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The thing about criminals, the lawless and wild, is that they don’t like each other. Never have. But sometimes, they’ll tolerate each other, make deals, share drinks. It’s a short life, after all, and Death has its claws in each of them.
The station’s a nice place, you’d think. Floors are clean, power’s reliable. Ships are parked inside the landing bay all nice and orderly, patrons minding their own business. The lodging’s just a bunk in the wall, but it's cheap, and the vendors have fair prices for what they offer. The barroom’s crowded, the staff making sure everyone who can pay for a drink gets one. Electric lights gleam through a mist of wispy smoke, drifting up from weary shipmates taking a load off.
Then someone pulls a gun, and someone else takes a shot. A few slaves and greenhorns flinch. The rest barely glance over. Gunfire’s a familiar sound in their lives.
A dead alien, cooked and stuffed and prepared with spices is served to the sound of drunken cheers. A chain clinks as one of those seated shifts slightly, and waits for permission to eat. Others in the room have restraints around their arms, or necks, or tails. Some just have collars. That’s how you know their buyer was the wealthy sort. Someone wins a card game, and a hulking figure shuffles to the other side of the table as a key exchanges hands. Someone else loses, and slinks into the shadows. She’ll get even later tonight, or the next day, or years down the line. A clean-shaven merchant steps out of her way without pausing in his negotiations, closing a trade of food, medicine and ship parts for bloodstained crates of gold and jewellery. Elsewhere, suppliers and dealers take a moment to catch up, and gripe about having to pay off the dogs that prowl their territory.
Even if nothing else was out of place, it’d still be obvious. Just a look at their faces would tell you where you were standing. And just a look at yours would tell them if you didn’t belong.
The station’s an old Hyperion base, by the name of Asphodel Town. Abandoned when funding waned, but never decommissioned. An old man sips from his mug, and stares at the wall. Outside, a meagre several million miles away, the sun rages brightly as ever, close enough it’d burn and blind everyone here if the metal turned to glass. He takes another mouthful of his Asphodel, the drink the station takes its name from. The liquid’s too bitter to be tasted by itself, leaves a film on your tongue and an ache in your teeth, and burns all the way down your throat. It’s disgusting. It’s revolting. And it's always available in any lawless pub that’ll ever exist, because if everything ever goes wrong and your whole crew winds up dead, the first dash of that in your mouth will change every complicated emotion you had before into nothing but raw revulsion of what's in the cup.
That’s not why the old man drinks it, though. He just prefers it, these days. His partner doesn’t.
Whoever named the place Asphodel town is long gone, but the name stuck, and it’s one of the better watering holes and neutral grounds a pirate could pick. Better by far than the ones that’ll kill you on approach for being with the wrong faction, or seize your ship and sell you to slavers if you don’t give them a reason not to.
Too bad it only takes a single idiot to screw things up for everyone.
People are putting their cups down. Card games are slowly stopping. Something's wrong. Silence spreads like a ripple, passing outwards from that lone gunshot. People start turning their heads to see who was the killer, and who was the killed. Nobody knew the murderer beyond seeing him here and there the past few days, just another pirate who sat by himself. But every last one of them knew the person on the floor, the one convulsing blood.
The first one to move is a drakon. He jumps out of his chair and goes in close, checking the lethal wound. "He's a goner," he says, looking at the growing mob surrounding the scene. "Mayor's in the jaws, now." He takes a drink from the closest table and dumps it on the cadaver. A final toast for the departed soul. The mayor’d always relied on charm, on words and wit, and it’d worked for a while. Easier to respect someone who looked you in the eye instead of locking themselves away in the heart of the station. But he hadn’t been the first mayor of Asphodel Town, and he wouldn’t be the last.
The drakon looks around the mob, searching for someone specific. The old man puts down the mug, returns his gaze. Nods.
"Who's the new mayor?" the drakon asks. The question is loud. The crowd needs to hear it. Already there’s mutters, hands reaching for weapons.
The killer interjects. "I killed that cunt, I own th-"
An electrical zing fills the room. A clean shot. A hole appears on the killer. He blinks, coughs blood. Another zing. Another shot. Another hole shows in his torso. The killer drops with a thump and doesn’t move. The crowd parts, and two people step forth, one carrying a chrome gun. He looks embarrassed. Seems he didn't know the right spot for that species. Normally he wouldn’t need two tries. The other member of the duo, the old man, merely greets the drakon with a nod of his head, and takes his coat off to cover the corpse.
The duo is known as Skulls. Young Skull is the klannec with the chrome pistol, an Arco 88; Remind the world what it’s made of. It’s a quiet gun. Young Skull’s a quiet pirate. He knows his place, and he knows how to do his job pretty damn well. Grew into it. Rumour is that he was an ex-slave. Problem for his owner, is that he happened to be a slave with a talent for marksmanship. Nobody told them that you don't give a gun to a slave and ask him to kill for you, not without watching your back. Rumour is, that his owner didn't watch their back.
There's no place for Young Skull in lawful space. And if there was, he'd probably end up dead in a ditch somewhere, working as a pawn in some meaningless low-wage war. Maybe the universe would see him becoming someone like that as dignified, a beautiful story of rags to trophies and medals and honour. To Young Skull, that is worthless. Older Skull knows how to pay a shooter, and that's all Young Skull needs to hear to put someone in his sights and pull the trigger.
Older Skull, the man without the coat now, is of a species he doesn’t divulge and isn’t interested in doing so, and people know better than to keep asking questions. Rumor is he’s from a new world, and the ships he’d once known had been made out of wood and pushed by wind. When he came to space, he’d found out that while some things were different, others didn’t change. His bounty is small (Mostly because he keeps that way. He knows the right people, and he doesn’t like the heat) but his presence and the fast trigger of Young Skull keeps anyone that isn’t an idiot out of his way. He’s old. Pirates are a fire that burns too fast, or burns too slowly. Both are dangerous, but on delicate matters, age brings respect from most. You don’t grow old from making poor decisions.
Older Skull stamps his foot, and the remaining eyes in the room shift his way. The moment is his. Another minute, another day when the duo had been absent, and someone else might’ve stepped forwards. Some group might’ve claimed authority. Someone might’ve started shooting and turned the bar into a battleground. Asphodel might’ve been left a burning wreck. The only rules for this kind of thing are those backed by a gun. But the Skulls were first, and people know their faces. No one else can sway the crowd now, not without taking it from them first.
Someone tries. They go for their holster. Young Skull shoots them in the arm, and they fall back with a cry.
“Was something about a woman, I think,” the drakon says to the pair. He’s not particularly interested in the killer’s reasons. He’s not a pirate, but a contrabandist. Like Older Skull, his bounty is small, but unlike Older Skull, it’s because he makes himself convenient. If either side of the law wants something from the other, you either have the right man, or you’re getting scammed. He’s the right man to most. He’s allowed a say. “So. Do you have any picks?”
There’s no pirate code. Honour among thieves is a thing of tales. But the station needs someone to keep the lights on, and a pick by Older Skull is as good as any. The old man gestures to the second corpse, leaving the work to his partner as he studies the faces filling the room. Young Skull picks a baton off his belt and presses a button that releases a loop of string, like a miniature lasso. He wraps it around the head of the dead pirate, and, with another press of the button, the loop lights up and his head quickly falls off, sliced perfectly. It was his kill, and hey, that was their consultation fee on the matter, even if his bounty might not have been much. They’ll check with the appropriate channels later. They’ll properly remove the corpse of the previous mayor in a more respectable way, of course. Space burial would be customary, but it’ll be up to whoever the new mayor is.
Neither of the Skulls are interested in managing Asphodel town, nor the drakon. It’s not a position of authority over pirates. It’s just a job to run the place, and keep the Hyperion light rail working to deter any visiting warlords from bringing their armadas with them. The money’s nice enough, but there’s easier ways to earn it than dealing with a legion of pirates, and the wrong person means that Asphodel either allies with a single faction, which is bad for everyone else out there, or it becomes a shithole worse than it already is. It’s one of the -nicer- neutral water holes. Older Skull would like it to stay that way.
His eyes pass over the barkeeper, and she cringes away from his gaze. Not her, or any of the other staff. They’re used to serving drinks, cleaning halls, moving boxes, witnessing death but never feeling its heat in their hands. Most of them could’ve worked in legal stations, if it wasn’t for the fact they’d been born on “lawless” planets, and lacked all those nice little documents that said they were people. They knew pirates, but they weren’t the right sort. Too clean. They’d break in a week, a month at most.
He points at one person. Then another. And then a group clears their throat. Some internal discussion concludes, and one steps forward. He glances at Young Skull’s gun, acknowledging it before proceeding.
“What about me?”
He carries himself well. Speaks calmly in the face of a barrel pointed at his chest. Older Skull points at him, but shakes his head. He speaks a single word.
“Dog.”
The privateer nods, and sits back down. The group behind him mutter, but he waves off their displeasure. Who you worked for mattered, and he’d expected that result. They could press the issue, of course. Any large crew could’ve tried. But the first, second, and likely third to draw would be shot dead by Young Skull, and Older Skull himself was only a fraction slower. Here and now, no one was willing to make that trade. Wait a day, and they’d make plans. This had to be settled before that happened.
Older Skull picks out a few more people, and the selections step closer. Some shake their heads and refuse, and that was fine too. Others voice an argument, or insist they deserve a chance, or offer bribes, but this wasn’t a negotiation. By the end, four people stand apart from the crowd.
Kavi “Meteor Shower” Malkry. Old blood. Not as old as Older Skull, but old blood. Two-headed freak to most. A taeking it seems, with little hints of white hair showing through her fur. Compared to most, she’s the one with a big bounty. Six digit stuff. Used to take hostages and ransom them early on in her career. Most didn’t return intact. More didn’t return at all. After a while she figured out that getting a good ship, filling it to the brim with weapons, and going to any lawless planet and threatening to show off her fireworks racked in quite a bit more. Sending a few fingers through the mail to salting the land has been quite the promotion. Been a while since she did that, though. Would make sense that she wants a change of job. Retirement.
Ringo, the demon. His eye twitches. Mentally insane and deranged, according to his species’ government. An sirrhingi with scars all over his head. He was once a god of something he doesn’t recall anymore, long ago, until he decided he’d rather be a devil. Made the mistake of telling his family. The next day, they brought him to the therapist. Within a week, he was institutionalised. Six years ago, he was persuaded to sign the documents of consent for an Ananke to be installed directly to his brain. Something managed to leak through the machine though, worked the fingers while the brain wasn’t looking. A knife and a magnet was all it took in the end. Now he’s here. Small bounty, petty thief, but he still holds a smug satisfaction. He’s true to himself now.
Carter. An enotir. Big shots come and leave Asphodel town all the time. He was a big shot. Had a gang and all that, was a shooting star through lawless space until an incident happened. A deal fell through. The coffee he bought wasn't up to standard. Shit brew, they said. His crew said the captain goes down with the ship. He got out of dodge before shit hit the fan, but they still fucked him up good. Cheap finger prosthetics and dentures are the rewards he got for trying to be a pirate. Now he keeps low as an information broker. Speaks with a modulator. Some people in the bar remember him from the old days. They don’t like this Older Skull pick. Whispers in the crowd.
Tack “Redbeak”. Aalor. His beak isn’t red. Nobody’s quite sure why he was picked. He might’ve been the reason a few of the others refused. Guy that drinks alone, most days. And then some days, he buys a drink for someone, and after they’re finished, he kills them, and drags their body to his ship. A bounty killer for the highest bidder. Sometimes they didn’t wait to finish, tried to pull the gun first. He’s still alive, and they’re not. Young Skull wouldn’t beat him at a draw, though if he tried anything, whichever member of the duo he didn’t shoot first would have more than enough time to fire back.
The crowd watches as the four come forward and eye each other, and then they eye Older Skull. The old man merely gestures his head. The drakon and Younger Skull bring in a table, carelessly breaking a few glasses in the ground in the process, and put five chairs around it. The drakon sits in one. Older Skull gives him a pack of cards, and the four take their places. That’s it. That’s how the fate of Asphodel Town is going to be decided. At cards.
After the game’s set up, Younger Skull and Older Skull return to their table to finish their drinks, but the crowd stays to watch as the cards are dealt and the rules are explained. It’s a Heaven deck, so it’s Limbo rules. Whoever has the Mirage cards in the end is the winner. Three games. Kavi and Ringo order a drink. Carter doesn’t. Tack doesn’t know if he’ll have to.
Ringo is smarter than he seems, Kavi has experience on her side, Tack is patient, but Carter? The game starts out even enough, but after a few hands, things start swinging his way. When someone pulls a Life, he happens to have a Unknown. Divorce is always answered with Progress. Tradition with Power, and so on. The others take a few matchups, but games like these don’t always favour the smart, skilled or old. They favour the lucky, and today just seems to be Carter’s day. His metal fingers drum the back of his cards. He has both the Past and the Future. He has the Mirage. Heaven fades away. Carter is the first game’s winner.
There’s a minute of calm as the drakon collects the cards and shuffles the deck. Money exchanges palms in the crowd, and new bets are placed. Carter’s the favourite, though there’s decent odds on Redbeak shooting everyone else at the table.
There’s no slow start in the second game. Right from the first hand, things seem to be going well for the enotir. He tilts his head towards his competitors, flashing a smile with his eyes. Ringo sighs. Scratches his head. Kavi is looking attentively at Tack. The game proceeds as cards change hands and are refuted by each other, as Good beats Evil and Evil beats Good. Carter seems to be playing aggressively as fate favours him more and more, until, out of nowhere, Tack raises his hand. Silence reigns at that exact moment.
A round of drinks for everyone. On his tab.
And so, person by person, a cup of their preferred poison. The atmosphere becomes solid. Only a few seem eager to drink, and out of the table, only Ringo touches his cup and seems to be at ease, dipping his finger in the liquid and licking it. The cards change hands more slowly. Kavi's head is looking to the side, wondering if it was a bluff. Carter's luck takes a turn, and he starts having a few losses here and there. War is interrupted by silence. Weakness is paired with generosity. It looks like his path to victory will be a rocky one. He takes half a minute on one turn. Kavi frowns. Ringo sniffs.
Bang. A shot from under the table. The crowd jumps. Carter is dead. The game continues, and eventually, Kavi is the winner. They don’t bother to remove the corpse from the table, though Ringo picks his unfinished drink.
The drakon shuffles the deck. He comments casually that killing someone, while not against the rules, is rather unsportsmanlike. Tack doesn’t say anything. Kavi says that Carter was cheating. The drakon asks how. “Gut feeling," Kavi says. She looks at Tack, but the aalor gives away nothing. Ringo smirks at her.
“If only your gut could play cards, eh? Pity they taste so bad.”
That’s the kind of thing Ringo says. She ignores him.
The game starts for the final time. It’s clear by now that Tack, as much as he's a good killer, is a lousy card player. Even with a good hand, he’s unable to get enough momentum to stay at the top. Death closes its jaws on him, and he’s knocked out. Tipsy Ringo is the only challenge that Kavi has now, and soon enough, with some difficulty, Kavi gains the Mirage. Kavi wins Asphodel Town.
Or so it seems. The Skull duo rise from their seats and thank the drakon for being the dealer. Young Skull motions to the corpse of Carter and asks if Tack wants the head. Easiest way to claim the reward in most sectors. Tack denies the offer politely and picks up the corpse. He prefers it whole, he says as he leaves. Older Skull turns to Kavi and Ringo.
“I won”, says Kavi.
Older Skull doesn’t blink. Maybe there’s something like a snake in that biology of his, because his eyes never close, and his old voice has a rasp behind it. “How did he cheat?”
Kavi does not offer a reply. Older Skull looks at Ringo. Asks the same question.
“I don’t know.”
Older Skull abandons his hunchback and takes a better posture, rising. He’s taller than Young Skull when he stands fully. Ringo isn’t intimidated, but his memory feels refreshed.
“You shouldn’t trust a demon, you know. I’d say it was his hands, though. He left something on the cards.” He takes the Past and Future from the deck, and licks the back of each. “It’s hard to tell. There’s a little oil and sweat from each of us. But that’s my best guess. Each finger had a different sauce, so once he touched a card with one of them, he knew where it went from then on.”
“And how’d he detect it, then?” Kavi challenges him. “Enotir aren’t exactly known for their sense of smell.”
“Beats me. But it’s not that hard to set up chemical sensors in a facial prosthetic, is it? Just the direction would be good enough.” Ringo puts his feet up on the table and relaxes. “We could always call the bird back, if you want to check. Maybe he just really wanted to kill the guy.”
Older Skull places a hand on Ringo’s shoulder. It’s decided. Asphodel Town is under new management.
Kavi rises from the table and leaves, returning to the half-eaten meal she’d abandoned. Maybe she’ll get back at them for this, another day. Older and Young Skull decide they’ve done enough, and leave for their own ship. Best they stay low for a bit, in case anyone feeling sour over what they’ve done tries to pull something. Anyway, they don’t know the first thing about running a station.
Ringo waves at his patrons. Grins. At this point, if someone took a shot, the crowd would turn on them. That protection won’t last long though. He’ll have to make himself valuable. He looks forward to it. Others look at the sirringhi, and consider that with his age and species he’ll probably only live for another decade or so at most, and then all this will have to happen again.
But that was the lawless sector for you. The station wasn’t even a century old. And only a fool would take a bet that it’d still be there in a century’s time.