Inn Space : The Adventures of Dursten Sh’awtz

Inn space : the adventures of dursten sh’awtz

Prologue

These are the adventures of the swashbuckling swill-slinger Dursten Sh’awtz — a once-revered, twice-honored astrophysicist and biomechanical engineer. His invention of the bionanotech-tachyon vacuum not only revolutionized space travel but also snagged him the esteemed Orion’s Belt and Caprica Bow Prizes for Scientific Excellence.

And no — the tachyon vacuum isn’t some glorified ship-maid’s cleaning device. It’s a subatomic inertial dampening field that creates a force vacuum around any transport. Imagine a golf ball shot through a garden hose at hyperC velocities — except without the need for messy, unstable plasma-atomic propellants. The BTV, as it’s affectionately (or lazily) called, uses the laminar flow of solar tachyon emissions for precise, near-effortless navigation.

Dursten’s work was hailed as the Rocket Science that ended Rocket Science. But as is often the case, genius and glory have a short shelf life — and Dursten’s came crashing down after political and economic upheaval ripped the galaxy apart.

The Rise and Fall

Dursten’s golden era unfolded during the reign of the Timmoni’an/Heinzaan Coalition’s provisional government. The Coalition, born from a military coup that overthrew a brutal dictatorship, knew that wielding power through force alone was a recipe for another rebellion. So, they formed an electorate tribunal with a delicate balance: a military representative, a civilian, and a professional from the sciences.

During Dursten’s prime, the tribunal was composed of a Timmoni’an, a Turneran, and a Bant’aan — a trifecta of diplomacy that kept the stars aligned. Life was good. Too good. But even at lightspeed, darkness creeps up faster than you expect.

The Szaba-olian Betrayal

Enter Szaba-ol Prime, a dusty, resource-barren Minhera-class asteroid orbiting in the Hungroid System. Its citizens, the Szaba-olians, felt overlooked, underpaid, and generally used as interstellar trade fodder. They weren’t entirely wrong, but their discontent was fueled by misinformation and a master manipulator: Lehst’r.

Lehst’r — a half-crazed, fully power-hungry Szaba-olian — had rebellion and despotism brewing in her bones. Charismatic and cunning, she rallied the Szaba-olians with fiery speeches and promises of liberation. The Coalition, blinded by their own hubris and prosperity, ignored the warnings.

War came swiftly, brutally… and embarrassingly bloodless.

The Coalition never believed their own people would rise up so ferociously. Naivety was their downfall. Lehst’r seized power, crowned herself Supreme Noc’tor, and swiftly plunged the galaxy into a reign of terror. Loyalty came at a high price. Disobedience? Even higher.

The privileges once enjoyed by commonwealth denizens were stripped away, and for those who had thrived under the Coalition’s rule… the fall was even steeper.

The Fall of Dursten Sh’awtz

For Dursten, the darkness was absolute. His accolades? Forgotten. His wealth? Gone. His name? A cosmic punchline. Reduced to a vagabond, he wandered the galaxy, panhandling for his next meal — which, more often than not, never came.

That is… until fate (or blind luck) intervened.

Starving and desperate, Dursten hitched a ride in the cargo hold of an interstellar freighter. When the ship docked, he ditched at the first loading stop, only to hide out in the receiving bay for what felt like eons. Eventually, a couple of loaders and what looked like a manager caught him.

Quick on his feet (if not his stomach), Dursten spun a tale that talked the manager out of calling security. Instead, he talked himself into something even better — a job.

Welcome to the Gran Nebulae Inn

What Dursten didn’t realize was that he had landed in the space dock of the Gran Nebulae Inn’s Honk’n’Holl’r Sal’oon — the only inn and casino within light-days of the Timmoni’an home world. The Gran Nebulae wasn’t exactly prestigious. With a two-black-hole rating out of four and a reputation that had more gravitational pull than its clientele, it wasn’t where Dursten expected his journey to begin again.

But a new adventure was on the horizon. And Dursten Sh’awtz, fallen genius or not, was ready for whatever the galaxy threw his way… or so he thought.

End of Prologue.

Chapter 1: Dursten Spills a Drink

Dursten’s night had been restless despite the rare luxury of a decent bed. He tossed and turned, his mind replaying the chaos of recent months. When he finally managed a few hours of sleep, his internal alarm failed spectacularly.

A glance at the chronometer jolted him awake.

“Shit! First day and I’m gonna be late!” He stumbled out of bed, wiping the crust from his eyes as he scrambled to make himself presentable.

After a rushed wash and a quick tug at his worn shirt, Dursten sprinted down to the main desk, his nerves fraying by the second.“Is Mr. Zoot in? I’m supposed to meet him… I, uh… start work tonight.” His voice cracked slightly.

The clerk barely glanced up, her nose tilted skyward as if the mere sight of him was an affront.“Yes, he’s in the Honk’n’Holl’r Sal’oon. Waiting for you.”

Dursten forced a smile. “Right… And where exactly—”

A dramatic eye roll. “There’s an FYI Pod across the desk, but if you actually follow the mezzanine through the casino, the Honk’n’Holl’r is just left of the Galaxy Keno Room.”

Dursten nodded politely, but as he navigated the sensory overload of the casino—flashing neon signs, holographic jackpots, and the occasional hologram hawking “Astro-Bucks!”—he realized the clerk had sent him in the exact opposite direction.

“Wonderful. What a snotty bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

Eventually, after dodging gamblers and automated drink drones, Dursten stumbled into the Honk’n’Holl’r Sal’oon—a dimly lit, slightly grimy but lively bar that screamed space western dive. The hum of alien chatter filled the air, and the scent of synthetic whiskey mixed with fried space-grub was oddly comforting.

Teph’lonn Zoot, the man who had offered Dursten a lifeline the night before, stood near the bar, chatting with a few regulars.

“Sorry I’m late,” Dursten blurted, a little out of breath. “Rough night. Nerves, I guess.”

Teph grinned, his smooth, Timmoni’an features betraying no irritation. “Figured as much. Don’t worry about it.” He clapped Dursten on the back. “Mr. Zoot is my father. ’ Name’s Teph’lonn, but everyone just calls me Teph.”

Dursten relaxed a little, but Teph’s next words caught him off guard.

“Listen… I made a few calls.” His voice dropped a bit. “I know who you were before the fall. Orion’s Belt. Caprica Bow. You’re way too qualified to sling drinks.”

Dursten’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t expected to be found out this fast. “I… uh—”

“Relax.” Teph raised a hand. “You’re safe here. Que’enesh Ehba, the General Manager? She’s not exactly a fan of Lehst’r’s regime either. We’ve got your back.”

Dursten exhaled, the knot in his chest loosening.

“So, I’ve got a proposition.” Teph’s tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Our night manager’s giving his notice. One week left. I’d like you to take over. Interested?”

“Night Manager?” Dursten blinked. “Uh… yeah. I guess so.”

“Good. You won’t officially start until next week, but for tonight…” Teph gestured toward the bar. “We’re short a bartender. You might as well get familiar. You’ll need to know how everything works anyway.”

Dursten nodded, his nerves resurfacing slightly, but Teph’s easy going demeanor kept him grounded.

Teph introduced Dursten to the staff, and he quickly hit it off with Buz’zee Magzwell, the Dining Room Manager who was pulling double duty behind the bar tonight.

“Alright, hotshot,” Buz’zee said with a playful grin. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Dursten had slung drinks back in his university days, but it had been years. He was out of practice and clumsier than he cared to admit. Buz’zee took it in stride, laughing off his rookie mistakes as she guided him through the evening rush.

“Bombay Sling, two credits.” She pointed out the cocktail pods with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Double cognac—top shelf, don’t spill it. And whatever you do… don’t mess up a Freddy Fuddpucker.”

“Wait, what’s in a—”

“Just… trust me. Don’t ask.”

Dursten chuckled, relaxing into the rhythm of the bar. His hands remembered enough to avoid total disaster… until they didn’t.

An hour into the rush, a Bombay Sling hit the floor with a splatter, followed swiftly by a double cognac and, yes, a Freddy Fuddpucker.

“Oops.”

Buz’zee raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “You sure you’re not a plant from the Health Inspector?”

Dursten laughed nervously. “Guess I’m a little… rusty.”

A while later, Teph returned, looking flushed and not in a good way.

“Found him,” Teph growled, rubbing his temples.

“Tolby?” Buz’zee asked, her expression souring.

“Curled up on a cot in storage. Asleep.”

“Did you fire him?”

“No. Too pissed off to deal with it.” Teph sighed. “Wrote him up and sent him home. Que’enesh can deal with him tomorrow.”

Buz’zee smirked, but her eyes glanced toward Dursten. “He’s holding up okay. Only spilled a few drinks… nothing catastrophic.”

“Just a double cognac, a Bombay Sling, and a Freddy Fuddpucker.”

Teph’s grin returned. “Ah, the classics.”

The rest of the night passed without incident. By the time Dursten dragged himself back to his quarters, his body ached, his feet throbbed, and his mind was spinning from the whirlwind of activity.But as he collapsed onto the bed, utterly exhausted, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t his old life, but for the first time in a long time… it felt like something.

And that was a start.

End Chapter One