My father taught me how to hunt.

He taught me how to track, shoot a rifle, and kill

cleanly. He was a man I looked up to, eagerly gleaning the knowledge he felt I deserved to learn.
As a hunter, he instructed me that it was imperative to be at the top of the food chain, even if that
was not apparent to the beasts, particularly the carnivores, that prowled the many worlds we
traveled across the galaxy.
I wasn’t always the one to accompany my father. Sometimes, my brother Arros was
dragged along with him. My brother never did possess a knack for hunting. In fact, I think he
despised it. It was my inclination that he always went to appease our father, and because I
encouraged him to do it. I figured it would be good for him to get out in the open air, and away
from the confines of indoors studying. I wanted him to experience the galaxy in a different way,
a meaningful way that couldn’t be found in his star charts and datacards. But perhaps that was
just wishful thinking.

Mytaranor Sector, Kashyyyk System, Wasskah

Arros and his father waited. Silent, the pair crouched amongst the pale yellow ferns that
grew beneath the gnarled tangles of the Rancor bramble overhead. Like the enveloping tentacles
of a rathtar, the bramble branches arched and twisted to form massive forests—dull grey
forests—but still they teemed with life. It was apparent.
There were many parasitic flora and fauna that had ingrained themselves into the
surrounding bramble, mostly fungi and burrowing insects. Beautiful Marina Rung flowers
sprouted in patches between the ferns on the ground, and nested in crevices split between the
brambles, their pale pink bells contrasting the bland hues and threatening thorns. Small
convorees flapped and chirped carefree like children in a playground, their bulbous bodies and
long wiggling tails darted around the harsh branches, plucking insects out of their homes despite
their shallow beaks. Out of sight, howling primates called momong could be heard, both near and
distant.
Arros had read about momongs before. They could be fearsome creatures. Six-limbed
with orange or red fur, their dexterity dominated the highest points of the bramble forest. They
would yank an unsuspecting convor out of the air, tearing it apart with their four arms until the
frantic flapping and terrified chirping stopped. Then, the primate devoured it voraciously. Their
large ears were coveted prizes, status symbols amongst their ranks, but they were also coveted as
pets. They sold for a high price on worlds like Zygeria to slavers and pirates. Even their pelts
could fetch decent fares, but that wasn’t why Arros and his father were ducked behind a
grounded bramble log. They were after a bigger prize—a much bigger, more dangerous prize.
But the father-son duo had been hunkered down for several hours, peering at a clearing
where the semi-fresh carcass of a momong lay, hoping to bait their target in. “It shouldn’t be too
much longer, I reckon,” whispered the father with a hopeful gesture ahead, encouraging his son
to keep his eyes peeled. He was keenly aware of his son’s displeasure and boredom.
Even more aware was Arros. He tried to mask his feelings, but he wished more than
anything to be home, surrounded by holograms of galactic maps, learning about the galaxy from
afar instead of being surrounded by buzzing insects and screaming primates. Hunting offered
none of the comforts he had come to enjoy. At least, almost none. Arros smuggled his datapad
for moments exactly like this one. His father distracted, scanning the edges of the clearing with
a pair of macrobinoculars, Arros decided it was time to quell his boredom.
The datapad switched on. The blue screen emitted an incredibly faint light, too faint for
Arros’s father to take notice. Its all too familiar layout brought Arros to smile. He tapped the
screen, navigating through the library of information until he found what he wanted: Carnivores
of Silios. In that section he found the beast his father was desperate to kill. Not native to
Wasskha, the target was the feline quadruped nicknamed ghosts by native tribes on its home
planet, or so that was the rumor Arros had been told by his father. An image of the beast flashed
onto the screen.
The Carux—the creature’s official name—was originally from the grim forested world of
Silios in the Outer Rim Territories. Similar to its cousin—the Nexu, from the neighboring world
of Cholganna—the Carux boasted quills running along its back. However, the spines protruding
from the Carux were longer, over half a meter in length, and angled sharply along the length of
its five metered frame from the base of the neck towards the tail, a whip-like appendage that
could lacerate flesh when it lashed out.
Arros was frightened by what he saw. The six-eyed monster, its wide mouth agape in a
sinister grin, bearing its teeth like needles primed for injection. Its claws were obsidian black,
four sickles poised to reap necks and soft underbellies. Its grey-black coat perfectly patterned to
act as a nearly invisible camouflage. Did his father really believe the two of them could conquer
this fiendish nightmare?
Arros toggled a frighteningly short entry from a Dr. Elsing:

The Carux is a deadly, cunning beast. Primal in the utmost of the

word, it rarely fails to kill; a perfect specimen of evolution. Its
cushioned paws allow it to creep nearly silent across branches and
through the dense undergrowth. Its infrared vision allows it to find
prey in the thickest, deepest, darkest groves of the forests on Silios.
It will see you before you even knew it was there. Its nature has
made study nearly impossible. It is paramount to avoid this animal
at all costs. May my publication here serve as a warning to all.

The short blurb sent a shiver down Arros’s spine. He knew about Dr.
Elsing, a famous biologist. If Arros remembered correctly, the scientist had
passed only a few months after the date on the entry. Perhaps his research brough
him to his end. The curious boy shut off the datapad and shoved it into his
satchel. Disturbed by the sheer terror of the Carux, he looked over at his father,
still staring through the binocs.
 Suddenly, there was a snap in the trees on the right side of the clearing. It
went silent. No howling momongs, no chirping convorees, just a chilling silence
hanging in the air like a miasma.
“It’s here,” said the father, just audible enough for Arros to hear. The
father slowly set the binocs down on the log. Just as slowly, he reached at the
rifle slung over his shoulder, carefully drawing it towards the clearing, resting it
on the log for stability. He let out a long breath.
Arros wished he had a rifle, though he wasn’t a very good shot. It would
serve him better than the measly blaster pistol strapped to his waist.
He turned to face the clearing. He regretted it. Fear bubbled inside him
when he saw a clawed paw emerge from beyond the pale yellow ferns and slink
into the sandy dirt on the clearing’s edge.
It made no sound as it prowled into the clearing. The Carux strode
gracefully, lean muscles undulating beneath its smokey fur. It approached the
dead momong, turning its head curiously. Dipping its head, it sniffed the corpse.
The mouth opened, a fork tongue flicked out, salivating. The jaws revealed its
vicious teeth, and they sank into the flesh of the dead momong. A crunching
sound ruptured the silence as tendons snapped and bones cracked under the force
of the bite.
Arros stared in horror, frozen with fear. He gave his father a quick look,
who switched the safety off the rifle. His father’s shoulder flinched back. The
familiar din of his rifle echoed through the deafening hush. Arros looked to the
clearing expecting an enraged carnivore bearing down on them. To his surprise,
the Carux had been felled. It flopped over on its side, a puff of steam from the
blaster scored wound floated and coiled upwards into transparency.
Arros couldn’t find any words to say, he could only manage to fix his
disbelieving gaze on the fallen predator. Arros thought, how had it not seen
them? Perhaps it was just luck, or perhaps it was a beast driven by hunger outside
of its natural habitat. It didn’t matter in the end, Arros was just glad to be safe
from its clutches.
The father vaulted the log, cautiously approaching the fallen Carux, rifle
held ready at his hip. Without looking back, he motioned for Arros to follow with
a wave. Arros swallowed hard, nervous, but he too clambered over the log into
the clearing.
As the pair stepped closer to the carnage, Arros felt incredibly uneasy. His
stomach was a bundle of knots, and his heart thrummed forcibly like it was trying
to escape. His boots seemed to sink into the sandy dirt, as it dragged him towards
an inevitable doom. But as he reached the creature, leaning over it, he could tell it
was dead, and his inner tension eased.
 His father jabbed the mortaled beast with his rifle’s barrel, and Arros half
expected the Carux to spring to life, slashing with its claws and flaying with its
tail. Yet it laid there, unmoving. There wasn’t even a hint of life about it. The
shot delivered by the father was evidently a good one, the bolt melting the arteries
and spinal cord in the dead beast’s neck.
Arros’s father let out a proud holler. Buzzing with adrenaline, he turned to
his son and said, “Head back to the ship and bring back the repulsorlift. We aren’t
carrying this thing out on our own.” He admired his handiwork for a moment.
“Kriffing incredible!”
With nothing more than simple acknowledgment, Arros wandered out of
the soft clearing into the ferns and brambles, listening to the forest slowly roar
back to life as he traversed to the ship. Even the wildlife here, who had never
seen a Carux, recognized it as a killer. Arros found it interesting they didn’t now
fear him or his father. He stopped trudging for a moment. A strange
phenomenon, but it didn’t sit well with him. Regardless of his feelings, Arros
continued moving towards the ship again, eager to leave the island-strewn moon
of Wasskah behind, and return to his comfortable homeworld.

To be continued…