Lieval isn’t a ‘world’ so much as it is a big blue ball of water with a small island on the equator.

“That’s it?” she asks, aghast.

She was promised a world of beaches, babes and barbecue, and all she gets is one tiny island?

When their starshuttle lands they are greeted by…silence. Lieval doesn’t have a bustling port full of greasy food, expensive souvenirs, and cheap prostitutes. Instead, it has a landing pad and a sandy walkway to a rickety WELCOME sign.

“I thought this was a resort,” she says to the man next to her.

He goggles at her.

“You know: beaches, babes and barbecue?”

He titters nervously, “Lieval used to have an old research facility, but it was shut down because of potential chemical contamination. The entire planet was condemned for more than fifty years.”

“And where do the beaches, babes and barbecue come in?”

“They don’t. All that’s here is a refueling station and a beach hostel.”

“A hostel?” Not fucking cool.

“Well,” he says timidly, “the owners have recently been renovating it. They’ve offered really cheap rates for travelers who just want to leave civilization behind.”

She surveys her fellow passengers with disgust, “Is that why you all are on this shuttle?”

“Why, yes! In the three years the hostel has been open it has gained a steady if modest following. I visit every year.”

He says this last bit with some sort of abashed pride.

“So you pay a shit-load of money just to go nowhere.”

“Escaping from civilization is harder than it looks,” he sniffs haughtily, “maybe you’ll enjoy the experience.”

“Who the fuck do I look like: Dellylee? I don’t want to run away from civilization, I want to bathe in it!”

“Dellylee was an eloquent and verbose poet. With your crude language, I highly doubt you could be mistaken for her.”

Myrha turns at the cool, placid voice behind her. The android calmly glides past her and Myrha’s mouth drops.

“You know Dellylee?” she asks.

Never mind the fact that she hates Dellylee’s poems.

The android doesn’t answer. She simply collects the luggage plates from their stack by the door and then presses a button by her throat. Her voice immediately carries through the shuttle’s speakers.

“We have arrived at Lieval’s port of entry. As there is no luggage facility present, your luggage plates will be returned to you as is. The local hostel has a machine it is graciously offering to let travelers use to unpack.”

Myrha grumbles as she snatches her luggage plate from the android and steps off the shuttle. The sun is ridiculously bright, and it is ridiculously hot out. Her contacts immediately start to darken and the big, luminescent star in the sky becomes a bearable pale blob.

She taps her wrist utiphone and a screen pops up; she scrolls through for the tickets and instructions she saved to her device before leaving planet Earth far behind. A voucher for two week’s stay at any Lieval hotel pops up on her screen. Too bad there is only one hotel.

The other passengers, of which there are only fifteen, climb off the shuttle and drag their feet to the hostel. Myrha can’t wait to wring the owner’s neck. Bogus advertising, that’s what this is!

The sandy trail leads up a slight hill, and there on the beach is a dilapidated two-story building. Behind it is nothing short of a tropical jungle. Great. Who knows what kind of rabid, radioactive animals live in there?

When they reach the hostel no doors fly open, no automated voices greet them, no menus show up displaying food and drink possibilities, and no screens accost them to offer hotel rooms. They have to push the doors open themselves and then they are greeted by an empty lobby.

“This sucks,” Myrha moans, and flops onto one of the couches.

The hostel is smelly and wooden, likely made from the trees of this world, and nothing is slick and shiny, metal and plastic, and screens and noise. It’s depressing, really. One of the other guests, a big burly man with a beard, cautiously rings a bell on the desk and—

POOF.

Streamers burst into the air and fall limply to the floor.

“Welcome!” a man jaunts out from the staff door.

He’s a short little man, layered with fat and sweat, and sporting a rather spectacular bald spot. A thick cord hangs around his neck and disappears down a baggy flowery shirt. The flowers are dancing. Myrha has to close her eyes at the sight; she had thought such shirts went out of style decades ago. Apparently, this man, with his nasally voice and bulbous nose, had missed the memo.

“This is Lieval’s prime resort: The Starry Resting Place!”

This is nothing like a resort, let alone any sort of suitable resting place, but the words tickle at her memory. The name must be straight from a Turobeck poem: if I cannot have a love, if I cannot have a ship, then cast me into that vast abyss: the starry resting place. As a lover of poetry (and Turobeck in particular), she can appreciate a fellow fan; but this hostel isn’t exactly deserving of a name from a Turobeck poem.

“My name is Bartin and my wife Werna and I will be happy to assist you with your check-in, not to mention your luggage,” he then shouts to the staff door, “Werna!”

He chuckles weakly at them, “My apologies, she’s a little hard of hearing.”

They all stare blankly at him.

He clasps his hands together and surveys them, “Now, who’s first?”

She is so not staying two weeks here, free vacation or not.

Myrha jumps up from the couch, “I’m out of here.”

“Wait, wait, wait! You only just got here. Surely you want to at least spend the night.”

Myrha places her hands on her hips and stares him down, “Listen buddy, I was promised a world of beaches, babes and barbecue and a stay in a luxurious resort. Instead, I get this.”

She gestures around the lobby. Instead of taking offense, the man squeals in delight and rushes out from behind the desk.

“Oh, you must be our lucky winner!”

He takes her hands in his and shakes them vigorously.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you. We’re so excited to have you here. Please, let us make you comfortable.”

She tugs her hands free, “I told you: I’m leaving.”

His face falls, “But…but you’re already here.”

“And I’m wishing I wasn’t! I have a mind to sue your ass over false advertising. You promised me a first-class vacation and here I am in this dump!”

She stomps her foot just for good measure and the other tourists stare. Let them! The in-flight entertainment had been dreadfully pathetic; they’re in need of a good show.

“Please,” he practically whines, “your poetry was exquisite! It was a masterpiece, a wonderful homage to the grand Turobeck and yet a startling show of individualism, creativity and innovation. It would be an honor to have you at least dine with us.”

Well, a dinner does sound good, but she isn’t quite in the mood to be poisoned by whatever slop this man is calling nourishment. Also, she’s not terribly impressed by his attempt at flattery. Horny slug-aliens have fed her better lines. Literally.

“I’ve got to catch the shuttle,” she turns on her heel.