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CHAPTER TWO
Maggie
Facing outward fromthe bakery, the business to my right was a XrkXrk candle and lantern shop. The beetle people of XrkXrk lived in tunnels and cave systems on their home planet and were renowned for their exquisitely crafted lighting systems. The beetleman owner, Grakby, had been polite, if a little quiet, when I’d met him earlier today.
I hadn’t met my neighbours on the other side yet, but when my stomach rumbled insistently again, I realized I was about to. The shop to the left of my bakery was a pub, and a quick meal there sounded like just the ticket. I didn’t have the energy to cook or to go find somewhere else to eat right now, so the pub next door would be a perfect option for tonight. There was so much choice (and therefore competition) on Elora Station that every eatery was pretty much guaranteed to be good, otherwise, it wouldn’t survive. So I knew the meal would be decent.
I raised my personal data tablet and tapped it on the small lock screen built into the wall outside my bakery. Immediately, a shimmering forcefield rippled into existence, blocking off my store from the main station walkway. I nodded, satisfied that everything would remain secure while I was gone, then hustled over to the pub next door.
I stopped outside the pub, the late-night shoppers winding around me as I stared. I hadn’t had a good look at this place, yet. I hadn’t even gotten to visit my unit before I’d signed the lease agreement for my bakery. Units on Elora Station were snapped up too quickly for me to make the trek from Terratribe 1 to view it, so I’d signed the lease site unseen. The only thing I’d asked was about what kind of businesses were beside me so that I wasn’t leasing a bakery beside an already established competing sweets shop. So, I already knew about the XrkXrk lighting store on the one side and the pub on the other. But seeing the pub in person, up close for the first time, was a whole different story.
It was a whole different story and all I was seeing was thedoor.
There were no windows, no open space to allow glimpses into the pub from the outside. All you could see was a gigantic, ornate, perfectly circular door. It shone so pure and black I thought it was made of some kind of metal or smooth stone, only noticing upon closer inspection the subtle whorls that told me the door was actually made of dense, highly polished wood. Intricate images were carved into the door, rimming it like a wreath – little depictions of flowers and fearsome swords, berries and battleaxes. The unique combination of beautiful nature imagery and weaponry, combined with the unmistakable runic writing above the door, told me this had to be an orc-run pub. I wrinkled my nose in concentration, staring upward at the name of the establishment. Back at the shuttle factory in New Toronto, we’d had several suppliers sending us parts from Orc-Orok. I’d read enough supply lists and shipping notices in Orc-Orokish to have a rudimentary understanding of their alphabet and some vocabulary. I wasn’t sure what the name of the pub would translate to in Terratribe Standard, though. I spoke the name out loud, hoping my inner ear translator would be able to muddle through my terrible accent.
The translation echoed inside my head.
The Middle’s Guardian.
What the hell did that mean?
Either my accent truly was so bad that my translator couldn’t adequately translate the audio it had picked up, or it was a classic Orc-Orokish riddle. Orc-Orokish was a language known for its metaphors, imagery, and wordplay. Even advanced translators often failed to capture the actual meaning of Orc-Orokish phrases, instead translating the words literally, which is what I suspected had probably happened just now.
I’m too hungry to worry about this now. I’d never figure out the damn name of this place if I fainted in the middle of the station.Food first. Then riddles.
I grasped the golden doorknob at the right side of the circle door and tugged hard, assuming the huge door would be heavy and hard to budge. But it wasn’t, and I almost fell flat on my ass. Holding tight to the doorknob saved me. I regained my footing, breathing out harshly and tucking a kinky curl that had sprung loose from the bun on the top of my head back into its place.
I was almost immediately toppled again, though, by two different things.
The sounds.
And the smells.
I noticed the sounds first. Hearty guffaws, cheerful conversation, the clinking of glasses, and deep, resonating, yet somehow jovial music. The music reminded me of Old-Earth bagpipe music, but the sound was much deeper. It reverberated chaotically through the air, weaving a toe-tapping melody with its powerfully bellowed notes.
The music rumbled in my ribcage, making my breath catch. That’s when I smelled everything.
My mouth instantly began to water.
I recognized some of the fragrances. As this was a human-run station, with many of the tourists and customers being human, the first fragrances I detected were human in origin – garlic, butter, potatoes. Other scents were foreign, though. The scent of a type of charred meat I couldn’t quite place. Herbs that tracked bitter yet tantalizing ribbons through the air.
