The Edge of the Universe: Rebirth

## REBIRTH

### PROLOGUE

Days had passed since any land had been spotted. The ocean seemed to be a respite from the man- no, the *creature* that pursued the pirate crew that held me as it's captive. What had driven this once-feared crew to a such a state of terror was a lone assailant, who, over the course of months, had destroyed and eliminated nearly three hundred of the gang's number.

"Two hundred, and Seventy-one of us..." Lannister's voice called out to another man on the boat. The man jumped in his seat and turned to eye his compatriot with hatred. "... Sorry Vero... Didn't know you were that jumpy..."

"Don't I have a right to be?!?" Vero screamed. "It's almost midnight, and I can feel his eyes on me, I've felt them since we left Hass'var!!" Vero was losing his mind, it had been apparent since Port Vinnea. That's where we had first met the Beast.

And yes, I'll call him a Beast! There isn't a better word for the man! Brutal, yet kind, Incomprehensible, and yet simple, hardened, yet broken. "Beast" is what the gang, the Holden Marauders, had so eloquently named the man who has so thoroughly destroyed them. But, as usual, I am getting ahead of myself again; I should start from the beginning.

My name is Richard Mortiac, and the story I am about to tell you starts with a game of cards at the Edge of the Universe and ends with the fate of countless races, peoples, and cultures in the hands of three mortal enemies.

So set the stage of your mind, and prepare for a story

Of rebirth.

### CHAPTER ONE- A Port of Questionable Motives

Port Vinnea, Last stop before the Edge of the Universe! Or so the shambling monstrosity that owns the almost fantastic space station would say that it was. It is a haunt of the mega-wealthy, the one percent of the one percent. Admission to the port for a day cost more than many folks would make in a hundred lifetimes; and a pass for a year? My, you could buy a planet and build a country with that money. But the people that inhabit this station were powerful, poised, and unrelentingly egotistical. So how then; pray tell, did a down-on-his-luck reporter for a news station halfway across the galaxy end up in the playground for the ultra-wealthy and powerful? Well... It has to do with a girl.

I arrived at Port Vinnea in the late autumn of the nearest solar system's cycle. I received a true red carpet experience; That was until I was discovered to be as poor as I was. And that I was a  *journalist* no less. So for many long days and nights, I sat there, alone, in my room, typing furiously and hoping for a story to hit me in the face. It sounds silly, I know, to simply *hope* that the story of the century would be overheard by a twenty-one-year-old man in over his head by a million miles. The fascinating part of it all was that it seemed to work.

Writing tirelessly, I created a beautiful scenic composition; A setting fit for the front page and headline of every newspaper and television show! Alas... that was all the further I got. You see, I was from the far distant land of Helena, it's a modestly rich country on a mining planet. A year ago, however, a prominent, and eccentric lady, Elsa Kesselring, Vanished from the planet. She left her family, her company, her whole life! All so she could spend her wealth on some money, some chance to... Win her "Desire". You see, Port Vinnea has a great many attractions; gambling, spas, artificial beaches, fine cuisine, and the usual debauchery. But, there was a truly extraordinary attraction, that brought together all kinds of life to this land beyond lands: A card game. Yes, a simple hand of cards, a tournament played in thirteen rounds, with the winner being given their "Desire"... Outlandish, inconceivable, impossible, but yet, it's true! and it concerned *our* Elsa Kesselring. And yet, even as I write, I find no trace of her, none at all! It is infuriating! And all my hopes and dreams are anchored on this story I-

"Augh!" The notepad is flung from my hand as I run into a wall. I was far too infatuated in my own writing to tell where my feet were going. "Curse these feet and their stoutness! Who designed these, anyway!" I had a habit of shouting things that should rather be kept to oneself, and it had a habit of returning back consequences to me.

"I don't know, but whoever did, made a sorry job of it." A hand reached out to me, offering help up. I accepted it and was pulled to my feet by a man much taller and much broader than me, though given my state as an anemic asthmatic, that isn't much to say. "Keep your head high and maybe you won't run into so many people."

"Impossible, I do not *run into people*, my good sir!" And with a sudden attack of brilliance, I wish I could return the words I had spoken back to my mouth. I *had indeed* run into this gentleman, as there were no walls in a forty-foot vicinity of my personage.

"Really." The man was tall, stern and well built. His skin was pale and white, a stark contrast to his jet black hair and stubble. His eyes looked like pools of seething darkness, with a flash of purple dancing between the iris and the pupil. Just below the jowls on the right of his face, there is a patchwork of scars that reaches into his neck and disappears below his shirt.

"I-ah... I mean to say that I do not *run into people* that are as interesting as you! My good sir, You are... Not as... Genteel as the other persons that inhabit this fine establishment. Might I have a word?"

"That depends on what the word entails." *This man astounds me.* In a place where I have only seen dresses made of silk and gold, suitcoats and pressed shirts made of the finest linen, he wears a jacket made of black leather, littered with patches and stripes. On one side above a breast pocket is a name: "PETERSON". Underneath his jacket is a black t-shirt, bearing tally marks... It's hard to tell how many, and the dark crimson they are marked in tells me he doesn't like to talk about it.

"The word entails... A card game! The... Illustrious 'Game of Desire'!" I flashed my best reporter smile and hiked up my story as best I could. I was sure the man would take the bait.

"I've heard of it." His face rarely changed expressions as we talked, and I gathered it took much to impress or surprise him. For a man who seems to have his life written on his face, I can't tell what kind of life he's lived.

"Oh, then!" I smile, "Would you happen to know the *prize*  for such an illustrious game?"

"Your greatest desire." His dry tone ate at me, but I ignored it and pressed on.

"You do know quite a lot, then!"

"I know that you're getting on my nerves with these questions." He begins to walk past me and I scramble to pick up my pen and paper and rush up to him.

"I promise, sir, these questions have a point!"

"Then I'd bloody wish you would get to it."

"Do you know of a woman named... Elsa Kesselring?"

He stopped, and for once, looked me in the eye, "What do  *you* know about her?"

"A great deal!" I boasted, "We are from the same country! Helena!"

For a moment, he studied me, keeping his gaze locked on me, "Hm. I suppose I will have that word. But not here. Not now."

"When, then?"

"Get lost, and I'll find you when I want to talk."

"But sir!" I spun around in front of him, hoping to get his brisk walk to halt. Momentarily succeeding, I pant out my question, "When will that be? And what even is your name?"

He paused. "First yours."

"Richard Mortiac! A reporter for The Golden Herald! Here to investigate the tale of Helena Kes-"

"If I wanted your autobiography I would have asked."

"Sorry..."

"Michael Peterson."

"Ah, Mr. Peterson, what is it that you do?"

"There you go asking questions again."

"Well, it is my job, after all!"

Without so much as a word, Michael turned on his heel and stepped through an open door that we passed. At my brisk pace, I wasn't able to stop and turn back towards him before I was stopped by two guards. They were tall and crimson-armored, their gear glistened and shone, but the gleam of their armor could not erase their nasty reputation. The Holden Marauders, I'd done my homework on them. They raided shipping lanes outside of the Holden system, a neighbor to my homeworld of Irrigo. They did horrible things to women and children and weren't kind to the men either. However, four years ago they had left their pirating ways and undergone... "Restructuring". They shot their old leader and pulled a new man, a strong, levelheaded one up to the rank of Commandant. Herod was his name, and he was known to show mercy if he thought it was necessary. Herod took the marauders and moved them to Port Vinnea, making them the security for the establishment. Unfortunately, he never quite bred out the brutality that his men had, for both of these guards grabbed me by the shoulders and flung me thirty feet backward, sending me skidding into a bench.

"No one is allowed into the lounge! It is reserved for the players of the Desire only!" One of them bellowed, hand on his gun, "And if I ever see you here again, I'll make sure you have worse things to complain about than a sore head!"

I was dizzy enough that I caught every other word of what they were saying, "Sincerest apologies, sirs... but shouldn't you have thrown out the man that I followed?"

The other huffed, and snarled at me, "He's  *allowed* in, unlike people like you."

That settled it in my partially conscious mind. Michael certainly was a fish out of water, what with the difference in dress sense he had compared to everyone else, but this confirmed it all the more. He was a man looking to get rich by way of winning a game of cards. But who was the man? That bothered me endlessly as I stood up and dusted myself off. It was time to set my sights on a new piece of the Puzzle that is Port Vinnea. Time to answer a question:

Who is Michael Peterson?

~~~~~~~~

Twelve minutes and three lies later, I had procured myself a key to Mr. Peterson's room. It was easy to convince the desk lady that I was a security asset and that I had to get into Mr. Peterson's room posthaste. The difficult part was to get her to *not* call the guards and have me arrested. Fortunately, my years of investigation have made me a great liar and a great actor all the same. I strode confidently into Michael's room and examined my surroundings. Although mostly identical to the room that I rent two floors below, It had some notable differences. For one, it was an external room, it had a large window, curtains were drawn across it, and a shade pulled down in front of that. Michael clearly preferred the dark. My eyes swept the room, picking up finer details: one bag -he was clearly staying alone- A coffee machine that had been regularly used, three journals on the desk, and a worn footlocker, scarred and stamped with some official lettering that has all but been sanded off by the harsh climate it must have come from. Looking inside the closet I found little that surprised me: Rugged tactical pants and t-shirts and a holster hanging from a rack. I noted that it was empty and moved on. The bag was locked shut, as was the footlocker (Michael clearly wasn't a trusting man) so naturally, I gravitated towards the journals. Until this moment, I had no earthly idea that you could lock a journal, but apparently, Michael was the man who decided that it needed to be done. They each had two leather straps that reached cover to cover and was locked by a small key. I turned towards the empty room and sighed.

"Well, this was bloody useless!" I said to myself. I reached down towards the footlocker and jimmied with the lock, thinking of ways to force it open that I could repair so it wouldn't be as noticeable. Just then I thought of something.

"Replacement keys!" He must have them somewhere about! Now... Where would a military man hide something like this.,. I began my search below the sink in the bathroom, then went to the desk. Failing there I began searching under the bed covers and pillows, with luck worsening I decided to look behind the painting on the wall, and I saw something... Not a key, but an envelope stained by a dark red liquid. I made my best guess as to what it was and looked at the address. It read simply:

"Michael, my love."

Already I was questioning my commitment to this. I'm illegally searching a room; A room that belongs to a dangerous man. A man that has keepsakes. A sentimental killer? Odd, that. Back on topic! He has locks on everything he owns, he leaves only clothes with empty pockets hanging u- wait! I didn't check their pockets! Perhaps that was it! I raced back to the closet and began searching through the clothes. Shirt after pants after shirt after pants I checked and found nothing. Frustrated, I considered cutting my losses and running when something occurred to me. I grabbed the holster and flipped it over, dumping out... a pair of keys.

I scrambled to my feet and tried the keys on the footlocker. The first key was far too small, the second was a skeleton key and altogether impossible to put into the lock. The third slid in with a satisfying "Click!" and I eagerly popped open the trunk. My face went from eager joy to horror and shock as I closed the trunk and scurried away from it, smacking into something hard. I groaned and hit the floor, looking up into a stone-faced Michael Peterson.

"Oh, dear..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crossed arms, a steel gaze, and a cold shoulder. Michael was nothing more than that, at present. His demeanor didn't protrude malice, simply... disdain. I'm good at reading people and I *knew* that he wasn't resentful or angr-

CRACK

"AUGH! For the love of the divines, that hurt!!" I held the side of my face in pain. Perhaps I'm not as good at reading people as I thought I was...

"This will hurt a lot more." Michael drew a pistol from underneath his coat, "Now. You're going to stay nice and quiet, and you're not going to move."

"I will do so with every fiber of my being, believe me!" My panicked mind began racing, eyes transfixed on the gun barrel in front of me.

"What are you doing here. And make your answers concise, or this room is becoming redecorated with a fresh coat of red paint."

"That would incur a cleaning fee..."

"You're a smart mouth. Hm. I told you I would find you, I didn't tell you to break into my room."

"Well... You did find me..."

This made him lower the gun, but not holster it, and his face turned to something resembling curiosity, though the man showed precious little emotion at anything. "So I did. Rich, you're a clever person. Too clever for your own good."

"And you're a dangerous one. Too dangerous for anyone's good." I shot back, "I saw in that footlocker... I know your secret."

"Hm. That's unfortunate for you."

"Unfortunate for both of us. I know who you are, and you can't kill me, otherwise, questions will be asked..."

"I can deal with questions. I've gotten away with murder before."

"But you can't get away with murder *and* accomplish your goal here. Whatever it is."

"Take another look in that box and tell me I can't."

I humored him, kicking it open and gazing at the battle-worn armor inside. I knew what it was. Paradox rouges were famous even out in these far reaches of the galaxy. The armor had been heavily modified, my guess is that most of it had been blown to bits. "You're obviously a talented warrior. But I have the advantage of being clever while *off* the battlefield."

"Is that so? Well, let's see your clever mind work this one out. Why am I here?" He stepped back and leaned against the wall, gun still in hand.

"Well... I would wager it's not to play in a bloody card game. The fantastical prize of your "One True Desire" doesn't seem like it would attract you."

"Not unless the dead can be raised to life..." He mutters as he holsters his gun, "So what then, What would I be here for?"

"You aren't here for the dead... You're here for the living. You're a talented warrior who has survived alone for a long... long time..." I straightened up, regaining my confident posture, "you're a bounty hunter, and one of the players is your bounty."

A smirk escaped his lips and he tilted his head up slightly, looking down on me. "Clever man..." his smirk disappear, "Too clever for your own good."

I could see the thought of my sudden n and unexpected end creeping to the forefront of his mind, and I knew I had little time. "Think of it this way, Peterson, our talents may be able to assist each other. You're looking for a person, and so am I."

"And what of it?" He asked, "I've been able to track them here thus far."

"And how far have you gotten with your search since?"

He fell silent, "Not far."

"I can help. Who are you looking for anyway?"

"Elsa Kesselring."

That stung. I knew inevitably that's who he was looking for, but I wasn't looking forward to finding out why.