On a Starship Bound for Kno-were

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I’m not sure how true that is because I tend to be long gone before the screaming starts. I always follow the advice of a wise Earthman from five hundred years ago. He was a bard who spoke, “You’ve got to know when to hold them and know when to fold them, know when to walk away and know when to jettison yourself in an escape pod.” Actually, the last part I updated to fit the times.

The galaxy is full of hard working folks, like these Cylirian miners at the card table with me, working the jobs that the Imperium won’t even send a Cosmech to do. Backbreaking, dangerous work, but work in which these miners are well compensated. Compensation, I am more than willing to relieve them of the burden of.

Before you bust on me, the life of a gambler is also backbreaking and dangerous. Hours at the Fost card tables aren't easy on the back, or ass for that matter. As for dangerous, the blue-skinned miners may have to deal with cave-ins, Crevice worms, and tyrannical mine owners, but have you ever seen an angry Demtol after you just cleaned him out of a fortnight of pay. Those horns on their heads aren’t just for attracting the ladies.

I booked my ride at the Almagest space port specifically because I knew these Cyrilians were heading to Kno-were on a mining company sponsored rest trip. The thought of the miner’s fund disks flush with Imperium credits had me seeing quadruple digit hauls in my future.

We are a quarter of the way to our destination and I have already cleaned out a good number of the miners. Word has spread of the handsome human, their words not mine, who is unbeatable at the card table, and that is the fatal flaw of a Cyrilian, the idea that something can’t be defeated. That’s what makes them such great miners, that and their four-arms. Have you found some rare space minerals you want, but it's buried under hundreds of meters of rock of fire water? Call a Cylirian.

I dress to stand out at the card tables so I am easy to find. The hat, known during Earth's frontier time as a cowboy hat, was the hardest to track down, it’s a replica, hardly anything vintage from Earth could be found after the war. Also, being a human at the Fost tables is another tell that I am unique.

I find a seat at the table for my third cycle of the trip anticipating taking some more credits off these backwater miners when the hand I have been dealt lets me know it is time to fold. Not the actual cards, I had the early makings of a royal court, just a hex bishop away, but the newcomers to the gaming room, Basileeks.

Basileeks don’t get along with any other group, they don’t get along with themselves most of the time, but they really don’t care for Cylirians. Not sure what the feud is over but it never ends well for the Cylirians. The Basileeks are repetillian in looks and in attitude. One look at the tall, upright-walking, lizard-looking, green-scaly, mean-eyed predators and you instinctively knew your place is the prey role.

There are seven Basileeks, and as they spread out through the starship’s gaming room, the tension grows among the dozen Cylirians scattered around at the game of chance tables. The biggest, and ugliest, Basileek makes his way over to the Fost table where my game was taking place. A blaster rests menacingly in a holster hung low on his belt.

He taps the weapon a couple of times as he addresses me in a hissing voice, “Earthman, you are dismissed.” The Basileek gestures toward the door across the room that leads out and adds, “For your trouble you can go ahead and take all the fund disks from the table, these quadarms won’t have a need for credits in the afterlife.”

His laugh rouses delighted responses from the three other Basileeks who have made their way over to surround the table, each wearing their own imposing blaster. My daddy didn’t raise no fool. “Well, gentleman,” I nod to the Cyrilians at the table, “it has been a pleasure, but it seems my time here is up.” I rake the shiny fund disk into my hand and slide them into my pocket. “Good day,” I say to the head predator and tip my hat as I walk by him.

I’m nearly to the door when the first thud reaches my ear. I turn and see the big Basileek has knocked one of the card players to the floor. The yellow blood from his busted mouth stands in stark contrast to the blue skin. His friends try to rise from the table, but the pulled blasters from the other Basileeks set them back down.

Big ugly pulls his blaster and aims it at the face of the downed miner, “Any last words, Cyrilian worm?”

I know everyone of these miners is about to die. Dammit, I think to myself as another of the bard’s lyrics comes to mind. “There will be time enough for counting when the dealin’s done.” I can’t believe what dealing my mind is telling me to do.

“Hey, Scaly!” I call back the big Basileek, “How about I deal these fellows a new hand.” Before he can get the confused look off his face I whip back my long coat and smoothly draw the blasters that rest on each hip and send a shot right between his eyes.

His comrades turn on me, but I have the advantage, clearing shots and dropping them as fast as I can pull the trigger. The other three Basileeks bolt from the room with a horde of Cyrilians in pursuit. The miner that had been knocked to the floor climbs to his feet holding a Fost card. He hands me the Star Ace card, a winning card with any hand. He smiles and says, “There is an ace that you can keep.”

I’m going to need that. I broke my own rule and stuck around too long. The Basileeks have long memories and if any of them get away, I’m sure to be looking over my shoulder for a long time to come. I walk out into the hall and let out a scream at my foolish decision. Several passengers turn to look at me. I guess that answers the question.