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To call the Starblazer the most magnificent, most prestigious spacecraft of the Cetusian Empire would not only be far-fetched but ridiculous. The Starblazer may looks like a large vessel of war but it's nothing more than a parade ship. Nothing more than an expensive decoy.

Sure it sports various high-energy weapons, but they're only used to shoot down asteroids and debris ahead of the ship. Even the smallest craft has those to offer for such a minor task. But beyond that, there is nothing more the Starblazer can do. Well, that is nothing other than to explode itself.

Rumors have it that the Starblazer has once been the flagship of the previous Empress of Menkar-kind. But history means nothing in the face of the present and future. Especially since the current Empress has prohibited all access to everything dating back to the time before her rule.

As such the Starblazer has nothing more to offer than its pompous name, an ill-tempered Captain and a crew of misfits not good enough for the proper fleet but still useful enough to warrant the debasement of the once prestigious Starblazer. They also make up for good canon fodder. But among those misfits are a few special ones. They don't know it yet but soon the fate of their entire species will rest upon their shoulders. Perhaps even the fate of the entire universe but let's not get a head of ourselves.

—

Respin

Respin Gloomer, an ordinary soldier without anything noteworthy to his name, doesn't mind being a misfit. All his life he hasn't managed to get more than the bare minimum. Something he's okay with since he would never dare to ask for more. He knows his place and is as content as he allows himself to be.

Even as he sits in the look-out and pushes the large red button to activate the high-energy lasers. It’s menial work, usually done by the board-computer. But just like many other things, the Starblazer lacks the necessary modules for its ancient board-computer to manage such a task. It also doesn't help that onboard high-energy lasers are relatively ancient ones running on a different OS altogether.

Blue, red and green lights reflect on Respin's large green eyes and cast thick shadows on his thin gray face. The screens, clogging the room with their frames and additional cables and modules, are dim in comparison and show the data collected by the sensors. Once in a while Respin's large round ears twitch as the hum of the machinery reaches a specific peak in its modulation before droning out again. Most Menkar can't stand this sound, but Respin has grown accustomed to it. He doesn't even hear it most of the time.

Since the work isn't the most engaging, he usually takes a book or a music-player along to elevate the boredom. But this time he has forgotten both. Well, forgotten isn't the right word. He had no time to fetch either since this session wasn't scheduled for him. It was more or less pushed onto him mere minutes before it started. Still, the first hour of this shift is drawing to a close. The first of four.

Since he has nothing else to do, but to watch the blinking screens, aim the lasers and push a button, Respin's mind wanders. At first his thoughts are about ordinary things but soon he can't help but speculate about the many reasons the Empress must have to send the Starblazer, among all other vessels of the Fleet, out on such a mission. There ought to be more suitable units to fetch something as important as a weapon of mass destruction. But things like cost saving and convenience come to Respin’s mind. Every idiot can be sent out to get something. But then again sending out an idiot might be worse than using the additional money to send an elite.

"Perhaps she wants to get rid of us…", he muses aloud and bits his lips.

Speaking or even thinking critical about the Empress isn't advisable. While every Menkar has some sort of psychic or telepathic ability — in most cases even more than one — only a few can read minds and those who can usually are the worst in terms of character. Respin has never run into any of those on the ship, but this doesn't mean anything. Perhaps he has met one already without knowing.

Maybe there's one already waiting to label him a traitor.

They might stand in front the sliding doors leading to the look-out. Right now. This very moment.

Ready to get in.

To knock him out and drag him away.

Ready to kill him.

Any second now…

The high-pitched alarm of imminent collision startles Respin back into reality. He looks up at the screen, hammers some fast calculations into the terminal and pushes the large red button in front of it. A second later the asteroid turns into dust, curtesy of a blue high-energy laser. After checking the various monitors around him, he leans back again and yawns.

The look-out is the most hated shift among the crew. Not only because of the boredom it inflicts but also because of the isolation. While Menkar are less sociable than other sentient species, at least in an amicable way, they don't like to be alone for extended periods. Yet Respin prefers the loneliness. A peculiar preference born out of necessity and not of his free will. Since he lacks one of the most important organs a Menkar has:

Horns

Horns are the most vital organ of a Menkar. They work as amplifiers for their psychic abilities. The bigger the horns on their heads, the better they can concentrate their psychic talents on a single or even multiple targets. The lack of horns on the other side creates a weakness usually mocked by others. Since Respin left the Hatching Waters, there have always been Menkar ridiculing him, calling him names or ignoring him. From all his tormentors the later are those he still prefers. After all, those who ignore do no harm.

Shaking his head Respin tries to think of something else, but again his mind moves to the mission. If the why worries him, then the where terrifies him.

Their destination — a giant asteroid in the outer reaches of space — is close to what Cetusian scientists commonly refer to as the Boundary of the Void.

The Boundary of the Void is said to be close to the bother of the universe itself. As such it's noted that time and space do not work the way they should in its proximity. There had been attempts to send ships beyond the Boundary but not a single one let alone a message did return. Well, none except a single ship but information about it is scarce and a fast way to get executed.

"Creepy…", Respin murmurs while feeling a shudder run down his spine to the tip of his tail, causing it to twitch.

And yet again Respin finds himself wondering about the why. Why send an old half-decommissioned ship with a crew made of misfits? Why is this strange weapon so close to the Boundary? Why is it so important to be secured yet not significant enough to send out a more suitable unit?

All those questions make Respin wonder why the Empress and her predecessors needed to conquer the whole universe in the first place. Sure it helps to deal with the overpopulation of their home planet, but building space stations does the trick much better. Then again, cost saving. Conquering other planets not only eases the overpopulation but puts more resources into the hands of the Empress.

Or she could stop laying that many eggs, he thinks frowning and chides himself a heartbeat later.

Before Respin can delve again into his suspicions and ideas, someone knocks at the door behind him.

Fear clogs his mind in an explosion. Could it be that a mindreader…

Before he can panic the silvery mirror-like halves of the door slide open, and a tall Menkar with broken-off horns enters the lookout. He slaps Respin's shoulder and pushes himself a second later on his narrow seat, forcing Respin to grab the backrest to avoid falling off.

He hasn't even time to protest.

"Hey there, Res!" the newcomer greets him.

"Hey, Serfin," he responds halfhearted.

For a few moments, Serfin looks at the screens as if the various pointers and numbers on them have hypnotized him.

"What's the meaning of your visit?" Respin asks annoyed. "You haven't run into trouble again, have you? Or have you at last decided to actually do the job you're supposed to do?"

Serfin looks half hurt, half proud, "On the contrary! I've secured us a special mission."

"You did what?" Respins replies louder than he intended.

"Heard me right, Bondmate," he replies and wraps his arm around Respin's bony shoulders. "You and I are going on a special mission. Promotion guaranteed. Watcha say?"

"Great?"

"Great? What kind of answer's that?"

"You haven't told me what it's about," Respin replies meekly, "What else am I supposed to say in such a case?"

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"You're right, Res. Sorry. It's about retrieving this super important mega-weapon."

"What?!"

"I thought that with your special brand of psychics it's going to be a joyride."

"Fin?"

"I mean you can find all kinds of stuff, so…"

"Serfin!"

"Yes?"

"Do I look like I'm in any way, shape or form suited to be on a field mission?" Respin asks, his voice strained, while he pulls his ears back.

"Sure, you're not muscular, but you're a smart bean," Serfin replies and ruffles Respin's shoulder-length black hair. "I'll take care of the brawny stuff and you of the brainy stuff."

"Can I object?"

"Nope."

"Damn… Why has it to be like this?"

"You're alright?"

"The whole story about the mission worries me! And the fact that we, the most useless of the Imperial Fleet, are sent out to get this… thing. A weapon, which might destroy us without anyone ever knowing what happened. I never thought to end up on a real mission. I just went into the Fleet because I wanted to go with you. Besides, I'm a hornless freak. Whatever I'll accomplish will be ridiculed on the spot in the worst or ascribed to you in the best case."

"I respect you," Serfin replies with a frown and warps his arm righter around Respin. "And we could have glued my horns on your head after all. That's why I broke 'em off in the first place."

"I'm still honored by your gesture, but it doesn't change the minds of the rest of the Empire,“ he replies downtrodden. „To every other Menkar I'm a joke. Just an amusing oddity without the chance to become anything more than a jest or a punching bag to others. I'm a freak."

"You're no freak," he replies. "I like you the way you are. Fuck all those idiots who think the size of their horns bears any meaning to how powerful they are."

"You know I can only use my psychics if I'm calm and relaxed."

"That's why I'm going with you. I'll protect you, so you don't have to be afraid of anythin'. And that's why we both will make it and get the weapon. I'm confident in you; so you should be confident in yourself."

"You don't understand what I just told you, do you?"

"I do understand, Respin," he replies with a smug smile. "See it as some sort of exercise for your mind muscles. Even the best psychics need exercise."

Both fall into a prolonged silence, one that is much too tense and strained for Respin's taste. But before it can drag on for much longer Serfin lets out a soft hum. Respin looks up at his Bondmate. More than ever his eyes wander to the broken off stumps of Serfin’s horns. It doesn't help either that he has fitted them with shiny Caps made of silver and cut his hair short on one side to show at least one off without sacrificing all of his dark purplish hair.

Serfin grimaces and his thin ears twitch — the sound of the machinery has peaked again.

"You know…" he suddenly says. "You're my best Bondmate. Just don't forget it, will ya? Because I'll protect you against even the most dangerous things — no matter if it's a Being of the Void or another Menkar."

Respin is baffled by his friend's proclamation and can't help but smile. With a slight slap on Respin's shoulder, Serfin returns the seat to his Bondmate and waves him goodbye. Respin returns the gesture.

But the moment the door slides close behind Serfin the dark thoughts from before reenter Respin's mind. This time fueled by even more anxiety his livid imagination goes into overdrive. It mixes and mingles everything into pure nightmares.

Only the sound of the impact alarm makes Respin regain his composure. He inputs the degree and distance shown to him by the computer and pushes the button.

"By the Void, why can't everything in life be as easy as pushing a button," he muses and slumps back into the uncomfortable seat, while the asteroid gets pulverized.

—

The Insectoid

The Insectoid sits on the threshold of one of the decrepit buildings, which once housed the gardeners. Now it's as empty as the rest of the huge temple complex. The Insectoid still remembers his kind scurrying around, eating pests and cutting plants. But for a very long time nothing has needed to be eaten or cut. For about as long the Insectoid watches the temple dedicated to the gods its kind once worshiped, nothing has grown.

Idle he studies one of the few still intact statues of one of his species.

The devoted posture of the statue, kneeling on its two legs while crossing the two hands of the middle segment of its body and the remaining two covering the mandibles, reminds the last living Insectoid of the colorful processions made in the temple. Flowers, food, music and dance. A joyful time of plenty and safety. All hardships and predators of their species a faint memory, only alive in fairytales and legends.

But there is no food nor music or dance. There is nothing beyond crumbling stone and long dead plants, skeletal in their display and crumbling at the slightest touch.

The last Insectoids dorsal blood vessel contract in responds to the longing it feels. How long has it been since he last saw one of his kind? How have the others sounded? How does one speak? He ponders those questions since an eternity. How to form words? How does one communicate? In the end, he shrugs, a motion accompanied by the shudder of the frilly yellow antennas on his head.

Finishing his daily thoughts about things once common but now swept away in the river of time, he heads down the pathway between crumbling stone and dead gnarly roots.

The temple wasn't build by the Insectoids. The species before the Insectoids became dominant and sentient had erected it. The Insectoids only did the engravings and the now washed out murals around the complex. After all it were the same gods, who have given them the present of sentience. But all the last Insectoid remembers are bits and pieces of old legends. But he doesn't try to remember. Why should he even? There is no one to share those memories with or help him to remember.

The only other being on this desolate piece of rock is an unconscious god, unable to speak, hear, see, smell or even feel.

With small steps, the Insectoid wanders through the once beautiful and lively complex until he reaches a particular building. This building had once been part of the most sacred of places of the temple. Only a selected few were allowed to enter, but the Insectoid was one of those few, and thus he knew where to go from day one.

Inside the building are many strange contraptions. Some of them glow, others hum and some even callout strange noises in strange tongues.

Those contraptions in their strangeness were once the holiest of relics to his people.

The Insectoid's gods had used them plenty of times, and the last Insectoid had watched them performing miracles with the machines. But this was a very long time ago. Yet despite the long time and all the hardships, the devices have endured. They still work as if maintained by invisible hands. Or, maybe, they were built to last forever without any maintenance in the first place.

Knowing what to do thanks to century-old repetition, the Insectoid moves to a contraption called a Gene-o-Porter. A Gene-o-Porter is a curious machine. It can take any biological material, analyze its genetic makeup and rearrange it into the living organism again. When it does so, it also saves the genetic code so it can be reformed even from other organic material.

Following his footprints over the dusty floor and stepping exactly into them, he soon stands before the main terminal. On the control panel, only the start button is free of dust. Everything else is coated in such a thick layer, that the labels are illegible.

As usual the Insectoid has gathered way already the rotten flowers from all around the temple and placed them on the platform of the Gene-o-Porter. As he activates the machine, the contraption immediately takes note of the input. A few red lights come to life as well as the humming of the device itself. Mesmerized the Insectoid watches the lights for a few seconds. His bright golden compound eyes and black chitinous body reflecting a rainbow of color. With all his will he forces his attention back to the task at hand and pushes the large start-button.

The machine hisses to life. Soon the hiss turns into a deep hum, causing some dust to fall from the ceiling. With the scan completed the Gene-o-Porter closes the platform with a tube made of a glass-like structure. A moment later the red light turns orange, and the remains of the flowers disappear in a flash of light. The light turns yellow and the humming of the machine changes. A second later an explosion of fresh flowers erupts within the tube. With a hiss, the lights turn green, and the tube lifts.

As the smell of spring floats through the room, the Insectoid moves to the platform and starts to collect the flowers in a large mug. Almost all flowers are of a faint purple color except a few muddled ones the Insectoid eats right away. As he does so, he notices a bright red one, unlike all the others. Immediately it recognizes he as an omen.

The time of waiting will soon be over.

But the Insectoid thinks for a few moments. Was this the sign he has waited for? He remembers to have put red and blue flowers into the Gene-o-Porter when the temple had been left its original position. But for a long time all the Gene-o-Porter did was produce only flowers in various shades of purple. An old teaching reenters his head. Coincidence is the smile of the gods. So, in the end, this single red flower ought to be a sign of change. A sign to rejoice.

Careful the Insectoid kneels and holds the frail-looking flower in his trembling four-fingered hands. A mix of happiness and melancholy strikes him. Still, he eagerly jumps on his feet and runs out of the lab, only to return a second later to fetch the mug with the other flowers in it. Despite the crimson flower the Insectoid sees it as his duty to fulfill his routine. Carrying the mug in his lower pair of hands, he carries the red flower in his upper pair of hands as if it could disintegrate any moment.

As fast as he dares with the flower and the mug, he runs past ancient archways with symbols on them, their meaning long since lost. He runs past dried vines, which are barely holding together the crumbly architecture. He runs past old treasures now coated with the grime of time, rendering them worthless in many eyes. He runs and runs until he's past the labyrinth of walkways and passages and stands in front of the old tree. As he passes the arch of the center chamber, the Insectoid stops and places everything down for the moment. He kneels in front of the sleeping god, mimicking the statue it has looked at before.

The god pinned to the tree is a pale figure with silvery-white hair and porcelain white skin. The hair is long enough to not only cover the face but also the old rags the body is warped in. It pools below the feet like spider webs and creeps away from the tree like curious tendrils. The figure doesn't move.

A sword sticks out of the chest. Despite the long time it pins the figure to the tree the crimson bands warped around the hit look fresh and new. The black blade also shows no sign of age.

In front of this gruesome display is a large basin filled with murky water. The basin is flanked by two pillars of stone with engravings on them. Once the Insectoid knew about their meaning but now they bear no importance whatsoever.

The Insectoid stands up and walks up to this unusual display. He doesn't look up and makes devout steps toward figure. He holds the mug with the purple flowers tight against his hard chitinous body and the red flower like a hatchling in his second pair of hands. Gentle he lowers the mug and places a few of the normal flowers into the water of the basin. He then proceeds to cover the ground and some branches with the flowers with one pair of his hands while weaving a flower crown with the other pair. With the same care, the Insectoid climbs up the gnarly branches until he cannot get any higher. With grate care, he places the flower crown on the sword. The crimson flower as crown-jewel at the top of the hilt where it passes into the silver cross-guard. Proud the Insectoid climbs back down and looks with devotion and pride at his work.

This very moment he notices the small ripples on the water in the basin. Bewildered and slightly worried he backs away from the tree and looks around as if fearing a monster will jump out any given moment. Suddenly, the whole temple starts to shudder. First, it's just a soft vibration, but within seconds, it becomes something more akin to an earthquake. The Insectoid loses his balance and avoids falling into the basin by mere inches. The remaining flowers tumble from the mug as it topples over. In the last second, the Insectoid rolls himself over the ground and gets back on his feet.

Although he's afraid, he also rejoices. This ought to be it. The sign the flower has promised. Yet he decides it's the best to hide for now. And so, without hesitation or doubt, the Insectoid disappears into the shadows of the temple. All the while he hears a gentle voice congratulating him for his service.