The ice in my glass is the only thing on this station that isn't recycled, and even then, I have my doubts. It tastes faintly of heavy metals and the quiet, metallic tang of a life that just ended.
I’m sitting at the far end of the bar, tucked into a shadow cast by a leaking coolant pipe. Around me, the room is a cacophony of Zoner neutrality and miner fatigue. There’s a group of Daumann contractors arguing over ore prices in the corner, and a pair of independent haulers trying to flirt with a bartender who looks like she’s seen enough solar flares to be legally blind.
Above the bar, a flickering holoscreen is tuned to a generic Sirius Market Report. It’s the kind of background noise people only listen to when they’re looking for a reason to hike their freight rates.
[ON SCREEN]: A scrolling ticker shows H-Fuel prices and ship insurance premiums. The anchor, a woman with a perfectly symmetrical face, shifts to the next segment.
"In corporate news, the Starlight Research Consortium has announced a significant restructuring of its upper management. Following the quiet conclusion of several long-term exploratory ventures in the Taus, Director Sean Goodman has officially stepped down, citing a desire for private retirement.
Brandon Wright, of the Hyperspace Cartography Department at Starlight, will serve as Acting Director during this transition. Mr. Wright issued a brief statement confirming that the Board of Directors is currently vetting a permanent successor, with a formal announcement expected in the coming days."
The report barely lasts twenty seconds before cutting to a weather update for New Berlin. Not a single person in the bar looked up. Not the Daumann guys, not the haulers. To them, "Director Goodman" is a name that never existed, and "Starlight Research" is just another logo on a shipping crate.
Brandon’s face appeared briefly on the screen—the "Acting Director." He looked humble. He looked like a man just holding the keys for the next rightful owner. It’s a masterful bit of theater. He didn't just take my job; he’s acting like the seat was empty all along.
I’m a ghost.
I look down at my hands. They’re still the same hands that signed the orders to board thousands of loans, that managed the refinery yields, that directed the Gryphon. But according to that screen, those hands are now "retired."
Brandon didn't just fire me; he redacted me. He’s purged the references, closed the channels, and is now waiting for a "permanent" replacement to walk into my office and sit in my chair as if the floor hasn't still got my scuff marks on it.
By taking everything, he’s removed the only reason I had to play by his rules.
I finish the synth-ale. It burns all the way down. With exactly enough credits left to buy a new identity and a ticket to the Deep Omegas. I don't need a Director's suite to dismantle a legacy. I just need a wrench, a workstation, and a crew that’s too tired to ask questions.
//END PLAYBACK//
//RETURN TO MENU?//
( Y / N ) ///CLOSING FILE: HAVE A NICE DAY///
The air in the Administrative wing of Freeport 1 doesn't smell like the sterile, ionized breeze of Ikarus. It smells of ancient lubricants, cheap tobacco, and the distinct, dusty scent of a station that has survived by knowing exactly when to look the other way.
I didn't expect to be summoned. I certainly didn't expect the man sitting behind the desk. Bartholomew Kelsomagus. Most of the sector knows him as "Bob," the man who keeps the gears of Freeport 1 grinding. But as I walked into his office, I didn't see the Administrator. I saw the man who had helped me bypass local tax codes back when "Ingenuus Research" was just three guys and a rented workstation in a basement.
"You look like hell, Sean," Bob said, not looking up from his datapad. He gestured to a chair that had seen better decades. "Or should I say, 'Director'?"
"The title stayed on Ikarus," I replied, sitting down. "Along with the dignity."
Bob finally looked up. His eyes were tired, but sharp. "The SLRC agents were here yesterday. Sharp suits, cold eyes. They had a seizure warrant for 'all assets belonging to the former Director.' They were looking for a ship, Sean. Specifically, that high-spec survey toy the Consortium bought from the Starfliers."
I felt my jaw tighten. "And?"
"And I told them the only thing I had on record for you was a single, dented supply container filled with expired rations and broken sensor arrays. I even let them audit the manifest. They took the crate and left, satisfied that they’d stripped you of your last crumb."
He leaned back, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "They’ve forgotten who you were before you started wearing silk, Sean. They think you started with the Consortium. But I remember Freeport 9. I remember when you were just a man who knew how to make a Corsair Gladiator dance through a radiation storm."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The mention of Freeport 9 and the Gladiator felt like a ghost limb twitching. "Where is it, Bob?"
"Hangar 9-B. Under a tarp and a 'Hazardous Waste' decal. Nobody’s touched it since you had it delivered six months ago. I think even Brandon Wright didn't realize you’d kept a piece of your own history off their books." Bob leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "Where do you go from here? Brandon isn't the type to leave loose ends."
"The Omegas," I said, my voice finding its old steel. "The gateway back to the people I... misplaced... is through the fringes. I’m going to spend some time in the dirt. I’ll start at Freeport 5 in Omega-41. There are always odd jobs for a man who can fix a reactor and doesn't mind the radiation."
The Hangar: PAD 9-B
I found her tucked away in the shadows of the secondary flight deck. When I pulled back the tarp, the matte-finish hull of the S-CEV01 Starfliers "Vector"-Class seemed to swallow the dim hangar lights.
The Consortium had paid a king’s ransom for this. A "little brother" to the Corvo, designed to be an exceptional exploratory asset. It has no guns, a fact the Starfliers always pointed out with a smug sort of pride in their "diplomatic" engineering, but it is a marvel of power routing. The forward-facing scanner allows for identification of stellar objects at ranges most pilots wouldn't believe, and the undermounted hinge mechanism was designed to quickly drop off and pick up cargo pods within a single maneuver.
I ran my hand over the hull, stopping at the fresh, hand-painted lettering near the airlock.
RSV-Mule.
It was a fitting name. She wasn't a sleek predator, nor a fortress. She was a beast of burden. A small, two-man habitat packed with enough custom consoles to run a small war room. Aided by a generous cargo capacity and a bespoke dual-engine system, she was tailored exclusively for the scientific crowd, or a man who needed to move through the void without being seen by anything but his own sensors.
I climbed into the cockpit. The leather still smelled new, a sharp contrast to the grease of the Freeport. As the systems hummed to life, the power routing to the scanning arrays stabilized with a familiar, high-pitched whine.
I didn't need a Director's suite. I had a Mule, a wrench, and a coordinate in Omega-41. Brandon Wright thinks he’s cleared the board. He has no idea that the most dangerous piece is the one he thought was too small to matter.
//END PLAYBACK//
//RETURN TO MENU?//
( Y / N ) ///CLOSING FILE: HAVE A NICE DAY///
