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Commorite Hub
Built within a blue-crimson trunk that bisects two cavernous respiration chambers within what amounts to the Yaralu's "chest," the Comorrite Hub is home to numerous bony nodes that serve as residential modules for the station's inhabitants. Many of them exhale carbon dioxide and other chemicals that the Yaralu can filter and recycle for its own respiratory system.
After unsuccessfully getting his flaky knee joint checked, Trak'gar has settled himself on a bench along the hub's promenade, a PDA in hand as he idly skims through some information.
James Sterling stumps out of the levimodule and down the promenade, his face twisted in a scowl. He slows as he approaches Trak'Gar. Does that reptile-guy look familiar?
Trak'Gar finishes checking whatever data he was perusing and turns off the PDA. Stowing it in a pocket, he stands up and stretches a bit, before starting to walk through the promenade once again, with an obvious limp.
"Hey, er--" Sterling snaps his fingers suddenly. "Admiral!" he calls.
Trak'Gar stops, his head spikes raising up slightly as he looks towards the source of the voice. A moment and there is recognition. "Ah... I believe we met in the labs last night, did we not? Mr..." he says, extending a clawed hand.
Sterling looks up at the taller man. "Sterling," he fills in. The claws on Trak'Gar's hand give him pause, but he hesitates only a moment before grasping the man's hand. "An' yeah, we did." He scowls.
Trak'Gar nods, shaking his head slightly. "A rather unfortunate situation. She can be quite the problem at times." he says. "Trak'gar is the name."
"Good t'meetcha," Sterling drawls. "Somebody oughta take her over their knee," he suggests, still scowling, "an' not in a good way." He glances at the leg Trak'Gar's favouring. "Guess y'didn't get hold o'th'doc t'have a look at yer knee, then, what with all the nonsense in th'lab last night." He tilts his head. "Who /is/ that girl?" he asks. "An' who died an' made her Most Likely T'Get Shot Out An Airlock?"
"A genetic experiment, I believe..." Trak'gar says. "And I agree, she could be taken down a notch or two." He looks down at his knee. "Indeed... it has become a bit flaky of late. Unfortunately I need a tad more maintenance than I once did... having your entire body replaced with a cybernetic construct tends to do that." he says with a slight scowl.
Sterling grunts. "Sometimes science c'n get outta hand," he mutters. "Y'had yer whole body replaced?" he asks, impressed. He looks over Trak'Gar. "Pretty impressive. Y'sound like someone who's been there, done that, got th't-shirt, an' had it bronzed an' framed."
"Indeed... I've been in the military for some 45 years." Trak'gar replies. "Started in the ranks of the Vanguard... worked my way up to commanding the Vanguard itself." he says, looking like he is recalling a fond memory. "Then the rift... dropped in here. At least I found that others from my time were here as well, and I joined the Orion Confederacy. It was doing that duty that led to my current state." he says, finding a spot to sit. "We had been sent as liasons to the Kamsho resistance to fight the Nalls. Educating the locals. The Nalls however found our camp... send fighters to bomb it. Took two plasma cannon hits right here..." he says, pointing to his chest. "That's all I remember until I woke up in limbo after they hooked my brain up to life support. Strange feeling... then they built this body to install it."
"Yer a rifter, too?" Sterling listens to the rest of Trak'Gar's story, rapt. "Wow," he breathes at its conclusion. "Y'got totally nuked an' yer still around. That's immortality, is what it is."
"Indeed... my time was the 27th Century. Lived on Earth for some time since that was Vanguard HQ. Then the Kretonians came, swept through the universe... the final battle was at Earth. I was aboard Sanctuary as we took what remained of the Vanguard with them to protect it. Funny thing... it was here, in this universe, that we arrived. Back then time operated differently... when the Kamir screwed things up, time stabilized... all the universes started ticking along to same clock, so to speak, but not always the same year. So when we returned home, it was the 31st Century... and that is where I was snatched from." Trak'gar says. "Now I have this cybernetic body... it is perhaps as close to immortality as one can get, assuming my brain keeps going. Perhaps it was fate.. I was nearing the end of life, though I didn't tell anyone that. We have shorter lifespans than most.. now I have no idea how long I will live."
Sterling sobers. "'Final battle'?" he murmurs. He frowns in thought for a moment, staring at his boots. "That li'l ol' fox man I met when I first arrived," he says quietly. "He said somethin' about Earth bein'..." He looks up at Trak'Gar. "...Bein' gone. I mean, you said 27th century, I'da been dead by then anyhow, but it still makes me mad t'think some alien bastards came by an' blew up me 'ome."
Trak'Gar nods. "Conquered, is the more apt term... it had been freed by the time we returned, but unfortunately, humankind at that point became rather xenophobic." he says, frowning. "Caused quite a few tensions... until some fanatics decided that the only way to keep Earth pure... was to blow it up. They detonated dozens of plasma bombs over its surface. When I rifted, Earth was rendered uninhabitable."
"They ... they wrecked it /themselves/?!" Sterling's jaw works silently as he searches for words. "They wanted t'keep aliens off it, so they bloody well ruined it for everybody?" He stalks a few paces away from the bench, whirls on his heel, and stalks back. "What a bunch of damned fucking idiots!"
"An assessment shared by the rest of the galaxy, let me assure you." Trak'gar says. "It is sad, really, that an undercurrent of racism began to form amongst humanity at that time. They did themselves no favors by cutting off contact with the rest of the galactic community. To simply blame it on Kretonians was to me an excuse for their true reasons which honestly were never revealed. The Kretonains harmed everyone, not just humanity."
Sterling gives a wordless, disgusted snarl. "Can't really blame 'em, can I? Sometimes when people get their damned stupid heads t'gether they come up with the most asinine ideas." He looks up at Trak'Gar suddenly. "Don't mean we're all like that," he points out. "Though I've done some stupid shit in me time." He chuckles. "But seriously, who coulda thought /that/ was a good idea? Makes me wish I'd travelled more," he adds thoughtfully. "Lotsa real nice places on th'Earth I never got t'see."
"It is true, there are some among every race that can give it a bad name." Trak'gar says. "Long ago my people fought a war with humanity, over many mis-understandings. My people were chased from our homeworld by the Nalls and we had resettled on the world you call Mars, long before your people began spaceflight. When humans did begin to land, they started to colonize the world. I know from history our people had little issue with it, until they began to terraform it, and that is when the war began. Finally it ended with a treaty that the world would be shared so long as humanity did not attempt to terraform it, resulting in many domed cities being constructed. A tempest in a tea pot that could have been avoided if cooler heads had simply sat down and listened to all sides to come to a compromise." he says, shaking his head.
Sterling nods. "Lotsa wars been fought 'cos o'stuff like that," he says. "What d'ya call yer people? I ain't seen a person like you before."
"We call ourselves Zangali." Trak'gar replies. "Our homeworld was Grimlahd, which we shared with the Grimlahdi, another reptilian race. It was conquered by the Nalls, and my people chose to resettle rather than submit to their will."
"Zangali," Sterling repeats, nodding. "I think I read some about ya in here." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his PDA, holding it up demonstratively. "I been lookin' fer more information on rifting stuff. They say y'c'n get t'Earth from here, but y'gotta stop over at some domed city that's full o'malcontents."
"Ah, yes. Tomin Kora. A hive of scum and villiany of there ever was one." Trak'gar says. "Though if you can find someone whose vessel possesses a rift drive, you can directly rift across without use of the shuttles, and increase the safety factor since you will appear in deep space."
Sterling nods. "You know anythin' about th'place, other'n it's full o'scum?" He grins. "I read it's ruled by some bloke called Fagin, an' he's th'law; what he says goes, or y'wind up wearin' cement overshoes. He's got blokes workin' fer'im though, yeah? Bruisers or enforcers or th'like?" He shrugs. "Y'know. in case this gig with REM don't work out fer me."
"He does. Though this is a different Fagin from the one I knew, as in our universe he came to an untimely demise." Trak'gar says. "He likely has quite a few guards in his employ, and it is rumored he employs pirate crews as well."
Sterling tucks the PDA back into his jacket. "I'll keep that in mind," he says. "But don't tell Joca," he adds. "She'll kick me arse. Or at leas' kick me outta bed." He grins.
Trak'Gar chuckles. "My lips are sealed." he says.
"Was good t'meetcha, Admiral," Sterling says, reaching out a hand to Trak'Gar. "Mebbe I'll see ya round. Long's I'm workin' with REM I'll probably be here on Comorro a lot, but I'll be wanderin' about the universe when I can." He smiles.
Trak'Gar takes the offered hand. "To you as well."