Kicking Arse and Taking Names
"Kicking arse and taking names…what does that even mean?"
"Well, kicking arse is pretty self-explanatory. A kick up a posterior usually-"
"No, I get that bit. I mean the whole 'taking names' thing. What does taking names have to do with asserting one's authority?"
"Well, taking names…it…y'know…you have the time to take down their names, and…well…"
"You have no idea what you're talking about do you?"
"Nup. Not a clue."
Honesty. The Rift's got no shortage of physical commodities, but honesty is something that's usually in short supply. Honesty doesn't get you anywhere out here –usually people are only honest when they're about to kill you. As in, "your ship's crippled, you have no hope, niener niener niener." That, or "I hate your guts, you meddling kids!" But no, drinking this strange blue fluid amongst the scum of the galaxy has taught me something – honesty can be found. All you have to do is strike up a conversation with…um…
"Actually," I say to the alien, "I never got your species' name."
"You wouldn't be able to pronounce it."
"Try me."
The alien makes a weird sucking sound. Like the last cry of a dying sasquatch.
"Fair enough." I take another sip. "Y'know, back when all this was science fiction, people speculated that alien life, if it existed, would be so different from human life that communication would be impossible."
"Yeah, well, your scientists are idiots. Didn't they say that nothing could travel faster than the speed of light? That artificial gravity couldn't be generated? That-"
"I get the point." I take another sip of the liquid. "Y'know, it doesn't taste so bad after awhile."
The alien doesn't say anything. The alien whose name I don't know, of a species I can't identify, who looks like…um…well, I'm trying to think of an Earth creature to compare him (least I think it's a him) to, but I'm not having much luck. True, communication's possible, but even if scientists were idiots back in the day, they may have been right about the whole 'alien' thing. It's like the universe saw our early live action takes on aliens, laughed at us, and decided to produce something better.
Actually there are many humans that think that. If there's one thing the universe has also taught us, it's that you can make a religion out of any idea. Especially if it's profitable.
"So tell me," the alien continues. "Assuming you're like everyone else in the Rift, a.k.a. psychotic,-"
"I prefer the term 'with the times.'"
"What's your preferred hunting ground?" he continues. "Space? Or planets?"
"…I don't follow you."
"Well, there's two ways to operate out here," the alien says, grinning in his top mouth, and smirking in his bottom one. "Method one is to attack any undefended ship you see, loot it, destroy it, and repeat the cycle. The other is to land on planets filled with primitives, employ the most badass weapons you have available, and, er, kick arse and take names."
I smile myself – the alien may not be able to speak his species name, but otherwise his language is perfect. And we don't even have one of the fish people of the planet Babel around to act as translator.
"So, which is it?" the alien asks again. "I mean, personally I like to do both."
"Is there a third option?"
The alien stares at me. And with nine eyes, that's a lot of staring.
"I mean, just wondering," I say. "Maybe you can survive in the Rift without resorting to violence? I mean-"
The alien laughs at me. Well, his top mouth is laughing at me. His bottom is frowning.
"Newsflash," he says, the bottom mouth doing the talking while the top continues to laugh. "This is the Rift. Scum of the universe. I'm scum, you're scum, everyone's scum. Try to pretend you're not scum, and you'll be scum. Literal scum. As in, the scum I clear off my ship every time a body hits it."
I suppress a shudder at the image that enters my mind.
The alien gets up. "Words from the wise, human. Kill or be killed. It's the only way we survive out here."
"Is it?" I ask. "We're talking right now aren't we?"
"We're in a space cantina," the alien says. "Only rule out here – no violence. No smugglers shooting first. Or any shooting at all for that matter."
"Oh," I say, still seated. "Right."
The alien raises one of his three arms – I don't know whether that's natural, or whether he lost one at some point. Wouldn't surprise me. But he does give me some kind of salute before walking off.
And it's funny, I reflect to myself. He's right. There wasn't any violence at all.
Yet I feel my arse has been kicked and my name taken all the same.
Whatever that means.
A/N
With Rebel Galaxy being produced by former Blizzard North members, I can't help but wonder if any elements of Starblo are present in the game. It was a hypothetical that led to me drabbling this up.