Zahk-Za Bazaar

The Zahk-Za Bazaar

When my ship docks on planet Zahk-Za, my hyperbaric sleep chamber automatically begins the awakening process. I’m always groggy after years of hyper sleep, but I also feel refreshed as if my body had been completely regenerated. That’s because it has. I step out onto the cold ship floor which I can feel intensely since my bare feet were now soft on the bottom from the regeneration process. I stretch my arms and check the gauges and realize it was the fourth rotation of the 87th Sun, which meant I was absurdly late by 3 rotations. 

I hurry down the corridor to the cleaning unit where the waste receptacles are and where I can find my clothing. I am racking my brain to figure out how, with controlled coordinates, I am so far behind schedule. It makes no sense to me but I’ll deal with it. 

I enter the cleaning chamber and quickly shower off the dead skin cells and bacteria used to make the process efficient. You have to scrub pretty hard if you want to do it right, otherwise the bacteria can continue to eat away at your skin and leave nasty sores. Then, I empty my bladder, which after a few rotations, can take quite a bit of time. Finally, I throw on a pair of coveralls, my side arm —I liked to carry a series 7 Trident pistol equipped with three different strength levels— and my favorite boots. My second stomach rumbles loudly and I realized how hungry I am. I check my watch, hoping against hope that I have a few minutes to eat before I get on with my mission. Truth is, I was already so late that a few more ticks of the clock wouldn’t hurt. Even if it did, it was too late to care. Plus, I was so hungry I could eat an entire mastachron and those elephant-looking things were huge. I remembered Zahk-Za had a market just outside of the shipping station with food from all over the universe which worked out in my favor. 

Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. How rude of me. My name is Xaklov4 Prodiginous Frelig 3gragg. Most people call me X4 or just X. I’m a two hundred and twelfth generation Borgolian assassin. It’s kind of our family business. Well, it’s really our race's business. Borgolians are masters of disguise because we can change our skin color and some of our features through a process similar to that of Earth’s octopus or the Trieon 1’s flangia poss. I mean you don’t have to be an assassin if your from Borgolia but there isn’t much work on the planet aside from mining and prostitution and we aren’t particularly known for our ideas. So, like my entire family, I became a freelance assassin. Pays great but the contracts are long. Mine is for 200 rotations. Not a ton of time for friends and fun, but when you live 400 rotations, or about 800 earth years on average, you can always find time for friends and fun later. 

So anyway, I leave  my ship, log it with the dock supervisor then exit out the back walking into Zahk Ze’s marketplace, a gorgeous shopping center filled with vendors of all races and species, hawking their most iconic planetary goods. I’ve had some really great food here like the Priorian Drago fish, fried to perfection with fresh gravel flowers or the Nix blood whisky which tastes gross at first but ends with an amazing citrusy smokiness. Plus it gets you plastered really quick. 

But, I’ve also had some disgusting shit like the Walorik’s offal stew a slimy, pungent soup which tastes like the back end of every farm animal, ever. Or worse, the Cretopian’s slugs. Fat, gelatinous insects that were considered a delicacy on Cretop. Shit, I wouldn’t feed that to my worst enemy. I tried them once and thought I was going to die from vomit. I threw up from both stomachs and couldn’t eat solid food for a week. 

The market was massive. Rows and rows of vendors occupied uniquely designed stalls that reflected the personality and culture of the proprietors. I heard once that the market held over 10,000 stalls but I never counted. You could find everything here: guns, drugs, clothes, food, bags, jewelry, sex, alcohol, parts, androids, bots, slaves, toys. I mean, really, if you can imagine something you need, it was here. You just had to be willing to sift through it all. You could also find trouble here. The market had its own police force but they were always occupied with pick pockets and disputes over costs that escalated into fist fights and murder. No one was ever caught or prosecuted, though usually just paying a fine or a bribe. 

I take a deep breath taking in all of the aromas, the smell of spices and herbs mixed with perfumes dancing elegantly in the air giving the outside open-air market an aroma like no other. The 87th sun shone brightly in all of its fiery blue glory, heating up the market to a comfortable 89 degrees Celsius. I love this weather. 

I decide to walk down the 29th row because I know Jakari in the 711th stall. He has some really good sandwiches made from the freshest desert rats. Yeah, they have rats just like they do on earth except these ones were bigger carnivorous rodents about the size of a small pitbull. Hard as hell to catch but if cooked low and slow it is by far the most delicious meat to have between two slices of bread and some pickled veggies. My mouth watered just thinking about it. 

On my way to Jakari’s stand, I have to avoid all of the assertive vendors trying to encourage me to try their creams or lotions or foods or clothing. Sometimes, they become so aggressive you have to pull out your piece just to let them know you won’t be forced into anything. I keep mine visible on my hip, which prevent most of them from overstepping. 

Finally, I reach Jakari. When he sees me he smiles a massive grin. “X?! My goodness, man, how long has it been?! 4 or 5 rotations?!” 

He comes around the stall ignoring the customer he was just helping for a proper greeting. 

Jakari wasn’t from Zahk-Za but he’s been there for a few hundred rotations. He was a Barclovian. They were a large, bald green species that had a very flat face, two slits for nostrils and a wide mouth that extended across their entire face. They could open them wide enough to swallow an entire desert rat without having to cut it up. The average Barclovian was between 8 and 9 feet tall and weighed around 600 stones. My buddy, Jakari was small for a Barclovian weighing only 400 stones and barely reaching 7 feet. 

“Yeah, more like 6 but who's counting.” I joke back. 

He squeezes me in a massive bear hug, his thick scaly arms crushing me and I thank the universe my bones are pliable. 

Eventually, he releases me and I fall back to Zhak-Za. “You want your favorite right?!” He remembers everyone’s orders. Barclovian’s have an amazing memory. 

I nod with a smile. He rushes back behind the counter and opens up a large pot that came up to his waist. Steam billowed from the open pot. The sweet and spicy smell of slow cooked desert rat mixed with the perfect ratio of spices and herbs smelled amazing, especially because I was starving. 

Jakari grabs one of the tails pinned to the side of the pot and lifts up the large rat that’s been stewing for hours in a thick red sauce. With a fork, he shreds the meat back into the pot of delicious juices and spices with little effort. The brown shredded flesh splashed into the red bath of goodness. He allows the meat to soak for a minute, poking it down into the flavoring. He grabs a pair of tongs and collects the fatty meat, let’s very little juice drain off and plops it onto a piece of thick crusty bread. The juices soak into the bread but don’t penetrate through. He smiles and winks, his lids close horizontally. 

With the same tongs, he grabbed a large pile of mixed pickled veggies and hot peppers. It cuts through the fatty meat and really pushes the sandwich over the top. Jakari wraps the sandwich in a thin paper and hands it to me. 

I take the first bite. Man this shit is good I think to myself. The delicious juice flows down my face and down my chin. He smiles a toothy grin, content with my enjoyment. 

“So, how you been?” He asks, placing a hand on his hip. 

My mouth is filled with the amazing desert rat but I manage to swallow enough to answer him, “Good. Busy. Been to the 64th sun and the 29th at least twice in the last 6 rotations.”

His eyes widen, “Wow. When do you get to relax?” He asks, covering the stew still ignoring that small, ugly Arachian standing there fuming angrily at the counter from being ignored. 

“You don’t want my business ya fat Barclovian bastard!” The Male Arachoian barked.

My jaw drops and I nearly choke on my sandwich. The Arachoian are a small species like half the size of me! So the fact that he was yelling at Jakari like that shocks me. Besides, everyone knows Barclovians hate to be called fat. 

I step back. 

“What the hell did you just say to me?” Jakari’s green face turning darker green with anger. 

“You heard me ya fat shit. Get my damn desert rat!” The Arachoian puffed up, his legs sprawl out in preparation for a fight. 

I look at him, eyes wide. I’m so scared for him my skin begins to dull. Instead of the deep navy blue color I usually wear, I’m turning lighter. This guy is trying to get himself killed, I shook my head. Oh well, his funeral, I think to myself relaxing and taking another bite. At least it’ll be a few interesting minutes before I have to get to work. 

Jakari comes from behind the counter and approaches the smaller Arachoian male. People are watching now, shaking their heads in disbelief. Jakari towers over him, belly at eye level with the Arachoian. 

“Say it again, I didn’t quite hear you from back there.” Jakari says, pointing towards the pot. 

“I said ‘give me my fucking rat, you FAT bastard!”

Jakarian raises a large fist and rains it down on the Arachoian, but he’s quick and skitters to the right narrowly missing the blow. Jakari’s hand punches the sand sending dust and debris into the air. 

Before he can turn and reposition his attack, the little Arachoian lunges forward and sinks his mandibles deep into Jakari’s shoulder. 

Jakari roars. With one massive claw, he grabs the Arachoian around the neck, then grabs half of his eight legs in a stretching motion. He opens his mouth and bites the Aracho in half, clean through. The Arachoian’s eyes literally pop from his head. His green blood splatters on everything and everyone. I manage to cover my sandwich just in time to be sprayed with the stinking Arachoian blood. 

I shake my head, “Stupid Aracho.” I say to him. 

Jakari turns around. “I hate them. They are this big and they talk all kinds of shit.” 

He peels off the mandibles still stuck in his shoulder and tosses them on the ground like trash and returns to his stall. Everyone else returns to their business, stepping over the body parts as if nothing just happened. 

Before I can finish my sandwich, a few of the police show up asking questions. No one answers them or explains why there is a dead Arachoian in pieces on the floor or why a Barclovian proprietor has putrid green, Arachoians blood all over his face and a shoulder wound. 

Eventually they collected the appendages and walk away defeated, getting zero bribes or answers. 

I finish my sandwich in two more bites. My second stomach is full in the best way possible. I don’t like killing on an empty stomach so this is going to make things much better. Before I leave, I hug Jakari again. We promise to see each other again soon, but we know we are lying. This is the closest I get to friends as an assassin: a Barclovian food vendor in the Zahk-Za Bazaar. 

I walk through a few more aisles and buy a necklace —which will come in handy if I meet a female I want to mate with— , a new winter shawl and a face mask. I’ll use the latter on my mission. 

On my way out I look back over the eclectic bazaar. A hodge podge of the weird and beautiful. A plethora of deliciousness and disgusting absurdities. A collection of fine delicacies and horrible oddities. 

A market place after my own heart. I sip a sip of my Nix blood whisky and let it burn and then sweeten in my throat as it usually does. I decide then, that when I retire I’m going to build a stall in the Zahk-Za Bazaar and spend the rest of my rotations exploring and haggling and fighting. 

That’s the life I want when this is all done. Only 112 rotations left on my contract.