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.