His nametag read “FUCK OFF” and that got a lot of terrible looks from his clients. The Spider Princess got especially upset (but only because the sentiment so closely resembled her late father’s name). Most of his clientele didn’t even bother with his name; they just wanted results. Results were what he produced at his best and quickly. They usually called him The Man, something to differentiate him from the other couriers. He adopted the moniker and tacked it at the end of his name. To him, and according to his impressive business cards, he was Dan the Man. Dan wasn’t just a courier; he was a professional adventurer. He promised not only packages picked-up or dropped-off, but with it would come a tale of danger and daring-do. Dan was damn good at what he did. He had a knack, an ever-present hunch, for where trouble was and where it would lead him. Now, he just charges huge fees for it instead of going to the Clink for a night or two. His credentials as a pro gave him extremely liberal abuse of any of the laws in the galaxy. He took these liberties with both stringent professionalism and reckless abandon. He had done quite well for himself out in the Market. His résumé included: getting the ashes of the Jade Phoenix for the Shadow Barons, freeing three books from Planet Raybrad 451, and an antique Playstation 4 console for the aforementioned Spider Princess. For that last one, he had to fight his way out of the oppressive regime of the Plumber Brothers on the virtual planet, Nentindew 64. Now, Dan was on his way to the heart of the Jhan’ra galaxy on a mission he was sure held the narrow escapes and, hopefully, gratuitous sexual encounters he was used to and renown for. The ruler of the galaxy, one King Fic Shon, had sent the message loud, clear and wide: Dan was to appear in court before him. Dan would be paid handsomely, but it would not just be the money that would be rewarding. Dan read into to that as there would be a beautiful and nubile princess he’d get pawned off at him. Sometimes, it was good to be Dan. The King’s court was just as regal as Dan would have thought and then some. Thick tapestries hung from the walls, woven in deep and rich colors, depicting ages long gone and triumphs unforgotten. The tapestries hung down to the pale floor, made from the whitest of marble and adorned with gold. It may be good to be Dan, but it was better to be the King. Dan passed concubines, courtesans, and visiting dignitaries on his way to the throne. As he expected, the dignitaries that knew Dan acknowledged him with respect (and those that didn’t know him acknowledged him with fear), the courtesans spilt like the Sea of Red on the planet of Hestone, and the concubines fussed about and swooned. The King was seated at his throne at the end of the spacious hall. He was flanked by his family, the Queen his wife, and (Dan pleasantly noted) his beautiful daughter. The Princess was “stop intergalactic traffic” gorgeous. While Dan wasn’t a bad looking guy, the only way he could stop traffic would be to throw himself into it and even then that was no guarantee. Dan wasn’t the first to fantasize about the Princess; Dan wasn’t even the only one in the room doing it. The Princess’ good looks and even better body were the things wars were started over. Not yet, but eventually, he was sure. Dan was snapped out of the start of a lurid fantasy with the Princess by the King’s voice. The King’s voice would have made God jealous. “Your reputation precedes you, Dan,” he boomed like bass at a rock show. “But I rather think even you won’t be able to save us.” Dan’s wide eyes jumped from the Princess to the King and narrowed to snake-like slits. “I can pick up anything you’re putting down. Anything.” The King looked Dan up and down. His milky old eyes searched for something in Dan. His head eventually hung down in disappointment. “We’re doomed,” he mumbled. Dan looked expectantly at the King, waiting to be addressed. But only for a second; Dan wasn’t known for his patience. “Look, I came here for a reason and in a hurry I might add. I wasted a fair amount of gas doing that. You’ll either give me the contract or gas money.” Dan did his best impression of patience, but it only made him look as nervous and twitchy as a Chihuahua alone in the Arctic. The King’s head slowly rose with a blithe smile dancing dangerously close to his lips. The court was silent in the shock and awe of someone speaking to the King in such a fashion. The last time someone did that, the courtesan had fed the Beast behind the Door. Not a pleasant way to go considering that one would rather be lit on fire and shoved into a wood chipper while having a double root canal performed. “The Fuljers Crystals,” the King said. If the court could have gotten any more silent they could have heard the pin say, “Hey, did I just drop?” Dan was dumbstruck. The Fuljers Crystals were the stuff of legend. It was rumored that the crystals were the last remnants of the galaxy when it violently exploded, formed, and then cooled. It was said, in hushed tones, that the crystals held inside of them the entire DNA for the Jhan’ra galaxy: its beginning, its end, and most of the middle bits. All of the known universes swirling around like a dull fog, sparkling with the birth, death and rebirth of stars were reflected in the crystal’s facets. No one had ever seen the fabled artifact, but there was talk about a monastery at the edge of all of space, just short of the Wall. The monks that kept the temple were known for their mysticism and a Great Secret. Dan was willing to bet life, limb, and most importantly reputation, on the Secret being the crystals. “I’ll do it,” said Dan, “but it’s gonna cost. Big.” The King looked around apathetically, as to let Dan know that money would be no object by the look of the lush surroundings. “Whatever you desire, you shall have,” boomed the King. He caught Dan leering at the Princess. “Anything.” Dan strode out of The King’s palace a happy humanoid. There was a graceful stride instilled in his step that hadn’t been there when he schlepped to the Palace looking for gas money. He was going to have his very own princess. He’s always wanted one of those. She was going to make him a happy man. And sandwiches. He’d fantasized about this for quite a long time. Lost in a haze of sex and prepared food, sometimes entwined, he almost ran full tilt into the valet. “Sir?” One of the valet’s heads looked quizzically at Dan as the other one lazily smoked a cigarette. Dan fished through the pockets on his belt. They all led to different dimensions where things can be displaced in space like off-site storage facilities in the late 20th century. The belt was worth every considerable penny for Dan’s very own Pocket Dimensions. He found the near-translucent holographic barcode that served as the ticket for his spacecraft back. “Thank you, sir. Billy. Go get mister…uh…The Man’s transport please.” “I’m on break,” croaked the second head with a cloud of acrid smoke. “Well, get off our ass and get the ship. Now.” The first head turned back to Dan. “Sorry sir, we’ll get it right away.” “Not till I’m off break, quarkhole.” At this point, it appeared as if the first head, “Quarkhole” relented to his brother’s rather harsh rebuttal until Billy got jerked sideways as “Quarkhole” took control and started trudging off across the parking lot. Billy took a second to gather his wits and the one body began to scuttle along like a drunken crab. Dan’s ship was a silver sliver of a thing that glided through space at slightly less than the speed of thought. Inside, it resembled a posh Romanian castle’s interior thanks to the displacement envelope he paid extra for at the dealership. Everything that cost Dan the extra cash was worth it for the image of professionalism he wanted and achieved at exuding. “Expensive” was his look. The side door opened with a sigh and Dan stepped in. He made his way calmly to the controls and took off. He glanced a sideways glance at the irate, and under-tipped, valets, and didn’t give himself the luxury of freaking out until he was well into sub-space. He leaned back and pushed shiny pebble-like buttons on his central command console. He watched as the inset portal to his right built a ceramic mug out of base elements in the air and out of the molecule tank in the ship’s hull. The mug filled with a dark viscous fluid that was almost Arabica coffee. He snatched the cup and gingerly sipped the hot drink and peered out at the stars racing by through his windshield. He deeply wondered how exactly he was going to not only track down the contracted item, but also if the Fuljers Crystals really existed. He knew from all of his misadventures throughout the Jhan’ra Galaxy that somewhere deep in space, or rather where it got kind of thin at the end, there was a monastery that was spoken about only in hushed tones and usually as infrequently as possible, humanly or otherwise. He leaned forward with a reassuring creak from the imported Bovinian leather made from the finest skins of the Bovia lactate lizard, a strange creature known for its smooth scaled hide and its milk which tasted like, what many of the universe’s top chefs and culinary critics referred as, the perfect summer day. The monastery was just short of the Wall, the boundary of the known universe, beyond which nothing was known. Scholars from all walks of life throughout all of time had put forth well-thought out, and some well half-baked (if not less than half), theories and conjectures about what was on the side of the Wall. The theories ranged from the simplest of logic (nothing was there) to the wild and ludicrous (that the other side of the Wall was an office where drug-addled hyper-intelligent monkeys wrote the universe as it happened. The originator of this hypothesis, Dr. Warqguj, was promptly fired from his position of dean of Riglon 6 University, but re-hired shortly afterwards as head custodian). Dan closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, anticipating the intergalactic sized headache he knew he was about to get. “Computer, I want a navigational analysis of the easiest route from here to the Wall.” Several progression lights flickered and blinked. Then, as a map appeared, being superimposed over his whooshing view from the windshield. The computer’s tinny mechanized voice spoke up. “There are approximately seven planets you will have to pass to reach the described destination.” “Seven?!” Dan growled incredulously. “You have designated that you wish to avoid any and all toll roads.” Dan hated toll booth operators. After a summer stint as one, he realized that toll booths operators were loathsome creatures that, having the snot kicked out of them by life, wallowed in the ill-perceived authority granted to them. They did everything to make everyone else as miserable as them. Only pollsters, vid-phone marketers, holo-film critics, and women that turned down Dan for dates pissed him off more. “Yes, fine then. Head out that way and wake me up when we get there. Or for meals. Which ever comes first.” Dan ordered the lights on in his room. He fished a half finished bottle of Lunatic Gobbler, one of the most potent and dangerous inebriates ever conceived due to the levels of intoxication it quickly induces and its ability to run combustion-based engines, out from under his sleep pod and took several long deep slugs from it. It felt like God’s electric piss ran through his veins just shortly before he tossed the empty bottle aside and fell hard into his pod. The canopy hissed as it shut and hermetically sealed Dan in for his prescribed eleven hour nap. Dan was sorely disappointed and his mood resembled a lemon in that the computer had woken him up not for Salisbury steak, but that they had reached the first planet between him and the crystals: Sterswers. Dan listlessly fell into his captain’s chair. “Gimme info,” he mumbled so incoherently that the computer had to run six different voice tracking programs to glean what he had wanted. The computer prompted beeped and superimposed the planets history over the windshield. “The planet Sterwers was established as a retirement bastion for the Rebels. Its rich history includes political corruption, fascism, rebellion, and a religious order that utilizes “Oneness” with the cosmos to access their supernatural powers. At one point in time, the Rebels commanded an army of followers, but after several unsuccessful attempts to clarify their own history, many fled the Rebellion due to confusion, anger, and an overwhelming sense that the films based on the exploits had robbed them of countess dollars.” “Huh,” Dan said remembering. “The Vid-Discs with the extra footage were just…y’know, there are no words cruel enough.” Dan visibly shuddered. “Computer, take us down.” On his way to the exit hatch, Dan mused about those supposed supernatural powers and what connection if it all they had to the mystic monks of the Wall. Maybe he could skip over the rest of his itinerary if Sterwers yielded some viable answers. If not, another adventure would just be charged to King Fic Shon’s bill. The stale desert air hissed through the hatch as it lowered. Sand whipped around in a vortex into the hold and made Dan cough and curse. He lit up an Interstellar brand filtered cigarette. “Let’s met the natives…” he said under his breath as his boots crunched onto the planet’s surface. The first thing Dan noticed was the sheer wall of sickening nostalgia that hit him. It was like a prize fighter’s punch. The cherished feelings of remembering how great this planet once was and the disgust of what it has become. He looked down at the wrist mounted comms unit that linked up with the ship. “So, where the fark are they,” he demanded into it. The thing beeped a few times and spat up a topographic hologram. “All habitations are red, sir.” “Blow it out your gravitational engine manifold, you bastard machine. You know I’m colorblind.” The hologram refreshed. The tinny mechanical voice piped up and informed him that the populated areas were now colored fuchsia. “That’s better…I guess.” He eyed the map like a drunken tiger and after several grunts of various emotions running the gamut from utterly confused to belligerently sober, he started trudging south. That’s where the computer said the only bar planet-side was. When he arrived at the Oblaxular Cantina (and fine dining) he made thirsty look like a water bottling plant. He sat down at the bar, in the darkest corner, and ordered a tall cold glass of Lunatic Gobbler. The barman hissed through his teeth at the order, and swore in some indecipherable language that only devils and the insane drink that horrid brew that surely was the piss of the Great Evil himself. Dan let the bartender in on the fact that in the second pocket from the left he had a dimensionally collapsed neutron bazooka. The bartender reneged on his previous statement and gladly poured Dan’s drink. Dan downed the glass of swill in one unhealthy gulp and ordered another. As the bartender, a green-skinned, bug-eyed thing with flittering wings, came up to him, Dan thought twice and told the tender just to leave the bottle and get him a straw.