[ASC 923.7.14]

  193 cycles since the Xolarii Purge.

  The wooden floorboards pounded out a steady rhythm as Xaryk made a swift exit; his wallet lighter, but his mind heavier with information to compensate.

  While winning that final round would’ve been nice, Xaryk felt the trade had gone in his favour. On Arcanon, he would’ve paid double for half that information.

  Xaryk sought out the mysterious bartender and found her near the end of her shift, wiping down glasses behind the bar. Any moment, the universal call of “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” would ring out, signalling an end to trade and her labour.

  The xolus briefly entertained the idea of waiting, but she’d made it clear she was spoken for, and he was too old for that kind of trouble.

  The dusty desert air cleared his ale-clogged sinuses as he stepped into the night. Stretching, he looked down to find a grey-skinned takalan boy staring up at him with impossibly large, black eyes. Black hair was swept back from his face with the care of what could only be a doting mother’s love.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice light.

  “Uh, hello,” Xaryk answered. His head swung like a pendulum as he sought out the nearest adult influence.

  I guess that’s me, he thought dryly, finding no one. The street was empty save for drunkards and tethered quadrals.

  “Are you lost, little boy?” Xaryk asked.

  “Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “And I’m not little. I’m ten in three spans!”

  “Ten in three spans? You’re practically an old man,” Xaryk smiled. “Are your parents around?”

  He shook his head again. “Should be real soon, though!”

  Xaryk glanced back toward the saloon. Surely Malvus and Tommick wouldn’t cause trouble with a child around?

  “I guess I’ve got time,” he said, easing onto the saloon steps. “I’ll wait with you until they get here.”

  “That’s okay, mister…” he said, wringing the hem of his light-brown poncho in tiny hands.

  “Now, now, don’t argue,” Xaryk chided the boy. “I’ve never been a mister, nor one to leave a child in the dark. What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Rannit,” he chirped. “And you’re Xaryk Foe. The bounty hunter from the Core who leaves nothing but trouble in his wake.” The child feigned drawing a revolver and taking aim.

  Rannit said the words with enthusiasm. Xaryk was sure that wasn’t the spirit in which he’d heard them.

  “That’s me,” he replied awkwardly, hoping the child’s parents would arrive soon.

  “You’re a xolus,” he announced, blunt as only a child could be.

  “Have you been reading my biography?” Xaryk laughed.

  “What’s a biography?”

  “A record of a person’s life.”

  “Do you have one?” he asked, eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “I sure hope not.”

  “Oh.” Rannit pouted for a moment, then perked right back up. “How old are you?”

  “I don’t know?” Xaryk mused. “Three hundred and something? Honestly, I stopped counting somewhere in the two hundreds…”

  The door behind him squealed like an errant pig, heralding the arrival of two chagrined gamblers. They shot Xaryk sheepish glances as they strode past, preceding the mystery woman.

  “Careful there, bounty hunter,” she called, striding down the stairs towards the unlikely pair. “That one’s mine.” She nodded towards Rannit.

  Xaryk blinked. He looked between the small grey-skinned boy and the human woman. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Aunt Violja!” Rannit exclaimed, shattering the mystery of the flirtatious barmaid. He ran to her, and she swept him up into her skirts with practiced affection.

  Xaryk’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?” he repeated.

  “His parents took me in when I was little,” she laughed, putting a proud hand on the child’s shoulder. “This little gentleman heads out every evening to make sure his old aunt gets home safe in the evenings.”

  “Ah. Your prior commitment.” Xaryk smiled. “Quite the young man you’ve got there.”

  Rannit scoffed, a slight red hue creeping into his colourless cheeks. “It’s not too far. Just a couple of clicks!”

  “Oh, you’re not staying in town?” Xaryk asked.

  “I stay with my aunt and uncle. They have a small farmstead not too far out of town,” she explained.

  “And he comes all this way alone?” Xaryk asked, concerned.

  “Naw. Pa waits on the outskirts. He don’t like town folk too much,” Rannit said.

  “Doesn’t,” Violja corrected him with all the authority of an elder.

  Rannit kicked a nearby stone, eyes downcast. “Doesn’t like town folk,” he muttered.

  “So, you two won’t be needing an escort then?” Xaryk asked, mildly disappointed.

  “Are you kidding? Uncle Ruddit would have a stroke if he saw you coming,” Violja said.

  “So I’ve heard. ‘The bounty hunter from the Core who leaves nothing but trouble in his wake,’” Xaryk repeated.

  Violja winced.

  “On Takal—” she began.

  “No offence taken,” Xaryk said, cutting off her strained explanation.

  “What about you?” she asked, quickly changing the subject. “Not staying in the saloon?”

  “And get knifed in my sleep by a disgruntled local?” He winked, defusing the brief tension. “I think not.”

  “Then?”

  “My starskipper is moored nearby. She’s as comfortable as she is pretty.” Xaryk rose from his perch and dusted off his trousers.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “A starskipper!” Rannit exclaimed. “Can we see it, Aunt Violja? Can we?” The takalan boy tugged at her skirts excitedly.

  “I’m sure Mr Foe doesn’t want us intruding…” The words hung in the air.

  “Not at all. As long as your pa doesn’t mind waiting?”

  “He shouldn’t do. Revus shut up shop early,” Violja explained, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

  He kept the smile from his lips, but not from his eyes.

  Ignorant of his sweet agony, she continued. “Something about having dealt with enough trouble this evening. You are quite the troublemaker, you know.”

  “Despite my best intentions,” he said with a smirk.

  “So…” Rannit looked between them. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  “Yes,” Violja sighed.

  “It would be my pleasure.” Xaryk placed two fingers to his lips. The whistle that followed was sharp and clear, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

  Moments later, Mayweather cantered into view, her feathered mane swaying as she tossed her head.

  The quadral pulled up short, and Xaryk gave her neck a gentle rub. She snorted, then danced toward Rannit, blowing hot bursts of breath into his hair. The boy giggled with delight.

  “This little lady is Mayweather,” Xaryk said, guiding Rannit’s hand to her snout. He let it rest there, beaming. Mayweather shuddered, her ribs reverberating with pleasure. Her maw opened just enough to reveal hundreds of needle-like teeth—perfect for sifting sand for desert prey.

  “Giddy-up, cowboy,” Xaryk said, hoisting the boy into the saddle. The small boy squealed with delight as he settled into the worn leather.

  The bounty hunter turned to Violja, who stared back at him with guarded eyes.

  “Your chariot…” Xaryk held a hand out to Violja.

  She hesitated for a moment before taking it. A shimmer of silk preceded her as she joined her adoptive nephew atop the quadral.

  Xaryk took the reins and led them through the dark streets, towards the starskipper waiting in the dunes beyond.

  It took roughly ten beats to lead the pair beyond town borders towards the moored starskipper.

  Xaryk noticed Violja briefly reach towards the leather band around her waist, lingering for a second before she relaxed; likely checking her firearm.

  The bounty hunter pretended not to notice—better to allow her to feel in control.

  The ship appeared in the distance, growing larger as they grew closer, hovering on the horizon like a mirage. Many a man had given up hope chasing such illusions, only to find a dry well. The freedom the starskipper promised was to Xaryk what water was to a desert wanderer: salvation.

  Xaryk looked upon the ship with quiet pride.

  Every scratch was a story, each gouge and scar a reminder of storms weathered, adventures seized, and daring escapes narrowly won.

  As they approached, the wooden blur sharpened into finer detail: a crescent-shaped hull that curved like a hunter’s bow, tapering toward a long, elegant prow ending in a fin shaped like the hammer of a revolver. Twin astral sails clung to hinged booms, waiting to unfurl like the wings of a hawk.

  A small platform rose at the rear of the ship, crowned by the steering wheel; the gnarls of which were ingrained into Xaryk’s hands and heart.

  He could almost feel the solid wood beneath his hands, begging him to lead them both from this desolate cage.

  “If it’s out of fuel, how’s it still floating?” Rannit asked, eyes wide with wonder.

  "Floating trees," Xaryk said with a wink. "Incredibly rare."

  The boy’s face screwed up in confusion, but excitement quickly overpowered it. As they neared the ship, Rannit leapt from the quadral with a delighted shout, eliciting a startled cry from Violja.

  The ship loomed larger with every step, dwarfing the small boy beneath its shadow.

  “Sorry,” Violja said, laughing as she dismounted more carefully. “He’s very excited.”

  “That’s what being a child’s about,” Xaryk shrugged. “Let him be reserved and jaded once he’s old enough to have earned it.”

  “You aren’t worried someone will steal it?” Violja asked, her eyes lingering on the Sweet Melody with a hunger that seemed to surprise even her.

  “Her,” Xaryk corrected, a soft edge creeping into his voice. “She’s perfectly safe.”

  The metallic clack of talons on his runed palms rang out. A glyph flared briefly along the ship’s hull, and a wooden panel slid aside. A ladder unfurled from the gap; it had barely finished descending before Rannit was already climbing.

  Violja moved to protest, but Xaryk only shrugged.

  "The only variable that makes the Sweet Melody dangerous," he said, "is standing right next to you." He grabbed a rung firmly, planting his feet. After some prompting, Violja joined him, mirroring the bounty hunter’s stance.

  Xaryk clicked with his free hand, and the ladder ascended.

  “Why is she named the Sweet Melody?” Violja asked.

  Xaryk shrugged.

  “After a girl?” Her voice was tinged with the bitter taste of jealousy.

  “Isn’t it always?” Xaryk asked with a smile.

  The ladder deposited them upon the sturdy bulwark. Up close, the hawk motifs carved subtly into the wood became clear.

  Xaryk ran an affectionate hand over them, greeting the ship like an old friend.

  Ahead, Rannit was already at the wheel, lost in visions of grand adventures among the stars.

  Xaryk smiled, glad he’d deactivated the security measures before their arrival—the boy was an unstoppable whirlwind of curiosity, and the ship would’ve met him with considerably less patience.

  The child looked comically small standing before the stained wood, its spokes adorned with gold plating.

  Xaryk smiled faintly.

  He’d surrounded himself with gold—not out of any sense of self-importance, though he did have a flair for the dramatic—but because gold was one of the best conductors of magwell energy.

  “Will you take us flying when she’s ready?” Rannit called, once make-believe could no longer hold him.

  “Sure, why not?” Xaryk answered. “You and your aunt can both be my guests. You’ll love it; there’s nothing like the freedom of a planet growing so small beneath you, you could pick it up and put it in your front pocket for safekeeping.”

  Violja’s eyes sparkled with excitement, perfectly mirroring Rannit’s wide smile. Yet on Takal, dreams had to give way to reality.

  “I don’t think my uncle would be pleased,” she said sadly.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” Xaryk winked, drawing a reluctant smile from her.

  Violja lingered a moment, then sighed.

  “We should go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “You should,” he replied.

  With much prompting, Rannit finally released his grip on the wheel, lingering for one last touch before rejoining his aunt.

  “Want me to accompany you?” Xaryk asked as they clambered down onto the bulwark.

  “It isn’t far.” Violja shook her head. “Besides, you have a big day ahead.”

  “Facing down a legend?” Xaryk shrugged. “Just another tale of many.”

  “Be safe,” she said. This time, no smile graced her lips.

  “Unfortunately, that is antithetical to my profession.” He clicked his fingers once again, and the ladder declined.

  “Then be smart,” she called over the rift widening between them.

  He nodded from on high. She planted her feet firmly in the sand below.

  Xaryk stood there a moment longer, watching their slow march toward the dim lights of town. Only once they had faded into the haze did he drag his gaze away.

  Violja was right—there was much to prepare for before facing the dangers of the dunes.

  The heavy pounding of boots heralded his entrance to the deck below: modest living quarters large enough to accommodate three comfortably. Yet the orderly trappings within made it clear it belonged to only one.

  A small cloud of fur rocketed onto the kitchen bench near the entrance, holding out its head for attention. One and a half, Xaryk thought, patting the purring cat.

  “Evening, Sloth,” Xaryk greeted the plump cat as he dusted the white fur that already clung to his coat.

  Sloth leapt, devoid of grace, onto the ground to sit before his empty food bowl, demure but demanding.

  Soon, Sloth’s bowl was filled, and Xaryk left him happily munching away as he prepared for the journey ahead.

  The bartender had confirmed that Horseshoe Gulley was roughly two days’ travel. So, Xaryk packed supplies for six.

  Thirty-six shots were all he’d been able to purchase, so it would have to be enough—if not, his knife would suffice.

  Along with his usual bag of tricks, he added a sturdy pair of cuffs and rope that were all but branded with the name “Redmark.”

  Xaryk stripped off his coat, hanging it in its usual place, then carried the rest of his gear into the ship’s closet-sized bathroom.

  Ol’ Jakov hadn’t been wrong about the cost of water on Takal.

  Xaryk conserved his meagre supply, scrubbing the sand and dust from his body with a rag. It ran smoothly over his skin before catching slightly on the raised markings on his face and body—natural dermal growths that denoted a xolus that had reached maturity.

  The dark blue patterns formed over each eye like a mask before plunging towards his jaw like the blades of a knife. They ended at the points before reappearing along his collarbone and stretching over his shoulders to the bottom of his deltoids. From his shoulders, they looped around his shoulder blades before reaching down towards his buttocks.

  His markings weren’t anything special.

  Among xolus, intricate or complex patterns were considered desirable—many families arranged pairings between those whose markings twined into boughs and knots, like living calligraphy.

  Xaryk stared into the block-yellow eyes of his reflection, devoid of white, iris, or pupil, trying to force thoughts of Violja from his mind.

  Quit it, he thought. You’re a professional.

  He forced away the memory of inviting eyes, replacing them with the cold, endless stretch of stars, and the sharp scent of gunpowder.

  Satisfied, Xaryk nodded to himself.

  He threw himself onto his bunk, arms tucked behind his head as he stared into the bare wood above. The bounty hunter turned his head to look out the stained-glass window that was the companion to his bunk, staring at the shining stars above.

  Through the intertwining patterns of cobalt and crimson, he could just make out the stars, twinkling in the dark.

  Tomorrow is the first of Redmark’s last days, Xaryk thought, closing his eyes. He just doesn’t know it yet.