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///
