What Is Omega Station?

Omega Station, aka the Rock. A barren, airless asteroid on the outermost edge of the galaxy, home of the richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor. Dotted with commercial, military and residential domes, the outer surface is the place to live for those who can afford it or are lucky enough to work there.
But the vast majority of the Rock's residents don't live in the surface domes; instead, they have tunneled downwards, moving ever further towards its fiery heart. The upper levels are safe, comfortable, secure—or as secure as anyone can be on
Omega Station. The lower levels, now; they are home to the detritus of a double dozen races and species, all living in uneasy juxtaposition, fighting, loving, eating—and being eaten.
The Rock's location in space, the last real port before exiting the galaxy, has made it a valuable commodity to many governments and private corporations, as has the addictive drug straz, which grows only in its recycling vats. Control has been taken and given in a hundred bloody battles over the years, but those who live in the lower levels—and further down, in the Depths—are often barely aware of whoever claims to be in charge.
No one, really, rules the Rock, whatever they may claim, however many weapons and warriors they throw against it.
For the Rock is eternal…and it has many secrets...and many stories...

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Part 2 of UNDERWORLD by K.G. McAbee

"So, Captain," Rudof Dyll asked, his voice a smooth tenor, the series of silver rings that lined both his earlobes twinkling in the subdued light, "what do you think of our little lounge? Not bad? A bit gaudy, perhaps?" A lean hand, bejeweled to the first knuckle on all fingers, motioned towards the dance floor several meters below, where a number of couples—or in some cases, threesomes or foursomes—were moving in varying degrees of attention and rhythm to soft music.

Some few meters below, because Rudof Dyll's table was perched atop one of the several floating balconies that drifted in carefully coordinated patterns above the floor level of the lounge—now skimming above the dancers' heads, now approaching the transparent dome that protected them from the near total vacuum without, a vacuum that made the stars bright burning lights in the onyx sky.

Captain Eversyn was not happy. Not happy at all. Actually, if pressed, he would admit—but not to anyone else, only to himself, of course, and that in the dark and silence and loneliness of his private domicile—that he was really happy nowhere but behind a desk, bringing order to the chaos of reports and information, then storing that order all neatly away in clearly labeled and docketed files. It was his most secret, most hidden vice, and it would never do to allow anyone else to know that about him. Being the tall, massive, heavily muscled captain in the Consolidated Guard that he was, everyone took him to be ready at any time with fists or weapons to bring, if not peace, at least some sort of armed d├ętente to any difficult situation.

But Carle Eversyn preferred to deal instead…with paperwork.

It was his curse. It was also, though he'd never realized it, his blessing, the means to his constant promotion, and the real reason he'd been assigned to so many difficult and dangerous situations on so many worlds. He had teams of eager fire-eaters under his command, Baranin and others, armed and dangerous Connies who would be happy, with any weapon at hand or bare fists, to break heads—or related organs in non-Human species—whenever and wherever necessary to restore the status quo.

But how many of them could write up a concise report, evaluate details, or make deductions from the sometimes sparse information on hand?

Still, the Starview was out of his ordinary haunts.


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