It had never been healthy. It had been a risk, a chance taken by scientists looking for answers that had already been discovered centuries before. It was nicknamed "The Asylum" by more established scientists, and even the Unified Scientific Council listed Tubaven as "The Asylum" in official records now and then.
The planet had old PreCursor ruins on it. Even with a dead core, there had still been earthquakes. The atmosphere and ecosystem had destroyed what the earthquakes left behind.
It was the ecosystem that fascinated the scientists. That a mere hundred million years after being razed to dust and boiled seas, life had returned.
Life like the scientists. Familiar life.
The Civilized Races, like all the living, required several things to remain healthy and part of the living.
The planet that Tubaven orbited normally provided those things.
Then the comet hit.
Normally, this would not have caused Tubaven too much trouble. After all, it was a society of scientists, even if their peers considered them crackpots. Except that budget shortfalls had meant the shuttles had not all been repaired and when the comet had hit it had destroyed the extraction fabrication units and the only usable shuttle.
Along with five of the scientists.
Tubaven was dying the second the plasma shockwave from the comet hitting the planet began to ripple into the atmosphere.
The scientists had watched in horror as the ecosystem they had been studying, not finding any new answers to any of the old questions, but studying all the same, died to a comet of methane, carbon dioxide, ammonia, carbon monoxide, hydrogen, and oxygen.
Five scientists lost hope, dying, as the atmosphere burned, the oceans boiled, and the ecosystem was reduced to memories and recordings.
The GalCom no longer worked. The geothermal power plant no longer beamed up power and the solar array had been blasted apart when the comet had struck it.
That meant nobody was going to hear the remaining scientists cries for help.
One by one the scientists left the mortal coil. Each taking their lives privately, quietly, many hoping their demise would allow the environmental systems to last a bit longer for their fellows.
Even those who devote their lives to science care for others.
Each missed meal was a battle. Each gasping breath was a skirmish. Each dehydrated swallow was a blade stroke.
But those that could held on.
Dutifully recording what they went through even though the science of the dying brought no answers to the old questions.
They were ready to die, prepared for it. After all, it was basic science.
Tubaven was dying and when it died.
They would too.
Shakhan knew this. Knew this as well as he knew his own death song, which he had sung in the privacy of his chambers. Knew it as well as he knew the sound his own barking-sack made. Knew it as well as he remembered his mate's scale pattern on her tail, left behind on beautiful Argassa.
Still, science gave hope. Which is why he was hooked into the jump beacon, trying to repair it. They had been sending a signal when the communications array had been destroyed and since then it kept repeating the same signal over and over.
Three short bursts, three long bursts.
Over and over.
The incoming buffer was unresponsive. He could lase it. He could ping it. But it couldn't hear him.
Three short. Three long.
Over and over into jump space.
To top it off, it wasn't even pointed back at the Civilized Worlds. It was pointed deeper into the Great Empty of the Precursor War.
Three short. Three long.
Shakhan was about to disconnect from Tubaven's systems when he saw it.
A sparkle. A weird sparkle. High particle energy sleeting from empty space. On the sensor array he could still access it appeared as if someone was lighting fireworks off in empty space. Multicolored streamers, sparkles, and even electron cascades.
Shakhan was looking right at it when it happened.
Space went... well... blue. Right in the middle of the sparkle. It went white to the sensor array, then back to black.
Blaring sound came over the sensor array, gibberish, but mathematical.
Musical?
A signal reached out Tubaven and nudged it. Once. Twice. Three times. Then Shakhan saw it.
A massive ship. Shaped like a slightly flattened egg, or a seed, with blisters and bubbles all over it. Large enough that Tubaven could fit inside easily. The engine propelled it toward Tubaven and the craft kept signalling.
I have nothing to lose, Shakhan thought. He opened the buffers and allowed the signal to communicate with Tubaven's dying mainframe. It took him a second to realize what was loaded from the other vessel. Pictures. Basic math. Advanced math.
A lexicon? Shakhan engaged the remaining lobes of the mainframe, shunting as much of the liquid helium as could be spared and letting them grind through the data.
It took less than a tenth of a cycle, before the strange ugly ship had gotten halfway to Tubaven. Two of the lobes gave up their electronic lives, but it was done.
Shakhan would be able to talk to them.
Praying to the Forgotten Ones, Shakhan opened a communication channel.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The screen popped up, showing a short, squat, almost dumpy looking hairless primate sitting in a furry reclining couch. Streamers and coins poured down around him and cartoon animals frolicked across the bottom of the screen.
"Never fear, Max Yo Ngyn here!" The primate cried out. All of the cartoon animals jumped and squealed. "I got your distress call, buddy! I'm oooooon my waaaaay! Hang tight! Thirty mike mikes and I'll be knock knock!"
Shakhan quailed slightly at the disruptive and unorthodox communication, but he was too weak to protest. He merely opened his side, allowing his camera to show him.
"Situation desperate," Shakhan said.
"Holy crap! A lizard dude!" The primate seemed excited, or at least Shakhan guessed it was excitement. It was hard to tell with primates. "First Contact, baby! Max Yo Ngyn with the sco-ore! Seeing as you're a new customer, play some slots, see what you win! Hell, you can have the Winner Wheels since you're in distress, baby! Max Yo Ngyn is the firstest with the mostest and the tradest!"
The screen suddenly had three wheels overlaying "Max" and a button at the bottom that said "EVERY PRESS A WINNER!"
Curious, tired, and frankly glad for the distraction, Shakhan pressed the button. The wheels spun, the little cartoon animals capered, and the wheels settled on three drops of water.
"YOU WIN! 20 LITERS OF WATER! WINNER WINNER WINNER!"
Shakhan frowned. Gambling? Now?
Then he realized, it was a distraction from dying. There's no way the primate could help him. There were only two other primates in the Civilized Races, and both of them could barely pilot a scout ship.
Soon Shakhan had forgotten his depression, completely entranced by the gambling wheels, the little cartoons, the bouncing singing cartoon animals, and the fact that he just. kept. winning.
Suddenly the wheels vanished and the primate was there. He was dressed in some kind of cloth, or maybe armor, that shimmered and sparkled and showed off rainbow color. He had a clear face-shield on and Shakhan realized that the suit kept spelling out "Max A Millions! Registered and Bonded Junkman and Trader! Ngyn Junker LLC" in a scrolling pattern down the arms and legs.
It was an upright biped.
"Hey, baby, you still OK?" The primate, Max, asked.
"Yes. I am here."
"My scanners show there's about two dozen of you left. Ouch. Your station has habs for sixty. My condolences, baby. That qualifies you for a bereavement and grief discount, by law, and Max will totally hook you up. Hey, um, do you breathe oxygen?" Max asked.
"Yes, we can," Shakhan answered.
"Whew, good. Nitrogen makes my ears tingle and ammonia smells like total ass, baby. Anyway, can I come in? You kind of have to invite me," Max said.
"Yes, you may enter our station. It is badly damaged, so be cautious," Shakhan warned.
"Hey, I'm gonna need access to your medical computers. You guys probably need food, stuff to drink, your atmo fixed right up. I mean, no offense, my big lizard friend, but you look like a bag of cat assholes," Max said.
Shakhan set the computer to allow Max's computers to integrate, surprised that the primate's computers would be so adept at it.
"All right, buddy. Yeah, I see what you need. Whew, you got your ass kicked. All right, nine different races, all different dietary requirements. Hmm, welp, good thing for you I'm all loaded up. I'll be right over with some repair bots and we'll fix you right up," Max said. He made a motion where he thrust his fist in the air. "First Contact, baby! Max with the firstest!"
Shakhan just nodded weakly.
Less than a cycle later the computer reported light impacts at the airlock and Max's voice came over the intercom.
"Yo, lizard buddy, me and the grendels, we got ya some food. I gotta get a look at your stuff if I'm gonna repair it," Max said. "Can I come in?"
"Yes," Shakhan said, getting up. "I will meet you at the airlock."
Shakhan was curious to see what a "Grendel" was. He made his way slowly and stiffly to the airlock, his joints aching and stiff from lack of food. His tail was a thin thing, bone and sinew, no fat stores, and he felt slightly ashamed at the dullness of his scales.
When the airlock cycled Shakan was startled to see that a long plastic tube connected the two ships. Max stood in front of a good dozen robots, all of which were carrying boxes. Max's suit kept showing patterns, cute cartoon animals, and the script over and over.
"Max Yo Ngyn AKA Max A Millions, at your service!" the primate said, baring its teeth.
Shakhan just nodded, weakly waving at the human to follow.
"All right, boys, do it like I told ya. Check the damaged shit, see what's compatible with the replacement parts we have, see what has to be replaced. We'll need to repair those tanks on the hull, replenish the atmosphere, and help these people out," Max said to the robots. He moved aside so they could go by.
Shakhan noticed they were all painted vivid colors, with cartoons on the side, and all beeped out happy musical tunes. Some of which he recognized from his own childhood.
"Yeah, I used your guys tunes. Didn't know if Happy Happy Joy Joy would sound like the Imperial Death March to you guys or something. I didn't screw up the aural range, did I?" Max asked.
Shakhan shook his head, slumping slightly.
"Woah, woah, woah there champ. Here, have a free drink on Max. Never let it said a Junker was cheap," Max handed Shakhan a squeeze bottle with a straw.
Nervously, Shakhan put the straw in his mouth and squeezed the bottle.
What was it going to do, kill him faster?
The liquid was sweet, full of nutrients and other things that Shakhan had lost during his long hunger. He greedily squeezed it twice more and was disappointed when it was empty on the third squeeze.
Max had one hand pressed to his ear, listening. He looked at Shakhan, who was feeling better as electrolytes flooded his system.
"You're in trouble, buddy. But, by Confederate Legal Code, any research station or civilian ship broadcasting a distress code must be rendered due assistance," Max said, looking serious. "Do you require assistance?"
Shakhan nodded.
"I'll take that as an affirmative. All right, metal-heads, get to work, lets help these guys out," Max said. He looked down. "Let's find somewhere comfortable while the metal-heads get to work. You can collect your winnings, then we'll get down to trade."
Shakhan couldn't believe that he was actually going to receive what he'd "won" playing the game. He had thought Max had just used that to distract him.
Instead, Max sat down and set a holoprojector on the table.
"You're in luck, Shakakan, ol' Max just finished a salvage operation on an old Austin Class Superdreadnaught out at the Tannhauser Gate Oort Cloud. Lots of salvage out there if yer a Junkman like Max here," Max grinned. "I'll fix ya up free of charge, but I get the junk. Then we'll get down to some serious trading."
--------------------
Eight cycles later Max messaged Shakhan from his ship. The primate, which Shakhan had learned was a Terran from the Sol System, waved happily from his recliner. Shakhan had learned that Max's people were like any other people. Some exuberant like Max, others cautious like Shakhan.
Pure Strain Humans they called themselves.
"Good trading with you, Shakey. I'll swing back by in about, say, two hundred of your cycles with more stuff to trade, sound good?" Max asked.
His suit was silver and had small cartoon human children chasing each other and smacking each other with blunt objects.
Max's race found physical violence comedic.
"Sounds good, Maximum Max," Shakhan said.
"Catcha on the flip side, my scaley brother from another mother!" The human answered.
The shit was gone with a tinkle and a spray of fireworks.
Hoolevar, a Kivyan avian scientist, looked into the room. "Is it gone?" she asked.
Shakhan nodded. The primate had alarmed the rest of the station's surviving scientists and they'd hidden out in their rooms the entire time Max's "grendel" robots had repaired the station.
And made upgrades.
"Oh, well, good. We'll contact the Unified Science Council and have them send someone to take us home," Hoolevar trilled. "Let someone else examine this destroyed world if they want. I for one cannot wait to return home. I think I may be done being a scientist."
The avian bobbed out of the room, ruffling her feathers.
But Shakhan didn't pay attention.
He'd opened up a data-file and began typing.
"Max the Human and His Amazing Junk Show"
------------------
Shakhan's scientific paper addressed a new question that the Unified Exploration Council and new questions that the Unified Science Councils were seeking answers for. It caused great alarm, but the recorded video interviews could not be denied.
That added another race to the Solarians. The Terrans. And another. "Pure Strain Humans".
Sol was revealed to be a solar system "off that way" toward the tip of the arm spur. Deep in the Precursor Zone.
Six races. All wildly different.
From the same system.
The Unified Council was concerned.
-------------------
CONFEDERATE INTELLIGENCE MEMO
Discovered a distress signal broadcast by a damaged jumpspace beacon. Accidentally used universal distress code. Arrived and gave assistance, as required by Junker Code. Replaced unknown xenosentient equipment with TerraSol equipment circa First Artificial War (See USN Calcutta, dest. Battle of Tannhauser Gate) to acquire both damaged and "outdated" xenotech. Copied entire contents of mainframe, performed interviews of races.
"Unified Civilized Races" contain sixteen xenosapient species.
Am returning to Outbound Station in Sol Oort Cloud.
Expect full debriefing.
-------NOTHING FOLLOWS-------------