil War II, and the defining moment of his namesake: the crossing of the Rubicon River. However, his early bloom of intellect came at a price: he was seven and the monks sold him to Becker after too many arguments, too many stolen texts from the ancient library, and allegations of corrupting the training of the other orphans. Becker enjoyed reminding Jules his price was cheap.

GRRRRRRRRRRR-TMMP-TMMP…

Jules turned off the drain, pocketed the meager shavings of gold, and ran through the dark corridor leading upstairs. The gold pressing on his thigh reminded him of one good thing about the advent of his puberty: the once loose daily wardrobe of T-shirts and jeans fit snugly now.

He emerged from the basement through a trapdoor behind the bar, floundering to pull himself up with his twiggy arms. The graceless entrance went unnoticed by Becker’s business associates, The Cavalry’s regulars, and the table of escort marines still haunting the dim establishment. The principal company of tonight’s meeting was a member of the first family of Cravace, Lieutenant Colonel Reid, and his plus one; a confident rat of a human from an equally powerful family, Skuthers Browning.

Before moving below with the sieves, Jules caught only snatches of their conversation with his boss, Becker: how he was going to contribute to the protection of the Untold confederacy. Now, Becker gleefully reserved his dissident opinion of the government and wiped the sweat off his evening scotch with his twitching sausage fingers. Jules eyed them from a distance until Becker stretched his sweat-stained undershirt to cover his crop of ginger ass hairs and giggled as they wooed him.

Gross.

“Boy, a… another! Port Darc of Cravace! The Byronic Hellscape Colony!” A drunk marine on escort duty gave a cheer of sarcastic patriotism towards Jules. Jules ignored him, picking up a stein to polish. “I’m talking to you, trash!” The marine called again, “Come on boy, I killed ten of you amp‑addicted, unemployable scum today! Nothin’ won’t come to a stop for it if I kill one more urchin. . .” He trailed off.

“You can get it in Hell. Last call was twenty minutes ago.” Jules snapped, unconcerned with correcting the drunk: it was obvious he was both distrustful of amphetamines and employed. The marine jangled his red power armor, fumbling with his sidearm holster. As he put the stein down, Jules' fingers cautiously wrapped around the pistol grip of the shotgun under the bar. His adrenaline reaction had flushed his face. You are making mistakes. Play along. Don't draw attention. Jules exhaled and thumbed the button safety of the pump action off, discreetly stabilizing the tip of the barrel with the bar top.

The marine stood up in a rush once he’d freed his boxy semi‑automatic pistol, although he promptly blacked out and fell to the floor. His friends laughed. Jules wore his mask of a smile and struggled to quietly return the shotgun to its cradle. Shaking, Jules exhaled again once the gun was secure. Goddamn UCW. You crawled out of poverty a generation back and all you do is shit on everybody still in it.

“Marines!” Lieutenant Colonel Reid’s air of authority sent shockwaves through the table of jerks. The men snapped to, as if suddenly the sharks had backbone. Reid’s piercing eyes widened at the lesser men. Jules knew, from The Cavalry’s rumormill, that the Governor’s firstborn was unique amongst his family for actually exemplifying the red lion and oak leaf tattooed to his chest and left cheek. Reid’s gray‑streaked, blonde mane and mutton chops cemented these rumors of his reputation for Jules. Reid sighed, “Go secure the perimeter. Till our business is concluded. That’s an order.”

The escort shambled out without hesitation. Jules caught Becker’s stare. Swine‑like rage filled his eyes while he slowly shook his head at Jules. He knows I went for the shotgun. The threat of punishment almost made Jules laugh, but he kept his vengeful glee in check, barely holding back a smile. Don’t get stupid again. Chuck is waiting‑ Chuck! Jules checked the 65‑hour clock mounted above the bar. 33:00. Becker was off schedule. . .

Jules poured himself a shot of Becker’s “house whiskey”, a sour mash bastardized with methanol and mercury additives. He glanced at Becker and his guests for a hint of their whispered agenda. When he put the tumbler to his lips he caught Reid’s eye, and felt himself go cold inside. You’re underage. Jules poured the liquor into the sink without reservation.

Stay sharp. Celebrate by drinking something better with Chuck...

For years, fear of Becker’s recompense lashed out and writhed like flames below Jules bubbling plans, driving forward their distillation but also reaching up and threatening to consume them. He threw his rag over his shoulder and began to pry the day's allotment of bullets out from the front of the bar top, turning his back to the collection of bitter company. He closed his eyes and gave himself peace: no more walks home to the slums, no more dark apartment, no more cold mattress, no more tweakers breaking in, no more Cravace.

Jules hated the patrons of The Calvary but enjoyed talking to the ones that skirted the edge of the UCW’s law, Chuck above all. Jules tried to live by the words of his favorite customer Charles “Chuck” Tee Yang: “Nobody cares about you and me. Your junkie parents, your government, the whole universe. Learn it, and never ask nobody to take your place. That's the way for Chucky, baby.”

“Julius, bay! Ano’ter!” Becker barked, interrupting him. Jules readjusted his attitude when the whip cracked. He slowly refilled the usual three fingers of scotch for the fat bastard, both to annoy him one last time and finally become privy to why the Lieutenant Colonel and his guest had stayed this late.

“. . .examining your service record and this‑ Er, enterprise, you are in a uniquely connected position to the ex‑United States of Earth’s recombinant mercenary pool, and we’d like you to muster the lot of them. See here, Becker‑ Ah, Captain Becker… we need everyone to meet the quota. Our Hidden Sector technology surpassed the best of our neighbors during the first expansion war. Even our most amicable‑ ah, trade partners are already posturing. They’re testing our ability to detect and intercept them inside the Hidden Sector using mercenaries and pirates‑” Reid said. He paused to give an annoyed glance at his accomplice, who was finger-drumming the bar top. Black flames were tattooed on those drumming fingertips. They gave him the appearance that he had once satisfied a dire need to wipe himself without the tools tradition demanded. When the guest noticed Reid's stare, he went into a ritualized plastic apology. Nod. Smile. Adjust his sunglasses. And smile. Reid shook his head:

“The Governor is authorized to privatize with letters of marque if he must. I’m conscripting every debtor, dopefiend, biologist, and anarchist convicted within the last two years. These men are going to be the frontliners… Stop this foolish enterprise of modernity‑‑ before a summary arrest order comes down the pipe‑‑ and you’ll be wasting your‑ ah, talents in the infantry.”

Becker squinted cockeyed at the two men through fat eyelids and tickled the nipple of an unlit cigar in his mouth. He motioned for Jules to light it. Jules took an indulgent thirty seconds to lick on the ladderane torch. Becker fumed at Jules' declining work ethic, but he waved the Lieutenant Colonel to complete his pitch.

“Enough stick, son. Skip to how yer Dah is gonna luff me.” Becker said through his brown teeth, his cigar momentarily pushed to one side.

“‑We will foot the cost of your redeployment, Captain, including the extensive‑ ah, gene therapy, cancer screen, and top-of-the-line axon implants. A hundred more years on your life… Substantially fewer if you continue like this, of course.”

Becker grinned his moral superiority aside at Jules with those gross, rotting teeth. Rooting out hypocrisy in the UCW caused him to exude sheer depraved delight from every pore. Jules hastily attempted to light his cigar in earnest to excuse himself from Becker’s presence, although Becker’s lapping jaw kept Jules from catching the bouncing stogie aflame.

“Ah‑ I thot ye Rosies issued a moratorium for all tha’ bio‑tamperin’ bull? Wha’ sort of hobscopple ‘ave ye got yerselves inter if ye need me at such a price? Which ‘trade partners’ are these? Recombinant terrorists? Uppity aliens? Earth loyalists?” Reid finished his drink and stood up.

“I thought coming here myself might express the stakes, Captain. It’s not just the UCW that’s threatened.” Becker gave him a huff.

“So it is aliens… Extermination? Enslavement? Ye have spewed the same song ‘n’ dance since we found ‘em. An’ they would have wiped us out right then if they could.” Becker said, his smile returning. Becker’s years of dental neglect brought to mind the image of a December Jack O'Lantern. He squinted at Reid. “Ye know why yer Dah said, ‘Now’s the time for war, Sonny Jim!’? Land and liberty? BAH! It’s the bottom line tha’s always gote the UCW squirmin’. He’s finally got the cash to try and carve himself a piece of what them aliens got.” He wrapped his lips confidently around his cigar. “I wouldn’ be surprised if tae Governor and his USE buddies are twisting ye into drawin’ irst blood. The expendable assets are who yer sendin’, no? That’s why Harrow’s penal company. And not many more unwanted than me, the spider boys, and the undesirables of Cravace I would think… Who is the USE sendin’, boy? An underfunded, ragtag squad of misit assholes? HA! The Mouse really gave you a wood nickel if you think that's going anywhere, boy.”

Reid exhaled and started to walk to the door, when the shit-eating grin caught his arm.

“A civilian volunteer from the Thirteen families. Halcyon Defense Contractors, I believe.” He said to Becker, pushing his sunglasses up with his middle finger pointed at Reid.

“. . .Huh.” Becker said. Jules looked up. Reid's guest smiled and seized the opportunity to prey on Becker’s greatest weakness.

“As I was saying. . .” The guest spoke, nodding his head, confidently. “If you could undercut our cost of deployment, a substantial percentage of the margin would be arranged for you…" Becker’s ears perked up.

“It could work…” The shit‑grinning man said and touched his fingertips and thumb together. Reid shook his head.

“Becker, there's always money to be made... But we need your, ah‑ Tenacity to match Harrow’s and the ex‑USE recombinant’s veterancy in combat. Will you help us or not?”

Becker’s glow was doused while he mulled over the details, and Jules was finally able to light the depressed, limp cigar.

“I s’pose it’s true the ‘ole spider boys won’t rally till they see a hero like me under the banner again… and ye dogs lick the boots of their fella expat.” Becker said, raising his eyebrows thoughtfully while he puffed to convince himself. “Allrye, let’s tae terms while yer get the fock out of mae place of business. The demon Commander Harrow, a Silver Fox, and a washed-up Scot. . . All those debtors and biologists you’ll saddle us with ought to stack the odds against us, too… I want mae own boarding craft, biggae than Harrow’s… An’ I want a uniform redesign to mae speci’ication, so I don’t die lookin’ like some fruity schoolbay.” Becker mumbled, ascending from his stool. “BAY!” He shouted, slamming his fist into the bar with such force curly, red knuckle hairs were scattered to the wind.

“Huh?” Jules said, watching the hairs dance whimsically away, before coming to attention. “ER YOU GEDDING PAID TO BE DROPPIN’ EAVES!?”

“N‑n‑no, sir!” Jules stammered.

“Damn right, I’ll forget tae last two hours on yer sheets fer bein’ rude. Shut down tae sieves and lock up tae back. The Red Lion and the… er… Shit Weasel need me to save their arses, eh?” Jules nodded.

The Lieutenant Colonel signed his contract of payment and passed it to Jules. When Jules accepted it, he got a good look at him. His mane and mutton chops were strategically groomed to best conceal scars of axon implants, alien serial number brands, and a few bullet wounds.

“Your old man still has a lot to teach you… But you’re getting a little old to be a busboy…” Reid said, giving a distrustful glance to Becker. “It’s never too early to join the marines… ” Becker opened the front and squinted his suspicion at Jules’ silence. The Red Lion and the Shit Weasel walked out, and Jules fell out of his trance and signaled to Becker with the bucket and sponge. Becker’s many chins melded into one in acknowledgment, and the greasy proprietor locked the front door to the bar behind him.

Click.

Jules smiled and grabbed his peacoat. Instead of ducking through the trapdoor and into the basement, Jules went straight for Becker's office. His heart gave him a paralyzing palpitation at the threshold of his journey.

He gripped the cold metal of Becker’s office door handle with a hand tough from years of manual work‑ a storied roughness from crawling in the gutter beneath the lowest class. Tomorrow he’d be on a new planet with a new identity, and finally able to seek gainful employment without the prejudices of his social standing. Nameless junkie, noncompliant washout, broken wage-slave. There will be a day I’ll forget this place forever. Those callus fingers that turned the knob contrasted with the youthful face which twitched between half‑smile and furrowed worry. Did Becker have Viktor and Marcus patrol late tonight…? No, probably not… Even if he did, he has no reason to suspect…

Jules opened the door with care, easing it against the wall. A foul wind attacked his olfactory organs like a territorial crypt ghast. The stench of cigar rolled off everything Becker owned: the entire bar, a good portion of the streets around it, and Jules himself. Just a few more hours…

He listened once more: only ocean waves, dock noise, and UCW heavy cruiser grav‑boosters passing overhead. The rattle of corrugated aluminum roof announced their presence. Governor Reid is really making a show of his son’s return. . . Jules ignored the shuddering roof and snuck around the oversized desk. The safe was positioned right under Becker’s chair.

She waits.

From beneath a tacky rug, embedded in the floorboards, the safe called him to press his cheek to her bronzed skin. Jules' fingers slid into the metal grooves and twisted the hydraulic lock. Mechanical advantage actuated the lock with soft clicks and slid open the oiled door.

Jules smiled; by his finger smithing and Becker’s misplaced trust, he had lodged a bit of metal in the lockwell the night before and secured his place in the halls of yeggmen. Jules unfurled his triple‑walled sack and sighed. By accident, he sucked in the ghast and beat his chest through a coughing fit.

The floor safe was a meter deep and filled with crumpled documents, but at the bottom lay a single gold ingot plus a few handfuls of gold amalgam dredged from the alien vomit. Jules grabbed the handfuls of gold and the ingot: efficiently distributing the weight into the bag. He finished and tested it. Around fifteen kilos. The savvy would spot him as a mark with any more weight: he glanced into the safe and a twinkle beckoned him. Jules stifled a chuckle. Unable to resist, he reached in carefully and plucked the final nuggets of gold, stuffing them into his coat pockets.

In just a few minutes, he would be at the docks to meet Chuck. Then on his first ship… with a wealth of gold and a ticket to freedom. That's enough to hope for. He only had to get away from Becker. The half‑realized dream of a different life put a novel glimmer in his eyes. Almost there! He quietly shut the safe door. The beautiful moment when Becker opens it…

Jules heaved the bag of Becker’s treasures and immediately fell back down. The dizziness and nausea from the smoke combined with his skittishness were too much. He regretted his slowness when he noticed the time on Becker’s mantel clock. 33:50. Morning was just six hours away. He was supposed to meet Chuck at the dock at 35:00. Jules shook his head and stood up in spite of his dizziness. For a moment, he imagined using the lighter to burn the place down, but he thought better of it. He shouldered the heavy bag of gold once more.

Jules swung open the rear window of the bar, taking much less care with his actions due to the rush of adrenaline. He was late for the only appointment that mattered anymore. He hopped down to street level, making a loud splash. A nest of amp‑scarred junkies turned to look at their disruptor. Jules ignored them. He traveled with the cackles of the street urchins bouncing all around him: finally making his way out of the slums.

Three of Cravace’s misshapen moons hung over the sea. The monks of the UCW orphanage had warned him: ‘Crime rises with the moons, Gaius Julius.’ Jules liked to imagine they had named him well by accident. He knew the UCW intended all orphans to find inspiration in their namesakes, but he shuddered to imagine they intended him to attenuate to the roguishness of Caesar.

Jules' breath began to labor from carrying the hefty bag, although he had long since begun sweating heavily from his nerves. The eerie silence of the hour put him further on edge. Rattles from the common nightwalker’s carts spooked him a few times. Why couldn't the rain have kept up? Despite his breathing, he quickened his pace. The dock at the end of the sloped street was growing larger and more real with every stride. Beneath a lantern creaking in the wind, juxtaposed with the black sea and moon white sky, was a distant figure of a broader‑than‑tall human in a yellow and pink pinstriped blazer. Chuck.

Behind Chuck, was Jules' freedom. The freighter that employed Chuck’s services was intermediate in size. It housed a fifty‑man skeleton crew, and it was full of holes for Jules to hide in. It was aesthetically akin to what the hobos might cobble together for shelter. The freighter was repurposed for the oft‑violent enterprise of smuggling with large metal plates of armor that jutted out of the bulked hulk.

As Jules grew closer to the ship, its graviton‑boosters ignited, lighting its side with a sea‑green bioluminescent glow. Jules broke into an all‑out run.

“Chuck!” Jules risked yelling, “Chucky… I’m here!” The portly figure turned around to acknowledge him. He was a man in his early thirties with a feathered mullet of dyed red hair, classically beautiful almond eyes, and red sunglasses. Crawling up a sweaty neck roll was the blotchy snake scale texture of a fading Trade Union tattoo; a relationship he still used to parlay security checkpoints, making him an interplanetary travel asset.

“Heyyy, it's Chucky T, baby! That you, Julesie? You learn how to make a holy bartender yet?” Chuck fired his fore‑fingers like wheel guns in Jules' direction and made inaccurate‑to‑life explosion noises at him. Jules stopped short of Chuck, panting. He swung the sack off his shoulder and took a few deep breaths of booster‑heated air. The hot wind flowed on his face and the fireflies of superheated oxide give him hope. The winds of freedom.

“Chuck! Let’s get out of‑” Chuck outstretched a sparkly, bedazzled hand to stop Jules.

“Whoa, Julesie‑baby. Chucky might have said a few things… That weren't so true.” Chuck darted his head back and forth at Jules like a bird compensating for low overlap of focal points. Jules' heart sank and his sweat turned cold.

“What… What do you mean? What isn’t true? What-?” Jules couldn’t stop the flow of stammering. Chuck clenched his teeth in false concern and sucked in a long stream of air.

“This whole…” He traced a short series of imaginary circles with his hands, pretending to find the right words. “...Bringing you with me, thing.”

“Chuck… Please don’t do this. I thought‑‑ I could trust you.” Jules begged, still out of breath. Chuck swiveled his head with even more vigor at the accusation.

“Heyyy, you can still trust the Chuck, baby… But the long‑short is, there’s no place for you on this ship… I’m sorry, I did what I could‑ you know me, baby…” Chuck put a hand on Jules' shoulder. “I look out for you Julesie. I can’t let you on in good conscience. The captain is harder on us humans, see? El Capitan made an exception for Chucky, baby. Cuz everybody likes Chucky T when he’s it, baby, but trash like you…” He rambled on, and Jules stared in disbelief.

“What the Hell?! I can't go back, Chuck! I just stole everything in Becker’s office!” Jules screamed.

“Whoa, whoa, amigo! Chucky didn’t say steal from the Beck, baby‑ I said to has the money! It was a fool thing to do that, baby. Maybe, uh‑ best to put that back, you know? Try again next time.” Chuck started to recoil from Jules as if he were contagious. Jules’ brain was spinning. Becker’s going to kill me!

“Chuck, please! Look, I have… a shitload of gold! I don’t need the money! Take it all, just get me on this ship!” From beneath the red sunglasses, twin lashes of white bloomed when Chuck heard the strain of the bag’s fibers.

“Heyyy, Chucky baby. Looks like you… you be it, Julesie…” He said, between deep breaths. Jules lifted the bag with effort for emphasis. Chuck rubbed his jaw, enthralled by the weight of the gold. “Let, uh… let Chucky T talk to the captain, huh? If he had a little taste, maybe he could, ah‑ find you palatable Julesie… But, uh, don’t let the captain know what you’ll owe the Chuck. Okay, baby?” Jules smiled.

“Right. . .” Jules said. Chuck lifted the bag, took a peek, shuddered, and hid it with a couple of nearby crates, out of the lantern’s light.

“Good, good…” Chuck watched, wriggling his fingers in excitement. “I’ll shmooze on‑”

“Shmooze about what, gwac?” Chuck leaped in fear, knocking over a barrel behind him. A great beast emerged from the dark entrance to the ship. Three meters tall and a mallet-shaped head; its shoulders shadowed by its girth. The creature’s large teeth protruded from his lips at odd angles, the mandibles loosely lapped over its cheeks, and the bat‑like nose quivered its membranes. Shirtless web gear displayed knots of hairy muscle.

“H‑Heyyy! Boss‑man, the Chuck‑” Chucky began, sweeping his hair back.

“Fucking gwac!” The monstrous alien raged. “What the fuck you doing out here?” He spotted Jules and stopped… He raised a clawed finger to point at him.

“Who said you could bring your gwac friends, the Chuck?” He said gutturally. Chuck flailed his hands and began prostrating.

“Uh‑‑ Nobody! Please baby, he was just askin’ me for a handout! Charles Tee Yang doesn’t know this junkie monkey‑ Shoo! Get a job, ya bum!”

“Chuck!” Jules yelled desperately, shielding himself from Chuck’s weak slaps. The alien squinted maliciously at Chuck, and a rope of spittle hung from one of his protruding teeth.

“Okay, okay, this slumdog owes me for some crystal he stole, Boss‑man! Ah‑ he’s just squaring up and askin’ me for a favor, I was gonna pay my debt to you, Boss‑man! It’s behind the barrel there, just let him be, baby!” Chuck pointed toward the hidden gold with one hand, while feverishly slicking his hair with the other. The alien turned his attention to Jules. Time to go.

Jules bolted for the sack of gold when suddenly a searing pain shot through his head and he fell to the ground, spitting blood.

“Chuck‑!” Jules gasped. “You‑!” Something else hit him hard in the center of his spine. The wind was immediately knocked from him with a huff. Painful flashes of white crossed his vision. He felt thick, sure fingers on his neck and he was lifted off the floor. Gasping, Jules kicked the air aimlessly: his limbs flailed while his world whipped around.

The alien gave a few seconds for Jules to focus. It glared at him and exhaled fumes of strong alcohol which wilted any fight Jules had left into nausea.

“I… I seen you.” Realization spread on the alien’s face. “This is Becker’s thing…” The alien tilted his head, examining Jules. Scalding malice suddenly returned to the monster. “‘I SEEN YOU! The fuck you think you are, gwac?” It said, violently shaking Jules. “You thinking of coming on my ride? You thinking the universe owes you kindness?!” Like a fish out of water, Jules' responded by flopping around and gasping for air. He watched the meager ounces of gold fly from his coat pockets onto the ground. “You thinking you were gonna make a deal, eh? Without me?!” The alien was searing with anger at Jules. Saliva dripped from his quivering mandibles. “But I know you, gwac! Giving special treatment to all your thiefy gwac friends at The Cavalry, huh? How about fucking service for us hard‑working traders!” He bellowed at Jules before menacing to Chuck, “Fuck this gwac! Always laughing when those damned pirates steal from us!”

Jules could hardly comprehend what was happening. Gulps of air were like cold water drowning him as pain radiated through his chest‑ “What did I say?!” The beast bellowed in Jules' face.

The monster’s curled fist disappeared from Jules’ vision and reappeared in his gut. Once again, blood and spit filled his mouth. The world went blurry again. A dull pain throbbed in his head. He pathetically floundered his hands trying to grab something.

The alien captain hit Jules again. Pain radiated throughout his whole body such that he couldn’t tell where the point of impact was.

He’s killing me.

Jules imagined himself being twisted apart: his stomach resisting a little, then tearing open like a stale loaf being split. But the aggressor held him aloft and threw him to the wet planks below. Jules' body bounced and rolled into the road. He stayed still. He was afraid to blink for fear of the accompanying pain. The massive alien walked over to the crates and picked up the sack between two fingers. Jules tried to focus his hazy vision. Chuck scrambled to pick up the fallen gold and scuttled aboard the ship… The thrusters brightened… The ship began to move… It was gone.

Jules cupped the last gold nugget; it was inadequate to put his name in the mausoleum, let alone escape his fate. Jules kept his eyes closed. The world spun too much when they were open. Any hope he had spiraled out of him into the starry sky. Cold sea breezes flowing toward the sea and salted stings exacerbated his new wounds. The thought, the one he dared not think or else he’d be trapped by it, poked around the back of his head. He was without two quick shots of whiskey to slow its progress to the front of his mind. Jules desperately tried to think of something, anything else. But fear grabbed him and dragged him down past self‑pity, to the dark hole in his head hallowed by life’s disappointments. The thought inevitably crawled out of that dark place.

Why?