Thieves of Light

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Deep within a great space station orbiting a tiny blue-white star, a warrior labored at a task warriors despised. Perched on a special stool that safely supported his massive bulk yet let his thick, leathery tail swing freely, he sat at his work station and stared at a display screen.

The brownish-green skin of his forehead, almost invisible above a protruding snout that would have been at home on a Komodo dragon, was furrowed with frustration. His jaws parted, revealing a dozen smaller teeth to go with the six upper canines that showed even when his mouth was closed. He lashed the air with his tongue.

"Eheheh," the warrior growled. "There's never any end of combat reports." Then he resumed punching at the data entry keys with thick fingers.

His name was Nar-lex-ko-li-hon, which meant To-cowards-their-due in the language of his people. His people called themselves the Qeth-the Chosen-and their world Bree-nech-Peaceful Morning.

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