CHAPTER 18

Eteren One Orbital Starbase

Mottmor System, Venddral Raidezel Sector

Date: Zeran 19, Year 4731

Klamarez moved briskly through the crowded promenade of Eteren One, weaving between travelers. Several passersby cursed, throwing their hands up, or shot irritated glares as he narrowly avoided them. He countered each with a friendly smile, undeterred.

His destination was Ynd Junk and Gems, a shop tucked away in a narrow side corridor on Level 5 of the station’s merchant center.

The store had come highly recommended by Clyden Galre, the Resilience’s maintenance technician. Its reputation stretched far beyond Eteren One, known for recycled and refurbished parts. Yet reliability was never guaranteed, especially for specific components. The shop’s allure lay in its unpredictability—its shelves always stocked, though their contents depended entirely on recent salvages.

Much of its inventory came from a ship recycling plant orbiting the moon of Ynd. Whispers abounded about the questionable origins of these ships—and the rumored fates of their crews.

Ynd Junk and Gems was part of a larger chain spread across the Mottmor system, serving scavengers, traders, and opportunists alike.

Its exterior didn’t inspire much confidence; the shop’s name was hastily scrawled onto the wall.

Still, Klamarez wasn’t discouraged. From experience, he knew the most unassuming places often held the best finds. He recalled countless battered trade ships limping into Calio Landing, their rough exteriors concealing surprisingly valuable components. Many times, he had traded his maintenance skills for a good deal—or even free parts.

Today, he was only interested in paying in Credits.

This shop, he sensed, might hold that same kind of potential.

The musty scent of old electronics greeted him as he stepped inside, mingling with the sharp tang of scorched metal. Narrow aisles were crammed with mismatched components—a chaotic jumble where any attempt at organization had long been abandoned. Dust blanketed the higher shelves, untouched for what seemed like years. Finding anything truly valuable or specific, he realized, would demand patience.

Behind the counter stood a Loquar, his rough black fur showing beneath loose clothing. His sharp nose, angular chin, and still, high-backed ears gave him a rigid appearance.

The proprietor, Nexil, hailed from Ynd, a moon orbiting Jaxus Jantara, the Uxian homeworld. Ynd was renowned for transforming discarded tech and broken ships into valuable resources. Its underworld, however, was home to factions like the Vanicktus Syndicate, whose influence stretched far beyond the Mottmor system. Despite its lawless reputation, Ynd’s formal government held a pivotal role in the Mottmor Trade Union.

Nexil’s eyes, swirling shades of white and green, tracked Klamarez. Loquar techno music pulsed softly in the background, the deep bass hinting at restrained power, a vibration that could rattle the shelves if turned up. Behind the counter, station ads and news tickers scrolled across mounted screens.

“Good day to you, I’m Klamarez.” His eyes scanned the shelves, a brief grin flashing his fangs. Better get started, he thought, glancing at his PDA to check the time.

The Loquar gave a slow nod. “Nexil,” he said, then paused. “Camerians are a rare sight around here,” he remarked, his monotone voice punctuated by a slow draw from his vapor device. He exhaled deliberately, releasing a cloud of vapor that drifted toward Klamarez, who shifted slightly to avoid it. Definitely new around here.

“Not many of us come out this way, I guess,” Klamarez said, offering a faint, toothless smile. Camerians were scattered across the galaxy, so widely dispersed that he wasn’t sure what the “average” Camerian even did anymore. Calio Landing represented only a small fraction of the overall Camerian population.

“Just passing through, then?” Nexil said, his eyes never leaving Klamarez.

Klamarez nodded. “Yes.”

“Need work?” Nexil asked flatly.

“Oh, no,” Klamarez replied quickly.

“Too bad,” Nexil said.

“I’m looking for parts,” Klamarez clarified, gesturing toward the cluttered shelves.

With a lazy gesture toward the aisles, Nexil said, “Got plenty. What do you need?”

Ynd Junk and Gems catered to those who knew exactly what they needed. Across the galaxy, countless species combined technologies from different worlds—more out of necessity than preference. Traders, in particular, relied on this expertise. Their ships, worn down by constant travel between systems, required frequent repairs, often with parts sourced from other factions or worlds.

Skilled engineers were indispensable, their expertise keeping ships running smoothly and repair costs manageable. Shops like Ynd Junk and Gems served as critical lifelines, essential for sustaining trade routes and ensuring profitability. The ability to adapt, repair, and innovate made these engineers highly sought after—for good reason. Without them, traders wouldn’t survive the relentless grind of interstellar commerce.

The Camerians, as a species, were particularly renowned for their ingenuity. Rather than inventing new technologies, they excelled at refining and combining existing ones in a manner so distinct it became recognizable as Camerian tech.

“Ship components,” Klamarez said, pulling out his PDA and displaying a long, detailed list he had carefully compiled.

Nexil glanced at the list. I can’t read that, he thought, his attention already shifting to a nearby screen broadcasting system news. The report detailed a new trade agreement between the Mottmor Trade Union and another star system, brokered by the Seven Worlds of Rhyus. Nexil’s brow twitched in irritation. Humans. Always meddling.

Keeping one eye on the report, Nexil said, 'You’re in the right place, then,' his tone disinterested, his focus still fixed on the screen. 'Help yourself,' he added with a dismissive wave, leaving Klamarez to navigate the shop on his own.

The store was a labyrinth of refurbished components and equipment. Power regulators, computer chips, circuit boards, couplers, and thermal regulators were scattered across shelves and crates. Dust clung to some items, while others looked freshly salvaged.

As Klamarez looked trough a mix match of conduits and cables, a subspace transceiver caught his eye. He inspected it briefly before adding it to his haul.

He began filling a crate, stacking it until it threatened to spill over. To a casual observer, his selections might have appeared random, but Klamarez had a clear purpose for every piece. In his mind, he could already visualize how each item would integrate into his projects.

Most of the components available were Mottmor system species-tech, common but useful. Mixed among them, however, were rare items from distant corners of the galaxy. Whenever he spotted tech from the Seven Worlds, he snatched it up—whether or not he had immediate plans for its use.

Sliding the bulging crate toward the counter, Klamarez noticed a smaller, partially hidden box behind it. “What’s in that crate?” he asked, leaning forward on his toes to peer over the edge of the counter.

He took his time, puffing his vapor device before exhaling slowly. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Klamarez, gesturing at the crate. “You mean this?” he asked.

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“Yes,” Klamarez replied, his ears perking slightly.

“Unsorted items,” Nexil said with a shrug that could barely pass as effort. “Nothing special.”

Klamarez’s face lit with a quick, broad grin. “Are you saying I can have the first look at them?”

Another shrug. “Yeah, if you want to, I guess.”

Klamarez’s excitement was barely contained. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

Nexil grunted, hoisting the crate onto the counter with visible effort. Vapor swirled lazily as he exhaled. “Here you go,” he said, as if the task had cost him dearly.

Klamarez leaned over the crate, sifting through its contents. Then he froze. What the flux? His heart jumped—it was a Flux Transistor Interface. Slowly, he drew it out, careful to mask his excitement. If Nexil notices, he’ll double the price.

“Find something useful?” Nexil asked, glancing at Klamarez from the corner of his eye, his focus still elsewhere.

Klamarez shrugged, forcing a laugh. “I mean, who gives a flux about these things anyway?” he said, tossing the part casually between his hands. If he recognized its value, he didn’t let it show.

“I certainly don’t give a fuck,” Nexil said dryly. “I just work here.”

Klamarez turned back to the crate, resuming his search. He rifled through the remaining items, wires and parts spilling across the counter in his wake. Nexil’s glare sharpened with each movement. Finally, Klamarez swept the scattered pieces back into the crate and stepped away with a satisfied nod.

Nexil shifted his attention from the crate to Klamarez. “You ready to pay?” he asked.

Klamarez threw his head back with a booming laugh. “I’ve barely looked around.”

Nexil groaned as Klamarez turned his attention elsewhere. Spotting a nearby bin overflowing with sensors, Klamarez grabbed a few, turning them over in his hands. While he examined one, a figure approached, casually browsing the shelves beside him.

“The old power distributor regulators—fascinating pieces. Uxian make, I believe,” the Netraxian remarked, tilting the item in his hands and inspecting it from various angles. His melodic voice immediately caught Klamarez’s attention.

“You can never have too many, right?” Klamarez said with a grin, extending his hand. “Klamarez.”

The Netraxian’s shimmering skin shifted subtly as he returned the gesture. “Lylor,” he replied smoothly, his eyes fixed on the piece in his hand. “They’re more than useful—they’re art.”

“Art?” Klamarez echoed, his ears twitching in surprise as he glanced at the piece Lylor held. “I take it you’re not an engineer, then.”

“Oh, no.” Lylor made a face as if to say absolutely not. “I collect them as art,” he replied, gesturing toward the bin. “Their designs tell stories. Where was it made? What inspired its creator? What challenges were overcome to achieve its design? Absolutely fascinating.”

Klamarez glanced toward a nearby converter. “That one might fit your style.”

Lylor’s expression soured instantly, his features twisting with scorn. “Your taste in art is clearly… lacking,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. With a dismissive noise, he turned sharply on his heel and strode away with exaggerated movements, leaving Klamarez blinking in surprise.

“What the flux was that all about?” Klamarez said under his breath. He shrugged, brushing it off, and turned back to his search.

In his search, Klamarez unearthed a crate filled with vintage data drives, interface panels, and an old display monitor, along with other assorted items. Pleased with his haul, he dragged the overflowing collection back to the counter, making several trips. Some pieces were too large to fit in a crate, forcing him to create a precarious pile on the floor beside four stacked crates.

"I'm all done!" Klamarez said, eyeing the collection he had assembled.

Nexil groaned audibly, eyeing the mountain of components. Really? Rather than sort through each item, he started to calculate the total value in his head.

“Clyden Galre sent me,” Klamarez said, watching Nexil closely for any reaction, hoping it might earn him a discount.

“Who?” Nexil groaned, barely glancing up from his mental math. He raised a hand, signaling for Klamarez to stop talking.

Klamarez shifted awkwardly, his ears twitching. Maybe Clyden’s never been here, he thought.

“6,043 standards,” Nexil finally announced.

“For everything?” Klamarez asked, struggling to mask his disbelief.

Nexil gave a slow nod.

“5,000,” Klamarez countered with a wide grin. Worth a try.

Nexil didn’t respond immediately. “No negotiations,” he said firmly.

“Very well,” Klamarez said, pulling out his PDA to complete the transaction. 6,043 for all this? I think I just committed robbery.

“You gonna carry all that yourself?” Nexil asked dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Ahhh,” Klamarez stammered, suddenly realizing the logistical issue.

“You got a ship?”

“I do indeed.”

“What bay?”

“N-7.”

“I’ll get it delivered,” Nexil said. “Consider it a thank-you for your business,” he added with little enthusiasm.

“Appreciated. I’ll make sure to sing the praises of this establishment,” Klamarez said.

“Sure,” Nexil replied with a shrug. Then, raising his voice, he barked, “G.U-19, get out here. Now.”

From the back of the shop, a synthetic emerged, its bipedal frame moving with grated slowness. The grinding of gears grew louder as it neared the counter, each step landing with a heavy clunk.

“Help this customer take his goods to the docking bay,” Nexil instructed.

“Input accepted,” the synthetic droned, its voice as mechanical as its movements. It disappeared into the back where it had first emerged. Moments later, it returned, pushing a trolley whose wheels emitted a sharp, unpleasant squeal that made Klamarez wince, his ears flopping at the sound.

Instinctively, Klamarez reached out to help load the crates, but G.U-19’s monotone voice halted him. “I do not require assistance,” it declared, stacking the crates and parts. The trolley, burdened with its load, looked more suited for the scrapyard than for practical use.

Once the task was complete, G.U-19 turned to Klamarez. “I will follow you to your ship. Proceed.”

“Right this way,” Klamarez said, gesturing toward the exit as the synthetic trailed behind. As they walked, he peppered G.U-19 with technical questions.

“I do not converse,” the synthetic stated flatly.

Back in the shop, Nexil leaned against the counter, watching as G.U-19 wheeled Klamarez’s crates out the door. He waited for the entrance to slide shut before turning to his computer console. Keying in Klamarez’s name and the docking bay information for N-7, he initiated a database search.

Lines of code scrolled across the screen. When the results appeared, Nexil’s mouth curved into a sly grin. “Well, well,” he murmured, taking a slow drag from his vapor device and exhaling deeply through his nostrils.

From the pocket of his coat, he retrieved an old Stat comm, its scuffed surface bearing the marks of years of use. Inputting a connection, he held it in front of him and spoke. “Mira.”

“What do you want, Nexil?” came the sharp, impatient reply.

“Just calling to talk to you, beautiful,” Nexil said.

“I don’t have time for this,” Mira snapped.

“Are you sure?” Nexil’s tone turned smug. “I found one for you—a Camerian named Klamarez. Just came in and bought some parts. He owes your people a hefty debt, doesn’t he? Oh, and he’s got a ship.”

There was a brief pause. “Send the details. Now,” Mira replied.

“Always happy to help,” Nexil said, already transmitting the information.

Another pause followed. Mira’s tone softened slightly. “Nice find.”

“I’ll see you later?” Nexil ventured.

The connection cut abruptly. Nexil stared at the comm, his grin fading. With a low, humorless chuckle, he shook his head and muttered under his breath. This was his routine with every customer who walked into his store. He’d run their name through a database linked to encrypted syndicate forums—a network where debts, bounties, and other unsavory details were cataloged. If a match appeared, Nexil wasted no time contacting a syndicate member, angling for a finder’s fee.

It wasn’t personal. Just business. Sometimes those ships ended up tracked, and when their crews mysteriously vanished, that didn’t bother Nexil either. He never asked questions, and he never dwelled on the aftermath. His role ended with the transmission—and the finder’s fee.

The bell at the shop’s entrance chimed, announcing a new customer. Nexil straightened, slipping the Stat comm back into his pocket. His expression returned to disinterest as he took a long puff from his vapor. Exhaling slowly, his sharp eyes shifted toward the visitor, already sizing them up.