Commander Stagner paced continually behind Vos’go, watching the back of the Sarvallan’s hairless, dark green head. This wouldn’t normally have bothered Vos’go; blocking out the presence of others was something he considered one of his strongest skills. But even beyond the clank of the officer’s boots on the floor and the drumming of his fingers, the human just would not stop talking.

“This has to be finished now, do you understand me? They’re going to be here tomorrow, and if this system doesn’t function flawlessly, it’ll be your head as well as mine.”

It was information Vos’go might have considered more relevant or pressing had he not been hearing it ceaselessly for the two months he had been working on the system. But the data had all been factored in a long time ago, so there were no more adjustments to be made. The threat of his own demise was droll and uninteresting, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it was with humans and needing to voice their frustrations out loud.

“Is almost done. Need quiet to work.”

The commander finally stopped pacing, but the grumbling continued. “Fine. I will be back in three hours, and it better be done. I will not tolerate failure.” The words had been intended with authority, but instead just gave away the fear he was feeling. Despite his threats, it was his own career that was at risk if the project failed.

The sound of his boots on the metal floor trailed off into the distance, and Vos’go listened for them until he heard the distinct sound of the bay door closing. Satisfied, he pushed back from the work bench. He kicked his feet up on the desk and leaned back, taking a moment to look up at the suspended spacecraft floating in the hangar bay on the other side of the window. He admired the work that had gone into it, including his own adaptation of the drone piloting program from existing, but much simpler designs.

After a few seconds of taking in the technical quality of the prototype, he reached down to a hidden pocket on the inside of his thigh and took out a small datapad. It opened to a document of technical scrawlings, designs for a collapsible scope, a side project of his. He closed it out, switching instead to a news feed, written in the elongated symbols of the language of his homeworld. After a few more moments of waiting to see if the Commander would return, he adjusted to get more comfortable in his chair and started reading.

---

Commander Stagner looked out at the vast emptiness of space through the large observation window. He greatly preferred the sight of that void to watching the room gradually fill up with his impatient superiors. This was his last chance, he knew, his last opportunity to prove his value to them and finally move up to the admiralty. To get back out into space aboard his own ship again, instead of being confined to research laboratories with shiftless scientists and technicians.

And they had nearly doomed him, that Sarvallan in particular. The drone control system had been completed at the last possible moment, leaving no time for a test run, just the basic diagnostics. Fortunately, the system had functioned correctly and all of the necessary commands were included. Since the fighter had performed admirably in all of it’s manned prototype tests, this was reason to breathe easy; even if the drone controls weren’t perfect, the brass should still be impressed by the ship itself.

It was a project he himself had envisioned, brought on by the great failure that had hamstrung his rise through the naval ranks. In that battle, of course, it had not been his stratagem, but incapable pilots that had cost the day. When his squadron of stealth bombers were detected mid-mission, the defense batteries came online early, and the fleet was decimated. But never again, he thought, finally feeling a sense of accomplishment replacing the anxiety that had consumed him over the previous months.

The room was full now, a dozen highly decorated uniforms and the old, stern faces of the senior admiralty accompanying them. They sat in two rows of chairs, silent, barely taking the time to acknowledge each other. On a different day, this might have given him pause, led him to question what it was that so desperately made him want to belong to this group of old insignia. But today was a victory, and he wasn’t going to miss his chance to enjoy it.

“Gentlemen,” he began, turning fully around to face the room. He clicked a button on the small remote in his hand, and a diagram of the fighter appeared on the observation window. “Today I will demonstrate the capabilities of the SF-44 prototype. With its advanced drone system, capable of taking over for its pilot automatically, it will fully eliminate the need for manned stealth fighters.”

He paused for a moment. He had hoped for a reaction of surprise there, but was met with only silence. He cleared his throat, then continued.

“The SF-44 is equipped with our latest compact stealth field technology, effective against all but the most specialized surveillance systems. It’s dual-thrusters and state-of-the-art stabilization system provide unmatched maneuverability and-”

“We’ve all read the dossier, Commander.” The voice came from the most senior officer in attendance, Admiral Koenig, a man feared and respected throughout the Navy. “Let’s see the ship.”

Stagner tried to absorb the break in his flow as well as he could. “Of course, sir, right away.” He pressed and held a button on the nearby wall. “Captain, begin the test.”

In the hangar bay below, Stagner knew the ship was powering up, the pilot bringing it fully online and beginning the agreed upon series of maneuvers. But from the window of the observation room, none of this was visible, and the impatience of his superior officers was already evident. The moments of waiting were killing him.

Finally, the slim form of the fighter streaked into view as it arrived, spinning about in careful fashion and presenting itself before the window, where it was visible that there was indeed no pilot. Stagner had prepared this flourish in case anyone suspected him of trickery, but no one did. It wasn’t a deceit that would have lasted for long, after all, and seeing the stoic faces of the admiralty, he couldn’t help but feel a little foolish for even including it.

“The SF-44s adaptive camouflage can make it nearly disappear, even from plain view,” he continued, hoping his practiced routine would calm his nerves. For an agonizing moment, the fighter was still, as his speech and the pilot’s actions became unsynced. But then, all at once, the ship was gone, and only the faintest shimmer remained. One or two of the members of his audience opened their eyes slightly wider, which he surmised was as much of a reaction as he was likely to get.

“And you’ll see now, as the pilot brings the ship around, that the camouflage is extremely effective even at high speeds.” The shimmer began to move, and he tracked it with his own eyes as best he could as it veered off towards the distance. But then all at once, he couldn’t follow it anymore. He smiled to himself, satisfied with the display. “This allows the pilot to deceive systems even after detection, and re-position as such.”

Nothing happened. He waited another few agonizing moments, assuming the timing was wrong, swearing to himself that he was going to tear into the pilot as soon as this meeting was over. But the ship never returned. Finally, he reached up and held the button down again. “Captain, please disable the active camouflage now.” It was his best attempt at making it seem like part of the plan, but it didn’t seem to be working.

“Sir, the ship is… the ship is gone, sir, I don’t… I don’t know what happened.”

The others in the room stared silently at Stagner as he tried to process the information.

“What do you mean it’s gone? Gone where?”

“Sir, I followed the commands exactly, but when I went to disable the camo, it jumped and severed my connection.”

“You mean to tell me, Captain, that the SF-44 is floating out there completely undetectable?”

“No… No, sir. I mean the ship jumped out of the system.”

Stagner was still, motionless as the realization hit him all at once. He had created the perfect, foolproof stealth fighter, sure to change the outcome of a thousand conflicts. And now, due once again to an incompetent pilot, it was gone. Worse, he thought. Someone else has it.

“Do you have some explanation for this, Commander?” Admiral Koenig said, finally breaking the silence. But Stagner couldn’t turn back to face them, not yet. All he could bring himself to do was stare blankely out at the empty stretch of space where all of his carefully laid plans had been only moments before.

---

Vos’go paid as little attention as he could to the noisy saloon, instead focusing on the old wristpad in front of him. It was too obsolete to be practical for its original purpose, but he liked the challenge of finding a new use for it. He worked at the chassis with a variety of tools, trying to see what room he could make for new components, and was consumed enough by it that he didn’t notice the human sit down across the table from him.

“Just heard from the crew, looks like the ship arrived.” He chuckled to himself. “Pretty impressive.”

Vos’go glanced up at him for a moment, surprised both by the compliment and that anyone was sitting there at all, but then returned to his work.

“Was simple. Hoping for something difficult next time.”

The man shrugged at the reply, unsure how to take it. “I’m sure they’ll come up with something. Always more work to be done.” He paused, expecting Vos’go to have something to add, but the Sarvallan didn’t look up to acknowledge him. “But uh… well, I’ve gotta know, how did you keep them from seeing the changes? Wouldn’t they have noticed the sequence was different?”

Vos’go continued working, spinning one of his tools idly about his fingers while examining the now fully open chassis. “Didn’t change the sequence. Swapped the names on the commands and didn’t leave time for a test run. Been done for weeks now.”

He stared at Vos’go for a few seconds and then burst into laughter. “Oh, wow, that’s uh… that’s pretty good. I wish I could have seen their faces.” He sighed, satisfied, enjoying the moment of victory. He expected some response from Vos’go, but the Sarvallan was thoroughly wrapped up in his tinkering. He stood to leave. “The money will be in your account in a few hours.”

At this, Vos’go finally looked back up at him, nodding slowly.

“Good.”

The ship shuddered violently, was calm for a singular moment, then heaved forward, slamming Rada against her seat’s restraints. The display in front of her went dark, leaving only the window itself, peeking out into the peaceful stars beyond. She tried to take a deep breath, tried to center herself, but was met with an immediate sharp pain. At least one broken rib, she thought. The ship was rotating, she could tell, because the stars were drifting gradually out the left side, only to be replaced by more from the right.

But then the stars were covered by the bright flashes of explosions, reflected even more off the floating shards of metal debris littering the space around her. She wondered, for a moment, how much of that was from her own ship. In the distance beyond those fragments, she could now see the Valken, the cruiser she had taken off from, that she lived on, and the small legion of support frigates around it. Smaller now than before, judging from the dark hulk of an anti-fighter vessel floating lifelessly alongside the cruiser’s bridge. She couldn’t see the enemy capital ship, couldn’t tell if they were giving as good as they were getting, but there were still fighters out there. There was no missing the trails of dark red exhaust, even from here.

Light flooded the cockpit again as the system rebooted, the calm silence shattered by the return of her comm system.

“Hammer 3, come in. Are you still with us?” The frenzied voice of the squadron leader came through. “Let’s go, soldier, we’ve got work to do.”

Rada took another deep breath, and was rewarded for her forgetfulness by more sharp daggers of pain around her chest. She punched a button on the side panel and was greeted immediately by a needle prick and the cold rush of numbness as the meds set in. She reached up slowly and, when faced with no more sharp chest pains, flipped her headset back on.

“Roger, this is Hammer 3. Drive is banged up, but still going. Resuming assault on the target now.”

“Negative, Hammer 3, new orders. We need to take out that assault ship before it reaches the Valken. She can’t survive a direct hit.”

The grim reality of the situation finally shook Rada out of her daze. She shoved the stick back towards the cruiser and punched the accelerator, gunning forward again at near the fighter’s top speed. There was a distinct wobble to the turn, which she concluded meant one of the fins got bent when she was hit. It worried her a bit, because even a little shakiness could make evading other attack craft much more difficult, but she was mostly glad to still be in one piece.

Pulling away from the enemy battleship that she had been assigned to attack would ordinarily have been dicey, but the enemy had poorly positioned their support, and the rest of Rada’s squadron had mostly broken what little remained. She joined the formation as they regrouped; it was a moment in every battle that she cherished. They had survived their initial assault, and that was all she could ever ask for.

The comms were quiet as they continued their approach, allowing Rada a moment to take things in. The battlefield could be beautiful viewed from that distance, the sleek metal of the capital ships, the sparkles of the laser batteries, the dark red streaks trailing behind the fighters, and the giant burnt orange orb of the planet floating peacefully beyond it. It wasn’t her homeworld, however, or the homeworld of any her squadmates. She wasn’t certain it had a native population at all, or why anyone considered it worthwhile.

As they continued their approach, the target became visible, coated with reflective paint in a symbol to some unknown god, a green stain on the stars. The assault craft twinkled incessantly with laser fire in all directions, with brighter flashes nearby where fighters that proved just a bit too slow were consigned to oblivion. It was a floating bombardment, two dozen anti-fighter batteries surrounding a single oversized plasma cannon, a hive of weaponry outfitted for the sole purpose of felling capital ships. The grunts had nicknamed them ‘harpoons’, but the brass refused to use it. Rada suspected the captains just resented their command vessels being treated as metaphorical whales.

It was a one-way trip for the assault craft; they didn’t have any solid means of acceleration, and had to be launched with initial force, so they couldn’t return if they wanted to. Even if they could, with no heat dispersion for the plasma cannon, they weren’t likely to survive more than one volley. But if they could get past shield range, they could do immense damage to even the largest battleship with a well-placed shot. Rada had never seen it herself, but she had heard the stories.

“Listen up,” the squadron leader began over the comms channel. “Command says Tiger Squadron is down. All of them.”

Beneath the numbness, there was a heavy stone growing in Rada’s chest. She tried to not think about who she knew in Tiger, to not remember any faces. There would be time later, she hoped, but anger was what she needed now.

“We’re the last thing between that harpoon and the Valken. We take it down and we’ll win this day. And when those green bastards meet their god, they’re gonna know who sent them there.”

“Ham-mer!” came the reply in unison.

“One more time!”

“Ham-mer!” The word left Rada’s lips like it was spoken by someone else, a response so practiced as to become automatic. But the fire burned in her just as intensely each time.

“Form up, and hit those batteries hard.”

The assault ship was close now, more fearsome and monstrous than ever, surrounded by the wreckage of a dozen or more fighters. It seemed to Rada in that moment less like a ship than some primal beast killing anything that approached it, compelled not by hunger or need, but by the thirst for death. The large green rune painted over the gun batteries was clearly visible now, seeming to glow unnaturally, but she had no idea what it really meant.

Light streaked past as the lumbering spearhead finally took aim at them, and the squadron spread out, breaking into an uneven line to present a more difficult target. The design was never to aim, but to fill the space with fire, and the final screams of two of her squadmates were cut off by the evaporation of their ships. The squadron was still too far out to do any damage, but several of the others fired volleys anyway, vain anger seizing them in the moment. Rada just tried to focus.

The assault ship was nearly in position already, having pushed past the broken remnants of the support fleet. They would not have time to soften the target up with repeated strafing runs, just one pass to knock out the anti-fighter batteries on one side, then a full barrage on the main cannon underneath. The batteries glowed again, lances of light piercing the space around them. Silence followed. No hits this time.

“Engage!”

The fighters broke from their wide formation and fell into a line, the brief cessation of enemy fire providing them an opportunity to sync up without risking total destruction from a single well placed shot. The fighters swept along the side of the assault ship, autocannons lighting up a line of explosive shells repeatedly, each ship battering the same strip as the one before it in the line. The turrets vaporized under the barrage, twisted metal peeling away to finally reveal the vulnerable hull beneath.

The fighters pulled off of their attack, surveying the damage as they positioned for another pass. The harpoon was ripped across the targeted side, a clear line of blasted and scarred metal, still glowing from the heat. They had opened it up enough to threaten real damage to the underlying structure, and each had a single heavy torpedo fitted for gutting ships exactly like this one. One more pass and it would be over.

But the assault ship had stopped moving, a recognition that sent cold chills through Rada’s already numbly tingling frame. It was in position, and the light beginning to glow from the plasma cannon confirmed her fear. They were out of time.

“It’s heating up, break formation, break formation! Get payloads on it now!”

The fighters split quickly out of their formation into a disorganized wave, each racing back towards the assault ship desperately. Rada’s own ship was still struggling to bank from its earlier damage, and the wider turn she was forced to take put her behind her squadmates. As she raced forward to join them, their last moments unfolded plainly before her. Without the benefit of a careful formation, the fighters were easy targets for the remaining anti-fighter turrets on the top and bottom of the ship, fighter after fighter shattering, burning, or simply disappearing entirely under the bright flashes of light and heat. There were screams, sometimes, but often there wasn’t time; one moment there was a Hammer, the next only empty space. Her squad leader continued yelling orders until his final moments, until his voice went silent mid-command. Finally, there was only her.

Some of her comrades had launched their torpedoes, but only a few had even managed to impact the wounded vessel, and none sufficient to stop the plasma cannon from continuing to heat up. The anti-fighter guns fell suddenly quiet, a moment Rada recognized from the stories she had heard: when the main gun is nearly charged, there’s no power left for the other batteries. She was down to a single chance.

Blazing forward, Rada quickly acquired a target lock on the softest part of the hull she could see, a narrow window to place her remaining weapon. She fired the torpedo immediately, the projectile releasing from the fighter’s underbelly, holding its speed with hers for a moment, and then racing off with even greater momentum as its onboard acceleration kicked in. So near to the behemoth, she could even feel the ionization of the surrounding air, and she just managed to lift her fighter up above the top of the ship as she passed, nearly clipping one of the now lifeless turrets. She did not make it far before the shockwave hit.

An explosion ripped through the vessel, and the resulting concussive blasts rocked her ship in waves, ripping off the remaining stabilizers, knocking out her drive power, and sending her sliding out of control into the distance. But as her view passed over the assault ship, the devastation was clear. The torpedo had pierced through and made contact with the cannon itself, causing the plasma to spill out of its containment, vaporizing surrounding metal in places and igniting fuel cells in others. It glowed with a ferocious heat for a few seconds, and then a final cataclysm lit up the surrounding space as the hulk shattered into millions of tiny shards. She felt a rush of jubilation, a moment of triumph, of a victory won at a great cost.

But as the light faded from the remnants of the enemy weapon, a different glow became clear in the space behind it. The clean, sleek shape of the Valken was replaced by two floating masses of inert metal. Plasma burns traced glowing lines along what had been the cruiser’s mid section, gradually fading out as the sundered metal cooled. She had been too late.

The power cycled back into Rada’s ship, and in that moment, the numbness faded and only anger was left. Though she hadn’t realized it fully, the sight of the vessel she called home floating lifeless in space had made her glad that she would likely join it when her oxygen ran out. But with the power returning, she would live on until rescue eventually came, watching the wreckage, a monument to her own failure. Alone, and alive only by virtue of a damaged stabilizing fin.

Out beyond the remains of her squadron, beyond the ruins of the enemy, beyond the wreckage of her home, the orange world they fought over watched silently in the dark, never seeming to notice they were even there.

I watched the light flicker on and off on the console, a steady rhythm in the silent dark. I rested my head on the back of the chair and waited. What else could I do? The drive was fried, I could tell already, and I didn’t even remotely have the cash to fix it. I was lucky, on the one hand, because if it had burned out on a different jump, it could have been weeks before anyone found me. If they ever found me at all.

There was a loud hiss, then the rush of cold, recirculated air, and then the lights came back. They had the station hookup in, and I could once again look around at the cockpit of the ship I had spent a decade working to buy and outfit. A ship, I thought, that I’ll never fly again. Maybe it was the frustration in that moment, I don’t know. But when I stepped out into the hangar bay, it felt like the end of a journey I hadn’t consciously started.

Of course, it didn’t help that it was here. It was the last stop on the way to the frontier, and it had all the clear markers you’d expect from a station bordering the vast wasteland. Well, I suppose it was less about what it had, and more about what it didn’t. The bureaucrats in that day were big on keeping their designs clean, hiding all the ugly tech behind spotless white panels. I think they believed if no one could see how things worked, no one would realize that nothing actually did. The thing was that they had no interest in exporting that coat of paint all the way out to the edge of nowhere, so it had never gotten that treatment. With the kind of refuse that drifted through, there really wouldn’t have been any point. But the open, worn down machinery leaking fluid throughout the hangar bay really sent a clear message: You’re at the bottom, don’t bother hoping for a view.

I wish I could tell you that I was out of place there, I really do. But I wasn’t much different than anyone else who passed through. Everybody that came to the frontier was either chasing after something or running away from it. I wanted to find a place where I wouldn’t have to rely on people anymore, where I could survive on my own without having to trust anyone but myself. I wouldn’t have admitted it then, but it does sound like running, doesn’t it?

The pilot of the tow ship that had dragged me into the station was also the head mechanic, a blurring of roles that seemed to be common in places like this. He grumbled on about the damage and how long it might take to assess. I told him not to fix anything before he gave me a price, knowing I couldn’t pay for it if he fixed it without asking. Pointless to have him check it, perhaps, but I wanted to know.

I made my way out of the hangar and up to the main level of the station by way of the old service lift, packed in with an assortment of other degenerates and lowlifes. I wasn’t worried. The high-grade armor strapped to my chest and the rifle slung over my back sent the clear message that I was one of the licensed hunters. Don’t mistake it, I was a half-step above your average washed-up merc, but it’s still best to not trifle with those who have official permission to kill you.

On a normal station, somewhere near a core world, the main level would have been mostly large businesses, Federation offices, and the like. But being that there was essentially none of that on here, it was mostly bars, cheap casinos, and palajak dens where the Okva and Kval could turn their hard-earned credits into a brief hallucination. You might expect prostitution to be a thriving business, but no one could ever manage to keep them out there long enough to make any money.

I wandered the level for a while with no destination in mind, trying to figure out how I was ever going to make it off the station. I’d be there for years trying to scrape together enough to fix my ship, because all the contracts that paid enough to be worthwhile required my ship to already be working. But leaving it behind would mean sacrificing everything I had put into it. Worse, it would mean going back, and that wasn’t an option.

I picked out a bar that seemed quiet, or at least didn’t have any active fights going on, and stepped in. It didn’t have a name; places like this never needed one. The rusted metal furniture and unyielding smell of smoke and spilled liquor was as good of a brand as was needed. I appreciate that honesty, knowing what you are and making peace with it. I slumped into a spot along the bar with as few companions as possible and rapped the back of my glove plate against the hard surface.

The bartender was a Kval, I remember that, because I found it surprising to see none of the signs of long-term palajak use on the pale blue features of his face, or the clear whiteness of his eyes. Now, don’t misunderstand, I know they’re not all addicts, not back home or even in the slums of Galba. But it was surprising out along the frontier, where everyone did, well, whatever they had to do to get by. I ordered a drink, I don’t remember what, it smelled bad and tasted worse. I downed it anyway and ordered another. Counterproductive, maybe, since I was desperate for cash, but it was meaningless compared to the sum I’d need to raise.

I scanned the offerings on my wristpad while I waited, knowing it was futile. It was the usual set: a generic offering for enlistment, which was just a ploy to snap up down-on-their-luck mercs without enough sense; a handful of suicidal bounties on local pirate leaders, each of whom wielded more power in the region than the feds could muster; and ship’s complement work on exploratory vessels trying to chart new regions of space, a mission of blind jumps that was somehow more suicidal than taking on the pirates. There were a couple of more reasonable options, of course, but nothing I could manage without my ship. My suspicions confirmed, I switched the pad off and returned to my drink.

There was an older man watching me from the corner, a large burn scar on his face, eye implant on the same side, hair greying but not totally changed. I had noticed him when I walked in, but he wasn’t a threat, and stares weren’t entirely uncommon. Everybody had something that could put them on the fed’s bad side, and no one could ever be certain I wasn’t there for them specifically. He wasn’t much of a threat, so I didn’t pay him much mind, but as soon as the light went out on my wristpad, he started walking over. I didn’t turn to look at him when he took the seat next to me, hoping he’d take the hint.

“You’re a hunter, aren’t you?” He had not taken the hint. I turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow as if to doubt his implication. He already knew the answer, after all. “I admire that, I wish I had done that instead of becoming a soldier.” He tapped the orbital bone of the implanted eye. I turned back to my drink. He was going to say his piece, and I was going to drink my swill, and that was that, no point in fighting it.

“At least I’m alive, I guess. That’s what my daughter says, but she doesn’t have to clean grease out of her face every day.” He chuckled at his own story that I was still trying to ignore. There was a pause, at which point irritation crept in, because I knew what came next. “I’ve been looking for a hunter for a job, you know.”

I raised a hand to cut him off. “Can’t help you. My ship is laid up for repairs, and until then, I can’t go anywhere.” It sounded like a convenient lie, I know, but it should have been enough to dissuade him either way.

“Well that’s no problem, no problem at all, I’ve got my own.” His voice wavered for a moment, and the desperation in his words was obvious. Some mercs, the ones who haven’t been doing it long enough, think that’s a good thing, that it means more profit because they have nowhere else to turn. But if the job was easy, he wouldn’t be desperate, and desperate men promise things they can’t possibly provide. Get desperate enough, you’ll offer damn near anything, and they always seem to have a change of heart about what the work is worth once it’s finished.

I tossed some money on the bar top and got up to leave. “Sorry, can’t help you.”

“I can fix your ship.”

I stopped and turned back around. Beware the man who offers exactly what you need exactly when you need it, that’s my advice, it’s served me well and I stand by it. I knew it then, even, knew that whatever followed was going to be bad news. But the thought of my ship being scrapped, of being stuck here, of returning to the core worlds… I had to hear him out, at least.

I sat back down. “Yeah?”

“Name’s Vel, I manage most of the technical supplies coming into the station. It’s usually just parts for station repairs, but I can get ship components as well, if that’s what it takes. Can have your craft fixed before the job is even over.” He flashed a crooked, uneasy smile that didn’t help his case. But what choice did I have?

“What’s the job?”

“A rescue. It’s… it’s complicated.” Of course it was. “If you come by my office tomorrow, the others will be there and I can explain it all for you.”

“I don’t work with teams, find somebody else.” It was the closest thing I had to a strict policy. Working with a team meant you got shot in the back halfway through so the split would be smaller. It meant that when your point man got distracted by the local vices, you walked headfirst into an ambush. It meant, best case, that you’d have to do the work of three people just to survive.

Vel shook his head slightly, disappointed with my answer. “Well, if you change your mind, the offer is still open.” He stood and looked for a moment like he might offer a handshake, but instead just turned and left the room. I rapped my arm plate on the bar top again and ordered another drink. I knew what was coming, and more liquor was the only thing likely to cut down the rising anger in my gut.

While I waited for my drink, I stared at the slow blinking of a status light on one of the devices behind the bar, angry at it for lack of a better target. Half a galaxy of travel to be alone, and I’m stuck with them again on arrival. In a better mood, perhaps I’d have appreciated the irony. As it was, I just wondered what stupid delusion had ever possessed me to make me to come to the frontier.