July 13th, 2486 - Planet Haaloja-2, Yakaap Village

The spaceship hovered over Mr. Kimbar’s field, causing his herd of domesticated golfarn to scatter and flee in all directions. The golfarn were like giant, round and hairy mouths on spindly legs and were scared of very little. Kogiri watched from his window. It was the early hours of the morning, and the usual morning fog was rolling away. It was his duty to sweep the temple every morning before school, and it was a job that required early rising.

He jogged through village; along the dirt road leading out of town, through the rows of little cottages with their thatched roofs, their chimney’s dormant. Normally he would stop to run his hands through the vahil grass, or steal some freshly baked bread out of Mrs. Gajama’s bakery, but not today; he was insatiably curious about the spaceship. No spaceships had ever landed on Haaloja-2 in his entire lifetime. He was only eleven years old, and considered that perhaps his life wasn’t a significant means of measuring time at all.

He arrived at the spaceship in no time at all. The temple could wait. He watched with wide eyes as the bulky, black ship, with its archaic rotary landing propellers, came to an unceremonious thud in the orange grass. The white bows of the charak trees swayed, their purple leaves shuddering less and less as the propellers died down. Mr. Kimbar the farmer stood a few feet away from Kogiri, both hands on his portly belly, his dark green face much paler than usual. Kogiri noticed there were more people there; all the early risers like Mrs. Gajama the baker, whose apron fell from her hands, and old man Mandon the fisherman, who readjusted his spectacles vigorously, and placed his hands into the pockets of his overalls.

The ramp descended, and the door slid open. Someone stood in the doorway; a silhouette against the darkened interior. Everyone gathered there watched the ship with baited breath, waiting for the strange new arrival to speak.

‘Hiya!’

The voice was high-pitched and excited. The owner of the voice moved out of the gloom, revealing … a Human, with curly, chestnut coloured hair, dark brown skin and piercing brown eyes … a member of an alien race. She wore a white coat of some kind; a garment that Kogiri did not recognise, and she smiled ecstatically, flashing her white teeth. There was some commotion inside the ship, and the people of Haaloja-2 who were gathered in the field retreated a few steps, muttering to each other worriedly. Kogiri noticed that a dozen more people had arrived. The village was coming out in force. Another figure pushed past the woman in the doorway, and the people of Haaloja-2 gasped in surprise. An elderly, very short Haalojan man, with a shaved head and bushy white beard, stood in the doorway.

‘People of Haaloja-2!’ the strange Haalojan called out. ‘I am Pazzik. I request an audience with your village Elder. Can this be arranged?’

‘Take me to your leader!’ the Human said with a satisfied grin.

They were an odd company, although that much was to be expected from aliens. Only the Haalojan named ‘Pazzik’ had green skin, which was a shock to Kogiri. He had only ever known people to be different shades of green. Instead, there were two pale skinned men, one of whom had bizarre, long and floppy ears, and two women, whose skins were different shades of brown. One of the men had short, black hair, and wore a uniform like a soldier. His name was Ichiro, and he had eyes like daggers, contrasting his friendly grin. The golden-haired man with the strange ears wore a short sleeved, white t-shirt, and white shorts that came down to his knees. He was missing an arm, and the arm that he did have was a strange, mechanical contraption, that reminded Kogiri of Mr. Kimbar’s tractor, if Mr. Kimbar’s tractor had fingers. His eyes were red, like a Haalojan’s, and he had a placid disposition. His name was Angora. One of the girls had blue hair, tied in a ponytail like the kind that Haalojan women wore when working the fields. She wore a black hoodie and grey shorts, and had a mechanic’s instruments hanging from her belt. Her eyes were bright green, and her disposition was generally sour. Her name was Chara.

Then there was Abiona, the curly haired woman. She was bright, talkative, and interested in local culture. The adults were wary of the aliens, and so Abiona latched on to Kogiri. By the time they had reached the Elder’s cottage, Kogiri had explained the three seasonal festivals; The festival of the rise, where prayers were offered to the Goddess ‘Sprigana’ for a good harvest, the festival of the bounty, where offerings of food were left at a person’s doorstep for the God ‘Nahta’, to show appreciation for a good harvest, or to wish for a better harvest the following year, and the festival of the sentinel, where prayers were offered to the God ‘Undagar’, for a safe winter free from sickness. It was the first thing that came to mind, and while he wasn’t sure that it was what Abiona wanted, she didn’t seem to mind at all, and listened respectfully.

The Elder’s cottage was somewhat larger than the others, but no less quaint. Pazzik entered first, bowing to the shrine of Sprigana at the entrance, which was carved from marble and depicted a woman wearing a dress made of wheat, wielding a large scythe in both hands. The adult Haalojans watched them with suspicion. There were dozens of them, watching the party of new arrivals in tense silence.

‘Something doesn’t seem right here…’ Ichiro noted, looking around slowly.

‘I’ve never been to Haaloja-2 before … but the old Haaloja wasn’t much more welcoming to alien races’, Pazzik muttered. ‘I’m afraid this is the norm…’

They entered the cottage. It was surprisingly warm inside, furnished with chairs, a circular table and cupboards of white wood, with herbs and plant life draped across furniture in abundance. The Elder sat at the kitchen table, a plate containing a modest portion of meat and bread in front of him. Ichiro gasped.

‘It can’t be!’ he said ‘I—I was stationed on Vizran when you died! I saw the reports, you shouldn’t be alive!’

Abiona and Pazzik glared at the old man. Chara and Angora shared a look of confusion and worry. The old Haalojan man dabbed at his cracked lips with a handkerchief and wiped the crumbs from his moustache. He was thin, his face gaunt and his eyes hollow, devoid of emotion. He looked up, and his lifeless eyes caused everyone present to shiver with fear ... except for Pazzik.

‘Jokbaala’, Pazzik growled. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

The old man, revealed to be the former rebel leader Jokbaala, reclined into his chair.

‘I’ve been right here, having breakfast, as I do every morning’, Jokbaala replied. His tone was calm and collected, unnervingly so.

‘One of the most successful rebels who has ever lived … you bit the hand that feeds and got away with it, and now you’re just chilling in the back end of the galaxy’, Abiona said. ‘Don’t take any of that as a compliment.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it my dear’, Jokbaala replied. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t expect to find me here. You don’t look like Imperial assassins. Besides, Pazzik, I would never accuse you of being on Finlay’s payroll...’

‘So you remember me, you old fool’, Pazzik said, his voice rising slightly. Chara watched him with surprise, as he walked forwards and slammed both of his hands down onto the table. ‘The war is over you old fool! The Emperor is a decrepit old man on death’s door! Surely you’ve given up by now?!’

‘The war is never over so long as there are people left to fight it’, Jokbaala replied, his moustache twitching as a smile formed on his lips.

‘How many of our people had to suffer, to face abuse and stigma, because of your crusade?!’ Pazzik yelled, his face turning red with anger.

‘That was their mistake, for leaving home.’

‘Our home is space dust—because of a war started by you and your ilk! The galaxy was peaceful before you antagonised Finlay!’

‘A bird may find a cage peaceful … but without the use of its wings, it cannot be called a bird.’

The two men glared at each other from across the table. Pazzik let out a huff, and rapidly simmered down. The redness in his face disappeared, and he gave Jokbaala a curious, almost condescending smile.

‘I’m going to need your temple’, Pazzik said. ‘I’m going to train three Humans and a Bungirban there, in the Mystik Arts. Do you object?’

‘With every fibre of my being’, Jokbaala replied. ‘I consider it blasphemy, of course.’

‘…but you’ll allow it, won’t you?’

‘I respect you Pazzik, even if you don’t respect me. I’ll allow it. Make use of the village as you see fit … I’ll make sure you feel at home during your stay. Have that boy Kogiri show you the way to the temple.’

Pazzik quietly turned on his heel, leaving the door open behind him as he left.