Shoran Log 3324 Mycos Dome, Planet Mercy Time: …. Shoran looked through the iridescent and scratched dome that towered over the pitiful residence of Mycos, attempting to ascertain the approximate time. Mercy’s twin suns burned the young Arcosian’s deep crimson eyes, even through the ultra-violet protection the domes of the planet apparently lent. Shoran cursed loudly and stopped angrily, passing citizens turning to see what the fuss was about, as he gave up chronology on this wasteland. Shoran shook off the dust his small tantrum had pooled around him and resigned to buying a watch. Everything in, around, and even the dome itself, was scrap. Junked metal and electronic components tugged at Shoran’s tattered and dirty cloak, pinged off his steady steps, and attacked his masked face. Large piles of it, apparently just dropped were ever seemed convenient at the time, towered about him. The residences seemed to be heaps of metal, gutted to accommodate who ever may have been living in it. Only one seemed to be an actual home, a small estate with two stories and a large telescope poking off of the top like a deranged finger, accusing the sky of making the planet a piss pot. Shoran shook his head, the heat must have been getting to him, and he made his way toward the building. Inside the same home it was relatively cool. Shoran relished the immediate relief he felt as he entered the residence, smiling beneath his mask. Air conditioning was an extreme luxury on Mercy, probably costing more than the property, the large telescope, and the building combined. It spoke volumes of the owner’s wealth and standing to have a cool interior to his homestead. The owner was Ghard Horal, salvager, merchant, and longtime friend of Shoran’s childhood mentor. This man was the reason the Arcosian youth had come to Mercy’s wastes. This man had money, and Shoran wanted it. Ghard was an Oni of the third order; an ogre of the material plane sent to oversee mans progression on the various planets sentient species inhabit. From what Shoran’s mentor had told him in his early studies, Ghard was a master of the diplomatic and financial arts, a man to be reckoned with in any fiscal transaction. He also considered the quest for material possessions one of the foremost methods to making any man great. The Oni stood almost ten feet tall, and had a girth that looked to Shoran’s eyes to be to large even for the ogre’s great stature. His skin was a bright maroon that shimmered hazily when the sun touched it, making the giant seem a mirage in the desert lights. The horns atop his substantial head curved outward, adding to the bull-like image Ghard pervaded. This, Shoran thought as he lounged on the gigantic man’s oversized couch, was a man to be feared in any situation. Ghard spoke first, seeming to sense Shoran’s intent before it was voiced. “You are Merkash’s protégé, are you not?” Shoran merely nodded in response. “Then I can assume you are here for the same reasons he came to this planet. You are here in pursuit of the illusive dream of fantastic wealth.” The giant said in a level tone. Shoran nodded again, impressed by the ogre’s inference. “Good.” Ghard said simply as he stood and walked to a nearby table, a veritable second floor to Shoran’s comparative small figure. The massive Oni pulled a stepped stool beside Shoran, just tall enough so the diminutive Arcosian could see the large topographical map of Mercy on the desk. Ghard pointed at a large red pin. “Recently a ship was downed somewhere in this area. If it is intact, the salvage could lend a hefty profit here in Mycos.” The ogre cleared his throat with a bellowing cough that shook Shoran’s very bones, and then continued. “I need a merchant, like yourself, to appraise the ship components and instruct my employees to bring back the most valuable. Normally I would send in a ship and merely airlift it here, but fuel has become scarce of late and I can not waste it on such a menial expenditure. You will of course get a portion of the earnings.” Shoran’s training instructed him to immediately ask the size of his cut before continuing. “How much will that portion be?” The Arcosian asked flatly. “How does twenty-percent sound, my friend?” Ghard replied. The recon work had been done and the manpower already given, so Shoran knew twenty-percent was a generous offer. “Most amiable of you Ghard. My mentor praised you a great deal, but he did oft mention openhandedness was not one of your virtues. What are you not telling me?” Shoran asked, adopting the level tone of a businessman. The ogre smiled, his wide mouth unfurling to show lines of sharp, jagged teeth. “From what my records show, the ship was owned by a rather nasty Namekian bounty-hunter by the name of Chorallar. If he is still alive, a likely occurrence, then it may be necessary to liberate the parts from him.” Shoran tightened his cloak around him. “How many men will I be receiving for the task?” Shoran asked, toying with the idea of walking out of the proposition immediately. “Thirty men and three Capsule trucks. I will also provide the funds for you to hire a warrior to deal with Chorallar. The Namek should not be too much of a problem.” Ghard replied, the wolfish grin still plastered to his devilish face. Shoran sighed resignedly. “I’ll take the job.” Brushing the ever pervasive dust off of his gray cloak, Shoran stepped back two paces to admire his handiwork. All about the Mycos dome were handwritten posters similar to the one that was stapled before him. It read: Warrior needed for salvage jobs in the wastes. Good pay, low risk. Ask for Shoran Metteda in the Fromata Saloon for more information. The young Arcosian merchant went to the named saloon to drink away his nervousness and await a taker… ----- After two days of waiting, Shoran gave up on a warrior. He had been staying in the foul smelling saloon’s only room and when he had first checked in, the barkeep had told him, “Don’t you mind the smell, the rats, the bugs, or the sand. There always there.” He was sure he needed to get out. By the second day the stench had infiltrated Shoran’s clothing and skin, a virus of the nose that would not give rest. He had walked to the bartender, slammed down his key on the filthy counter, (a key which had no lock or door) and stormed out into the midday desert. Presently Shoran was walking to Ghard’s home to give him the what for. The young Arcosian once again relished the cool air of the ogre’s home, as he entered without knocking. The Oni was sitting at his desk, surrounded by various armored and dangerous looking figures. Ghard turned as the door was opened. “Ah Shoran, my partner in business,” Said the ogre, seeming to ignore the cloaked figures rude intrusion. “Any luck with finding a suitable warrior?” Ghard’s entourage turned to look at the Arcosian as well, a few of them obliviously sizing him up. “No, I have not.” Shoran said, spitting out the words staccato and flat. “You seem upset, my friend.” The giant stood in a brisk motion that made Shoran’s neck crack when he tried to keep eye contact. “Perhaps you would like some tea.” “No.” Shoran said simply. “I just want to complete my job and get my zeni.” Shoran shifted his weight several times in the short outburst. He was uncomfortable with fighting. It had never suited his refined, if not pampered, tastes. A battle of wits was more his style, but Shoran seriously doubted an angry Namekian Bounty Hunter would be up for a rousing game of chess. “Well you could try to take Chorallar on your own. If your master was correct the last time I spoke with him, you’re a pretty feisty fellow when you get riled up.” Ghard said, grinning like a beast. The Oni’s armed companions began to laugh hysterically, like a pack of deranged hyenas. A man, not yet out of his thirties by Shoran’s count, spoke through the cacophony of jingling laughter. “WHAT? A puny trader like that, a fighter? No hell in a way.” The man in armor began giggling as he continued, “If he could whoop the weakest one of us here, I’d eat my bloody shorts.” Ghard’s grin faded at the man’s comment. “Here, look into this Rogan.” The maroon ogre said, as he opened a drawer that could have fit a large family of dinosaurs and pulled out a Power Scanner. Holding it gently in the palm of his hand, he offered it to the one called Rogan. “Look at his power level, perhaps you will see what I mean.” The middle aged human took the electronic Power Scanner, fitted it to his eye, and pressed the red button on its side. It beeped for several seconds, characters scrolling randomly, before it settled on a score that Shoran could not read. Rogan yelped and cursed. “Five-hundred and seventy nine?” Rogan tapped the scanner with his finger. “This piece must be broken. Kept it in that drawer to long, ya did.” Ghard shook his large head slowly, the terrible grin returning to his face. “It is not incorrect.” The Oni merchant said slowly, as if talking to children. “Shoran is not all that he seems.” -- The inhabitants of Mercy have a saying, “The Desert is hot, like a Sayan is pissed,” meaning the desert is hot as the pits of the hells themselves. Unfortunately, Shoran had not heard this, and although Arcosians were reputed not to perspire, he was sweating like a hog on a spit. He had even taken off the cloak his species were known to leave on, regardless of situation. Shoran stood not ten feet outside the dome of Mycos, surrounded by what only could be described as rabble. The group of thirty men Ghard had lent him for use on the salvage mission looked more like a peasant uprising then a band of employees off to do a valuable service. They all wore rags in varying states of disrepair and all had looks of either desperation or placid idiocy plastered on their collective faces. The loading trucks did not look much better, and Shoran had doubted they would even start before one of his men had started the coughing engine. From the looks of his men and transportation, the hardest part of the job would be keeping the men and trucks alive for the thirty kilometer journey. What a day, Shoran thought as he sipped lightly from his overlarge water skin, what a day. At the Arcosian’s signal, the procession began its slow crawl towards the crashed ship. -- The three day trip was the worst experience Shoran had ever had. He had walked the whole way, as he was almost positive his precious brain would cook to jelly in the oven-like trucks. The thought was reinforced by the looks on the drivers faces, raving lunacy shining like a beacon beneath the dust and grime, and by the rest of the companies insistence that they to would walk alongside the trucks. Night-time on Mercy was almost as bad as the fury of the twin suns, getting well below freezing as the day disappeared. He did not sleep, the cold air continually tugging his conciseness back to the misery that was this journey. Not surprisingly, his men faired better, having no issue with either the heat or cold. Aside from the abhorrent climate, the excursion went surprisingly well. No wild animal attacks or Mershikali visits, the main fear of the leprous band. The only issue encountered on the trek was a flat tire, and it was easily rectified as each truck came with a full set of spares. By the third afternoon, the crashed ship was visible. “Look Master Shoran! It’s the ship!” one of the lecherous band of rabble pointed out to Shoran, only after the Arcosian had been staring at it for a good two minutes. “Yes you hurly, I see it.” Shoran said his disgust for the man as well as relief evident in his tattered voice. “I want each truck to come from a different side. Truck one, east, two west, and three north. If Chorallar is still alive I want him surrounded.” The Arcosian merchant received a timely chorus of “Yes, Master Shoran!” The spacecraft was fantastically large, appearing to originally be some sort of military troop transport. It was circular and domed in the center, seeming to radiate forth from the gigantic red, glass ring that dominated the center. Claw-like feet dug huge rivets into the sand surrounding. The effect it had was that of a huge eye, sans lids, dropped into the desert. Shoran steeled himself for a fight as he approached the downed craft, hoping beyond all the Chorallar was dead or weakened. ---- As the final truck moved into place, effectively flanking the downed spacecraft, Shoran gave the signal to the rabble to take a defensive perimeter. He did so by waving his hands in a wide arc in the general direction of the ship. Thirty confused glances later, he simply yelled, “Surround that craft!” That seemed to spur the mentally challenged group into action, sending the idiots into a scrambling circle that covered most of the ship’s exterior. Shoran shook his head in mild disgust at the poor band of fools. He promised himself to get better help next time he went on a dangerous foray into the desert. Shoran shivered despite the intense heat as he approached the downed spaceship. He briefly considered actually asking to settle any disagreements with Chorallar with a chess match, then determined it would probably only get him killed faster. The Arcosian quickened his pace, entering the relatively cool shadow of the large spacecraft. At closer inspection, the ship was indeed good for only salvage. The wide, red ring that dominated the centermost portion was irreparably cracked, unfit for space travel unless you could breathe vacuum. The aft section landing gear was scrap as well as most of that side, bent and twisted by atmospheric reentry as well as a crash landing. Even the smallest visible ports were filled with sand, and in at least one exhaust port, Shoran had seen lizards nesting. The door to the craft was wide open, sand piled in the entry so high that Shoran wasn’t sure he would be able to get through. As he mounted the ramp however, it did not turn out to be an issue. A gust from inside the large craft blew a cloud of dirt directly into his eyes and Shoran felt the cool touch of a hand on his shoulder. The Arcosian merchant had been in the desert long enough that he knew not to rub sand if it got in your eye, but to douse it in water and shake it out. He reached for the water skin at his waist, only to find it missing. From somewhere to his left he heard a confused yelp, then a series of hushed murmurs. “What! What’s happening?!” Shoran yowled as he attempted to remove the sand from his eyes as gently as possible. “Tell me what is the matter!” Frogmar, one of the more intelligent humans that was with Shoran on this expedition responded with a fear in his voice. “It’s ‘im Lord Shoran. ‘at Namek Massa’ Ghard warned us abbot’.” Shoran froze, almost completed with the task of clearing the obstruction from his tortured irises. “Chorallar, speak if that is you.” Shoran spoke slowly and steadily so as not to betray the fear in his voice. The sound of something hitting the dirt and a satisfied sigh came before a roughly hewn voice spoke. “Yeah that’s me. What of it?” With his vision finally cleared, Shoran could see the creature before him. He was tall and lean, the cruel face of a killer plastered on the man’s green head. He had sharp fangs that curved inward, teeth meant for biting. His antenna protruded straight towards the sky, as if he were trying to sense something. Chorallar was smiling wickedly, as if he had expected this meeting. Shoran’s water skin lay next to the evil beast, presumably empty. “Hell’s-Bells” Shoran said under his breath. “Come ta steal ma ship ‘ave ya.” The Namekian brute asked in what sounded like a jovial tone. He began sizing Shoran up haughtily. “’Anks for a’ drink by the way.” “My pleasure, dear sir.” The Arcosian said, adopting his best bartering tone. “Perhaps I can interest you in a trade?” “Wha’ fer wha’?” Chorallar asked, boiling down any fiscal transaction to its root. “What’s left of your ship, obliviously it is not going any were any time soon, in exchange for a weeks supply of water and a truck to get you to any city on the planet.” Shoran offered, hoping he had laid his chips the right way. The Namek tapped his chin, mocking deep thought before replying to the bid, unfortunately not in kind. “I thought I’d jus’ take all ya got fer free.” With that the Namekian bounty-hunter leapt into the air, leaving a comet trail of sand and dust beneath him. Shoran braced himself for an onslaught, tucking his arms to his body and rolling under the ship. He heard a “THUMP” and more sand flew. The Arcosian made himself blend with the underside of the spacecraft, a trick he had learned chasing tiny, colour-changing selecarnt on the planet Hespenspeil. “Come out ya’ stealin’ coward.” Chorallar bellowed, and as the dust cleared, Shoran saw his opening, a pair of feet standing not millimeters from him. Shoran reached out with his mind and felt the ship. He sensed its composition, the exact ore mixture used in crafting the hull. His thoughts filled with every piece and part of the massive construction. With a snap, like a twig in his focused mind, he found what he had been reaching for, a loose chunk of metal that he could wrench free without the Namek noticing. Metal screamed and flew as Shoran put every ounce of mental concentration he had to the task. It came loose surprisingly easy, and the Arcosian merchant enacted the second portion of his plan. With all of his mental might, Shoran flung the broken piece of metal at the angry namek. It hit Chorallar with a dull “Bumf” and sent him sprawling. Shoran then nudged the sheared sheet beneath the fallen namek and twisted it about him, creating a straightjacket of metal. Before the bounty-hunter could free himself, Shoran began the final step of his attack. Rolling out from beneath the torn ship, Shoran raised his hands and focused his intellectual might on ripping the outer hull of the space craft, piece by piece. Each sheet torn from the hull was sent spinning toward the namek and wrapped around him. Chorallar screamed like a rat as he was mummified by his own ship. -- Navigation computer, forward cannons, stern engines, and the assorted life support goods were salvageable, Shoran instructing each to be removed with care and loaded into the trucks. The rest of the craft was pure scrap, twisted metal and useless spare parts. It was picked over like carrion in the wrenched waste, only bones left to become one with the eternal sands. The trip back was a miserable as the one there, but it was uneventful and the men were in high spirits. Shoran had loaded the steel coated namek on the back of a truck, purely for his own amusement, and the faint yelling that radiated from the makeshift sarcophagus had died on the second night. Overall the entire job had been easier than Shoran could have guessed, and was thankful for it, but he knew he needed off of Mercy. It was to hot, to dusty, and too damned empty for the Arcosian’s liking. During the long trip back to the Mycos dome, Shoran thought about where he might go. His master had given him a fairly comprehensive list of places to make a living on, Mercy being foremost on the list. Mentally reviewing his master’s words he decided on Earth, the blue planet…
