July 6th, 2486 - Planet Sanctuary, Sanctuary City - Zaruzaru District Spaceport

The Spaceport Security Officer was a member of the Gorguran race; her tubular, grey body quivered beneath a white uniform, her yellow eyes flashed and her forked, pink tongue flickered. The crest on her scaly forehead pulsed a variety of indecipherable colours, and then she sighed, a sound that was universal and consistently synonymous with boredom.

‘Race: Human, Sex: female, Height: 5’3”, Age: twenty—passport? None, of course—does that go for all three of you? …obviously, that’ll be an entrance fee of 30,000 GSC per person—I don’t care who’s wallet that is, just so long as it’s got money in it—no, I don’t want your name or nationality either, just a retina scan … okay, Race: Human, Sex: Male, Height: 6’1”, Age: twenty-one… Race: Bungirban, Sex: Male, Height: 5’10” –not accounting for ear height … and Age: Seventy Three. That will be all, go on ahead. Please enjoy your stay in Sanctuary City ... if you can.’

*

Sanctuary City rose from the dust and sand, a glimmering, neon jewel in an inhospitable wasteland. Planet Sanctuary, or Vulture 654 as it was known officially, was more of an asteroid than a planet; the resting place of a frigate of the same name. The merchant residents of Vulture 654 established the domed city with what little remained of their crash-landed ship and its merchandise. Located between the frontier worlds and the Imperial colony planets, it became a lawless, neutral sanctuary from Imperial trade law; and the people of the galaxy flocked to it. When it refused to aid the rebels during the final war against the empire, the rebels attacked it … and the neutral little planetoid responded by wiping out half of the rebel fleet with anti-air weapons. When its mafia became too politically vocal, Sanctuary’s government responded by culling the heads of each branch family. 34% of the Galaxy’s richest people owed their fortune to entrepreneurial careers in Sanctuary City. Brutal, efficient and profitable; if you knew how to play the game, Sanctuary City was the place to be.

Abiona was the first to cry out.

‘Look at this place; it’s incredible!’ she said, unable to tear her eyes away from the cityscape that spanned the skyline.

The Spaceport protruded into the dome, hundreds of miles into the air, and from a balcony of transparent super-plastic the trio stared down into the endless grid of buildings pulsating with neon light that spread out below them, swirling like a violent ocean. Angora immediately felt light-headed at the sight, and couldn’t help wobbling as he walked across the transparent glass to the tram station. Ichiro grabbed hold of his prosthetic arm, and guided him the rest of the way, Angora blushing openly, occasionally offering a meek note of disapproval. They were dressed casually, hoping to fit in amongst the holidaymakers; Abiona wearing a thin, white blazer and black trousers, Ichiro dressed in a red, floral shirt and dark sunglasses, and Angora covering himself with a grey, hooded tracksuit and shorts, obscuring his missing arm but leaving his muscular legs on display.

*

They descended via tram, pressed up against an overwhelmingly diverse array of aliens. Two arms, six arms, tentacles, skins of purple, green and blue, they wore clothes well-fitted, baggy or far too revealing and had all converged for holiday-making and intergalactic business trips. Ichiro expressed his annoyance to a small alien with an enormous grey head and tiny, skinny body, who kept standing on his foot. The alien, whose name they learned was Fiivta and whom they learned was a hopeful entrepreneur (they each had a business card forced into their palms), apologised profusely, his diner-plate sized black eyes growing even wider with each apology. Abiona’s dissatisfied stare forced Ichiro into his own, quieter fit of apology, desperately trying to calm the alien down and not make a scene. However it seemed that Abiona was more than happy to ply Fiivta for information once they were on better terms, much to Angora’s surprise. Although more concerning to Angora by far was the set of tentacles and the sound of heavy breathing fixed to the back of his neck.

‘My family’s got a restaurant down in Koltura District’, Fiivta said, in the voice of a permanently congested man. ‘Got a beautiful view of the Manjiro River—manmade of course—and yeah, they got some mechanics near there. I recommend ‘Pazzik’s’, old fella there always fixes my car in a jiffy—yeah, he’s fast, cheap and reliable too—just don’t stray from the footpath in downtown Koltura, or you’ll find your legs on the black market tomorrow morning!’

Angora visibly flinched.

*

The tram came to a stop in Kuldazga District, and several hundred aliens rapidly spilled out onto the streets of the historic crash site. Kuldazga District was built upon what little remained of the Vulture 654 Imperial Frigate, and elements of the naval influence could be seen everywhere; from the ancient Imperial flags, representing both the house of Gan Kuji and the iconic planet Oostabar, the hundreds of naval themed restaurants and dozens of artificial waterways which those restaurants overlooked, and in the thousands of conveniently placed gift shops selling naval memorabilia. The watertight doors on several houses shaped like upside-down boats were a nice touch.

Ichiro explained that, ‘A hundred years ago, the Wulver Empire began a tradition of recruiting space pilots and crew from poor fishing towns and villages across the galaxy, usually ocean worlds—they all had a fondness for the ocean back then … so they didn’t all take well to all that time spent away from the sea, in the darkness of space.’

They navigated Kuldazga District with some difficulty, Angora becoming more and more annoyed with the rules of the road, which, ironically, where alien to him, barely avoiding death by hover car on bustling walkways and boulevards. The noise was becoming unbearable: and Abiona was loving every second of it.

One ride on an elevator platform later, and they arrived in the Koltura District, getting a good look at what lay below the glamourous, cleanly naval façade. In the far west of the city, the skyline suddenly plunged downwards, revealing the cramped corridors and rusty crevasses of the lower income districts. The Koltura district was one of these districts, barely separated from the mountainous landfill that almost ringed the district itself. It was made up of dingy alleyways and crackling, sputtering neon signs.

The elevator platform disappeared into the gloom behind them, a speck of light subsumed by clouds of rust-coloured fog. They passed beneath the shadows of brown-brick buildings. Ichiro stopped, eyes glued to an alleyway. Angora couldn’t help but watch, his curiosity taking over. Three children sat in the alleyway, under the glow of a dying neon-blue sign, playing dice in the shadows of a trash can. Angora watched, opting to stay silent, as Ichiro’s face twitched slightly; a subtle, desperate and nostalgic emotion bubbled to the surface, but was quickly overcome by the usual aggressive, furrowed brow. He tossed a handful of coins into the alleyway, bumping into Angora as he passed by, hands in his pockets. The street wound onwards and downwards, and they were swept along it, in a river of sweating, cursing and laughing residents of an alien slum. Their destination lay only a few blocks ahead: ‘Pazzik’s Mechanics’.