Prologue: Moore City, Ix.
Black leather shoes pounded along the cracked concrete, blinding red suns bearing down on the morning market street. The human men chased the small fish-like man down the bright corridor, blue-and-yellow bird’s cages crashing to the ground and smashing open, bright sun-like birds fleeing into the open sky, as the small fish-man stumbled into the stalls. Vendors screaming various languages, “Bastard!”; “Yxwadh!”; “Ed’sjk!”; words incomprehensible to human minds. The human men grabbed the blue fish-man and threw him to the floor of a dark, red-bricked alley.
The bigger man pressed the fish-man up against the wall.
“Where?” said the smaller man.
“Wdi’sk! Wdi’sk!” screamed the fish-man, desperately.
“Colonial. Or my partner will break you” said the smaller man.
“I do not knew!”
The bigger man snapped the fish-man’s finger. “Do not lie” said the smaller man.
“Is gone! Not on Ix!”
The small man took out his bronze pocket watch and wound it. “Do not lie. We stopped all outgoing ships. It is impossible for it to be off-planet.” He looked at the watch face. “We have plenty of time, Christopher. Call me when you’re done.” The small man straightened his tie and walked out of the alley, into the white-hot light.
“Fuckin’ Ixians. Youse fucks don’t know shit ‘bout lying.” Christopher held the Ixian up by his neck and drew his blade out from under his shabby cheap coat. Christopher pushed the knife into his arm and pried off dirty scales. “Tell me where it is.”
The blue Ixian screeched “Bar! On street-near-blue-river!”
Christopher grinned widely, “What blue river?” He stabbed the fish-man in his shoulder, blood coursing down and onto the dusty ground. “Nic wants this thing tonight, so which fucking river?”
Shapes on top of the crumbling, broken buildings moved, shadowy figures starkly outlined against the two red suns. An eroded block of stone that may have once been a grotesque fell down to the alley, smashing. Christopher looked around, dropping his bloody blade. The sound of leather boots against rusting metal fire escapes, twelve men in patchwork-leather armour climbed down to the alley.
Christopher panicked. He drew his grandfather’s pistol from the faded silver-lined holster his father gave to him when he became an enforcer. He stole the pistol from his grandfather’s room at the nursing home after he forgot who Christopher was. He began firing wildly, hitting one of the men in the chest. He tumbled from the fire escape onto the hard ground, dead on impact. One of the men threw something. Christopher felt a searing pain in his chest; he looked down to see a red-hot stain in his shirt, billowing out from a filed, rusted iron knife. He slumped down, sliding against the wall. The leathered men surrounded him.
“Please, I don’t want to die yet,” he pleaded, “I’m only 34… Please! I’m only doing my job.” He broke into tears. He, a large, granite-faced man in a cheap cloth suit, was sobbing uncontrollably.
The 11 men walked past him and picked up the bleeding Ixian.
“Stand up, brother” said the largest of the men, a red ogre-man, almost certainly an alien. “What is your name?” he asked.
“192342”, replied the Ixian.
The ogre-man shook his head, “No, your broodname, brother!”
The Ixian looked up, “I is Aleostus.”
“I am Ushitora.” He gave his hand to Aleostus and helped him up to his feet. He turned to the other men, “Guthrie, bring Aleostus to our home.” A red-haired human helped Aleostus stand, “Let’s get you rested, bud!” he exclaimed cheerily.
Ushitora said “You’re one of us now, Brother Aleostus. Welcome to the War of Independence. The rest of you, head to this bar Brother Aleostus speaks of and wait for this ‘Nic’. He will most probably be along once he finds ‘Christopher’.”
As Guthrie helped Aleosus down the crowded market street, a sharp knock echoed through the alley and he knew then what he had been drafted into.
I know this isn’t very good, but it’s a start. Lot of influences in this; Irish History, McCarthy, Orwell…