From within a small hangar emanated the busy sounds of a metal striking metal, power tools whirring excitedly, and the occasional muffled curse escaping its sole human occupant. Outside, the ceaseless drone of Stanton’s city-life continued. The neighboring hangars and warehouses had fallen silent as night fell across the metropolis and their workers had left for home.

Within the lone garage stood a large, blocky craft, its three massive engine nacelles taking up most of the space. Its bright white hull shone a dull gold as it reflected the light of half a dozen spotlights illuminating it and the floor around it.

“Sir,” Victor’s voice came from the ship’s open cockpit canopy. “We have just received a message from Director Nazumaki.”

From beneath the Osprey’s fuselage rolled out a lean man, his rolled-up shirt sleeves stained with oil, his short, blond hair a sticky mess. Wiping a spill of oil from his forehead with a cloth rag tucked into his shirt collar, the figure jumped to his feet, haphazardly tossed aside the wrench he had been working with and glanced up at the cockpit.

“Yeah? What’re the news?”

There was a moment’s hesitation.

“They are not good, Mister Beige.” Even for an AI, Victor sounded concerned. Beige huffed irritatedly and climbed up the short ladder into the Inspiration’s cockpit. Settling into the pilot’s chair, he brought up the communications panel and read through the Marshals director’s message.

“‘Neural net address no longer in service,’” Beige muttered out loud. Victor was right, this news did not bode well at all. The retired mercenary slumped back into his seat, folding his hands behind his head. He sat there for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought. Before him, a small orb of orange light appeared above the dashboard, pulsating slowly.

“Sir?” The orb bounced as Victor spoke. “Are we going to search for Miss Sable?”

Beige had been hoping that their worries would prove to be unfounded, that his old friend had simply forgotten to keep in touch while away on one of her sector-spanning trips. Now, however, that hope was dashed. Something was wrong with Olivia Sable and he needed to find her and help out. Beige glanced at the small, holographic sphere and gave it a cunning grin.

“We sure are! Run the pre-flight checks!”

With that, he leapt out of the seat and back down the ladder rungs, jogging over to a nearby table covered in tools and spare parts. From underneath it, he recovered a large duffle bag. Kneeling down before it, he undid the zipper and checked its contents. A spare trenchcoat, several cans of food and water, a smattering of various handguns and appropriate ammo packs. He flung the bag over his shoulder and ascended back into the ship, tossing it into the spacious cockpit’s back.

Dropping again into the pilot’s seat, he flicked a few switches, bringing the main reactor online and closing the canopy with a pressurizing hiss. The ship shuddered as the engines ignited, their wakes tossing over several of the hangar’s spotlights with gusts of hot wind.

“Good to go?” Beige asked over the rumble of the drives, an excited glint in his eyes. Victor’s holographic shape bobbed up and down for a moment as he completed the system checks.

“Yes, sir. Ready to go.”

The ship rocked gently as it charged through the Kusari trade lane network at superluminal velocities. Inside, Beige was leaning back in the pilot’s chair, hands folded behind the head, eyes closed.

“Let’s go over what we know again,” he said. Victor’s holographic sphere materialized on the dashboard, bobbing slowly in the cockpit’s still air.

“Sable was last in Liberty three weeks ago,” Beige recounted. “She popped off north to Kusari and probably wanted to head to the Sigmas from there.” Victor’s orb dipped low, emulating a nod. “She hasn’t contacted anyone in over two weeks now. Not me, not you, not Nazumaki. Not even her family.” Beige paused a moment, sighing. “Her last neural net log was sixteen days ago?” Victor dipped again.

Beige opened his eyes and leaned forward, closer to the small ball of orange light, a curious smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Say, how do you know that?” The mercenary cocked his head to the side. “Accessing neural net accounts ain’t exactly easy.”

Victor’s hologram froze in midair, as though caught in the middle of committing a crime. Then it spun slowly around its own axis as the AI thought for a moment.

“When Miss Sable found the Inspiration and me on board, she reactivated me and gave me full access to her neural net account,” the computer explained, “for the purpose of catching up on what had occurred across Sirius during my… hibernation. Unbeknownst to her, I installed a backdoor through which I could access her account even after I was done. Only in the case of emergency, of course.”

Beige leaned back again and laughed.

“You spied on her to keep her safe!”

Victor’s sphere expanded as though flustered.

“I did not spy on Miss Sable, sir,” the AI refuted. “I owe Miss Sable a great debt of gratitude and I believed that keeping an eye on her would allow me to repay said debt.”

Beige shook his head, still smiling broadly.

“All the good that did us, huh?”

Victor contracted again to his normal size and bobbed up and down rapidly.

“Well, sir, I was able to determine where Miss Sable logged into her account.” Beige could make out a hint of self-satisfaction in the AI’s synthesized voice and grinned.

“Oh yeah? Where was that?”

Victor’s bobbing slowed down and the navigation panel below his hologram lit up, displaying a new set of waypoints.

“Aomori Station, Honshu.”

Beige strutted towards the dockmaster’s office with all the confidence of whoever it was that actually owned Aomori Station, bursting into the room with a flourish as his trenchcoat billowed around him. Unimpressed, the lean man sitting behind a desk covered in an array of screens didn’t even look up to see who had entered.

“How may I help you?” The dockmaster inquired unenthusiastically. With an undeterred smile, Beige stepped forward, resting his hands on the desktop.

“I’m looking for someone.”

The dockmaster pulled his attention away from the displays before him and glanced up at the retired mercenary with tired eyes.

“Anyone in particular?”

Beige could almost see the motivation slowly seep out of the man. Still grinning, he pulled a small PDA out of his trenchcoat and placed it before the dockmaster, its small screen displaying Olivia’s ship identification. The gas miner’s eyes slowly dropped to the small device and read its contents. With a tired sigh, he began typing on one of his desk screens, browsing the station’s dock registry.

“A Stinger-class fighter belonging to a Miss Olivia Sable?” The dockmaster read from his screen. Excitedly, Beige slapped the tabletop.

“That’s the one!”

“Arrived and departed last on March 28th.”

Beige straightened up, thrilled to have so quickly found a clue that might lead him to Olivia.

“And where was she headed?”

The dockmaster’s eyes wandered back up to meet the mercenary’s. He cocked his head and frowned, as though he had been asked an obviously stupid question.

“Mister, I’m not at liberty to just hand out that information to anyone who storms into my office.”

Beige chuckled to himself and gave the man a knowing smile. Reaching again into his trenchcoat, he pulled out a handful of credit chits and placed them one by one on the desk between them.

“You’re not just ‘handing it out,’” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. The dockmaster eyed the small row of chits with a raised eyebrow, then looked back up at Beige. With a slow nod, he reached out and pulled the currency towards himself.

“Says here that Miss Sable hired up to escort a transport ship carrying foods to the Hawaii in Sigma-19,” the man said, reading again from the registry.


* * *


The Inspiration shot out of the airlock, nearly colliding with a passing freighter. Beige hollered excitedly as Victor asked him to fly cautiously.

“Come on, Vic!” Beige cried, a wide grin reaching from ear to ear. “We’ve got a clue!”

The AI’s holo presence materialized on the dashboard before him, bobbing in an oddly chiding manner.

“That clue will not do us much good, sir, if we die in a traffic accident.”

Beige guffawed loudly.

“Where are we headed?” Victor asked once the mercenary had settled down again.

Beige pointed a thumb out through the canopy glass at the massive shape of a nearby jumpgate.

“Straight through there!”

Sparks jumped into the air as the Inspiration’s portside stabilizer scraped against the docking bay’s wall. The ship settled onto its gravpad with a shudder, its massive shape accentuated by the cramped compartment. With a whistle, Beige leapt out of the opening canopy, his trenchcoat billowing around him like a makeshift parachute.

“Sorry about that!” He shouted over the whine of the Osprey’s engines winding down and nodded his head at the streak of ruined paint that now decorated the wall. A representative, clad in Orbital Spa and Cruise’s iconic gold-breasted uniform, approached the ship, irritatedly glaring at the damage caused.

“Welcome aboard the Hawaii,” he greeted Beige, clearly straining to maintain his professional flair. “What may I do for you?”

“Well,” Beige started, stepping towards the man and offering a grease-stained hand, “I’m looking for someone!”

The rep glanced down at the mercenary’s outstretched hand and, with a forced smile, gently shook it.

“A passenger?” The man inquired.

“Possibly,” Beige grinned. “Probably not.” He reached into his coat and produced his datapad, handing it to the representative. “I’m looking for this charming young lady.”

The Orbital employee studied the PDA’s screen, a picture of Olivia and her ship displayed on it. He furrowed his brows and slowly shook his head.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with her,” he said apologetically, looking back up at Beige.

“She was with an independent convoy carrying food here about two-and-a-half weeks ago,” Beige elaborated. “I’m sure she would’ve docked to refuel.”

The representative shook his head again, adamantly.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t take bulk deliveries from freelance contractors. Orbital Spa and Cruise supplies its resorts itself.”

At this, Beige cocked his head, confused.

“So… No transport popped by here?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”


* * *


Beige slumped into the pilot’s seat, defeated. His hopes of quickly finding Olivia had evaporated into thin air. Rubbing his eyes to clear his mind, he leaned back in the chair and sighed.

“Caught all that, Vic?” He asked.

Victor appeared in midair before him, slowly rotating.

“Yes, sir. It appears the Aomori dockmaster did not tell us the truth.”

Beige thought about it for a second.

“No, I think he did,” he muttered, mulling it over some more. “Someone lied to him.”

Sitting up straight again, the mercenary flicked a few switches in the cockpit. The canopy hissed shut around him and the engines sputtered to life with an angry rumble, as though the ship itself was impatient to get back on the road.

“What should we do next?” Victor inquired.

Beige grinned at the holographic orb and spun the ship around towards the airlock, sending another shower of sparks cascading across the docking bay as the wing clipped the wall again.

“We ask Aomori some more questions.”

The dockmaster reclined back into his chair, comfortably sipping at a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Enjoying the energizing flavors, he let out a contented sigh and glanced at the screens before him. They showed the usual traffic flowing through Aomori’s docks and mooring fixtures. Transports and freighters hauling goods from the Sigmas to Kusari and back, GMG squadrons returning from their patrols of the surrounding cloud, a few civilian ships settling down for a brief stopover on their journeys to who knew where.

One registry entry, however, caught the dockmaster’s attention as it flashed up on the displays. A ship he had sent on its way just a day earlier and whose pilot he hoped never to deal with again.


* * *


Before the Inspiration had even properly settled down on the hangar’s deck, Beige clambered down the still extending access ladder, dropping to the ground and hurrying towards the dockmaster’s office. His usually good spirits were strained as different ideas of what Olivia had gotten herself into hurled around his mind.

The door to the office slid open before him and he dashed through. The man behind the desk jumped at the sudden intrusion, nearly spilling a cup of hot coffee over his desk and pants.

“You again!” The dockmaster called in surprise.

“Me again,” Beige confirmed and came to a stop at the table, standing above the man. “I need more info.”

The dockmaster hesitated, then put his cup down on the desk and leaned forward, glaring up at Beige.

“About your mercenary friend?”

Beige nodded.

“I’m sorry, mister, but I told you everything.”

The mercenary exhaled exasperatedly and leaned forward in turn, resting his hands on the desktop.

“What you told me was bullshit,” he declared, an angry growl entering his usually jolly tone. “The convoy wasn’t headed for the Hawaii.”

The dockmaster stared at him, confused. Then he glanced down at his screens and began tapping away at them, bringing up a number of manifests and reports.

“It says right here,” he replied, reading from the displays, “that the transport was filled with luxury foods and headed for the Orbital liner in Sigma-19.”

Beige rolled his eyes in irritation.

“I was just there, man. No freelance transport arrived or was scheduled to arrive.”

The dockmaster looked back up at the mercenary and gave an apologetic shrug.

“I’m sorry, but I told you what the manifests told me.”

“Did no one actually check the transport?” Beige asked.

The dockmaster shook his head.

“It was just passing through, linking up with its escorts.”

“So it could’ve been carrying anything anywhere,” Beige realized. This was not good. A falsified manifest meant that it was most likely a smuggling operation, and those usually brought on some sort of trouble for anyone involved.

“I suppose so,” the man at the desk agreed. For a minute or two, there was silence between them, Beige thinking the newly acquired information over, the dockmaster nervously glancing back and forth between the apparently faked reports on his screens and the mercenary before him.

Finally, Beige broke the silence.

“What was the captain’s name?”

“What?” The dockmaster stammered.

“The transport,” Beige repeated. “What was its captain’s name.”

The dockmaster glanced down at the screens once more, scanning them for the information.

“Leon Rosary.”

Beige dropped another handful of credit chits on the table, spun around in a flourish of billowing trenchcoat, and hastily exited the office.

“I’m heading to the bar,” Beige spoke into his neural wristlink as he strode down the corridors of Aomori Station towards the recreational decks located in the station’s main tower.

“Is now the best time to get inebriated, sir?” Victor’s voice replied from the small device’s speaker. Beige laughed in response.

“That’s not the plan, Vic. I’m gonna dig for some info.”

The dockmaster’s mention of Leon Rosary had given Beige a pretty clear idea of what sort of business Olivia had gotten herself entangled in. Years ago, Rosary - an accomplished smuggler - had hired the Colors to provide security on a particularly valuable run of alien artifacts. Olivia and Beige were assigned to the job and spent the next two weeks flying alongside the captain.

If Rosary was involved again now, Beige could be certain that Olivia had accepted a job that skirted the law by an astronomical unit.



* * *


Aomori’s bar was a large, if rather spartan establishment. Rows of tables with long benches on either side dominated the central area, a large bar taking up an entire wall. Recessed into grooves along the perimeter and mounted to the high ceiling were bright diffusion lights that dove the bar into a soft golden light.

The patronage was currently sparse. Around a handful of tables huddled small groups of weary travellers and bored transport crewmen. Here and there lounged Guild employees, discussing the latest trends in the fuel market. In the establishment’s very back, half hidden in shadow and soft light, sat a lone figure, browsing seemingly bored through a datapad.

Beige grinned and approached the table.

“Seat taken?” He asked, taking the seat. Settling in across from the figure, he looked him once over. A man with thick, unkempt stubble covering his jowls, wearing a coat that somehow was too large for his portly body.

The man looked up from his PDA with wary eyes, annoyed by the sudden intrusion.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Beige waved off the first question, leaning in casually to answer the second.

“I’m looking for someone.”

The man squinted at him suspiciously.

“Not me, I hope.”

The mercenary gave a hearty laugh, slapping his thigh.

“No, no! As pretty as you are, you’re not my type.” He leaned in further, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m looking for Rosary.”

Observing the round man closely, Beige saw a glint of recognition flash through his eyes. A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips.

“That makes two of us,” the man replied irritatedly. “What do you want with him?”

Beige shrugged nonchalantly.

“Nothing, really. I’m more interested in someone I heard was flying with him.” He pulled his own datapad from his coat and pushed it across the tabletop for the man to see. The picture of Olivia with her ship was displayed on the screen.

The man glanced at it for only a second before looking back up at Beige.

“And what do you want with her?” He asked.

Beige shrugged again.

“She’s a friend and I think she’s in trouble.”

The man squinted at him again and fell silent, thinking.

“Trouble, huh? What kind?”

Beige smiled innocently.

“No clue, hoped you’d know.”

The man’s face soured and he leaned forward, resting his heavy head in his meaty hands.

“Between you and me, I think you’re right,” he muttered. “Now, I don’t particularly care about your friend. But Rosary was hauling valuable goods and they never arrived at their destination. Haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

Beige’s smile widened.

“Sounds like you and I could help each other out,” he suggested. The man nodded, looking down at his own PDA. Deftly, he tapped at the screen before spinning it around for Beige to see. Its display showed a flight manifest.

“This is the route Rosary was supposed to take,” the man explained. “Find out where he is and you’ll probably find your friend, too. When you do, tell Rosary I want him here ASAP.”

Beige nodded his agreement.

“Deal.”

“We are approaching the jumphole, sir,” Victor announced.

“You sound a little nervous, Vic,” Beige remarked with a chuckle. He opened his eyes and sat up straight in the pilot’s seat, gazing out through the canopy at the cloud that surrounded them. It was murky and thoroughly unpleasant looking and reminded him of his past experiences in the Edge Nebula. The mercenary did not look forward to this newest adventure.

Victor’s orb bobbed rapidly in midair, somehow managing to convey a sense of worry.

“The Omicron systems are well-known for their hostile environments and similarly hostile inhabitants,” the AI observed. “I am merely concerned for our wellbeing.”

“Don’t you worry,” Beige replied, trying to sound as happy-go-lucky as he usually did. “We’ll be fine!”

Before them, the glowing, pulsing tear in spacetime that was the jumphole to the Omicron Beta system emerged from the eerie mist. The Inspiration crept towards it, then lurched forward as the gravitational pull took ahold of the ship and launched it across the stars, into the far reaches of the Edge.

“Finally some civilization, huh?” Beige uttered as the Inspiration passed through the thin Oreor field, a lone space installation coming into view before them from between the rocks. The zoner freeport floated silently in space, a welcome refuge to many who ventured through the Omicrons and sought a safe place to rest.

“You have visited this station before, sir?” Victor inquired, materializing over the dashboard. His orb rotated slowly, as though it was turning to inspect the installation.

Beige sighed.

“Yeah, but it’s been a long time.” He sounded strangely remorseful, his usual joviality tinged heavily with a dose of regret.

The AI decided not to press for any details.


* * *


The Osprey settled down on the gravpad, a group of dockworkers approaching to perform routine maintenance on the craft. Beige climbed down the extending ladder from the cockpit, dropping the last few feet to the deck. He took a deep breath and stretched, reaching for the ceiling high above.

The better part of the last day had been spent cautiously sneaking through the Omicrons, avoiding both Order and Core patrols, and hoping that nothing inhuman caught their scent. Standing again on more or less solid ground, aboard a well-defended station outside of the Edge Nebula filled the mercenary with relief.

“Stay here,” Beige called out, turning back to glance up at the open cockpit.

“I do not believe I could go anywhere,” Victor’s disembodied voice replied from the cockpit speakers, a hint of indignity sneaking into it.

Beige laughed loudly.

“Right, sorry!” He replied, collecting himself. “Just watch the ship, will ya?”

“Of course, sir,” the AI answered, its tone carrying a sarcastic modulation.

Beige strode out of the hangar and down the freeport’s corridors towards where he remembered the station’s main bar was located.

He found it relatively quiet, a few errant spacers huddling around the few booths that lined the walls, quietly discussing the sights they had seen and encounters they had had. A barman stood behind the circular bar in the center of the establishment, lazily polishing a few glasses with the towel tied to his apron.

Beige offered a wide smile as he entered and peered around, only to be greeted by nothing in return. He shrugged and approached the bar, sliding onto one of the empty stools.

The bartender listlessly wandered over to him.

“What will ya have?” He asked, eyeing the newcomer once over.

Beige grinned at him in return.

“Two of your strongest drink!” He reached into his trenchcoat and produced a credit chit, placing it on the bar between them. The barman nodded, pocketed the chit, and turned away to prepare the order.

Beige turned back to glance around the bar again. Most of the patrons sat in groups, seeking companionship after their long journeys through the dangerous void. A few instead chose to sit alone, sipping wearily at their drinks. No one stood out to Beige.

The bartender returned, placing two shot glasses before the mercenary.

“Here ya go.”

Beige turned again to face him and leaned in closely.

“Any transports come through lately?” He inquired, smiling friendly. The barman looked him up and down again, a glint of suspicion entering his eyes.

“Just the usual. Supply deliveries, couple o’ ships laying over.”

Beige nodded slowly.

“Any freelance transports with fighter escorts?”

The barman’s eyes narrowed.

“No, don’t think so. Lookin’ for someone?”

Beige nodded again and pulled his datapad out of his coat, placing it on the bar. The usual picture of Olivia and her ship was displayed on the screen. The barman glanced down at it and shook his head.

“Don’t know her.”

Beige’s smile began to fade. If Olivia had made it this far, she would have been desperately looking for a drink and come to the bar.

“How about a captain by the name of Rosary?” He tried.

The barman nodded slowly, reaching up to rub his chin.

“Yeah, I know him. Hasn’t been around in months.”

Beige’s smile made way for a frown.

“Thanks,” he said, pulling the datapad back towards him and gazing down at the image on its screen with a sigh. The barman nodded again and stepped away, leaving the mercenary alone with his two shots.

“Where are you?” Beige muttered as he swiped away the picture of Olivia and replaced the PDA in his coat.

Beige glanced up at the bar’s ceiling, thinking about how to proceed. The Omicrons were vast and easy to get lost in. If he did not find a clue as to where Olivia was here, odds were he would never find her. He heaved a weary sigh.

Suspended from the ceiling, he saw a number of displays, showing grainy news broadcasts from across the Edge and the houses beyond. An idea struck him and he leapt off of his stool, clambering onto the bartop. The barman spun around and shouted, but the mercenary just gave him a playful wink and grinned.

Turning to face the establishment’s patrons, he flicked a finger across his wristlink. The image of Olivia appeared upon the screens above his head, broadcast clearly to everyone in the bar.

“Hey, everyone!” Beige called out gleefully. Heads turned. “I’m looking for this lovely lady! If anyone’s seen her or knows where she might be, I need to know!”

He gazed out over the few occupied seats and booths, scanning the faces for any trace of recognition. Most only looked irritated by the loud distraction. Some stared back blankly, completely disinterested. Others laughed quietly at his antics. The hopeful smile began to fade from Beige’s face when his eyes locked onto the booth farthest from him. A lone spacer sat within, glaring at him wild-eyed. As soon as their eyes met, the man hurriedly looked away.

“Bingo,” Beige whispered and hopped down from the countertop. Olivia’s image vanished from the displays, replaced again by the news broadcasts. Grabbing his two shot glasses, he sauntered over to the table and its sole occupant, plopping casually onto the bench across from him. The glasses struck the tabletop with a muffled cling.

“Hey there, buddy,” Beige greeted the stranger with a big smile. “Sitting here alone?”

The man glanced up at him, nervously shifting in his seat.

“Yeah,” he managed to mutter.

Beige leaned forward and shoved one of his drinks under the man’s nose.

“Not anymore!” He cried happily. Then he leaned back, threw one arm over his bench’s backrest and crossed a leg over the other, appearing as laid back and relaxed as possible. The stranger cautiously nodded a thank you and sniffed at the drink.

“Now,” Beige began, “I feel like you might know something about the woman I’m looking for.”

The man’s already pale face went stark white and he shifted again, as though trying to scoot as far away from the mercenary as possible.

“Buddy,” Beige went on in a chiding tone. “You’ll tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The man stammered. “Just leave me-”

He went quiet as he watched Beige reach into his trenchcoat and pull out a small handgun, laying it on the table between them with the barrel aimed square at his chest. The mercenary smiled at him calmly.

“Listen, I’d hate to hurt you,” Beige spoke in a friendly tone. “But if you don’t help me out here…” He trailed off, tapping a finger on the pistol’s grip.

The man fidgeted anxiously, his eyes shooting back and forth between the friendly face and the gun before him. Finally, he slumped together, resigned.

“I don’t wanna think about it,” he mewled. Beige leaned forward.

“Go on.”

“We… were hired as escorts. It was supposed to be a simple job with a big payout. Haul some shit to a small depot out near the Tokelau cloud.” The man spoke quickly, as though he didn’t want his mind to linger on the memories any longer than necessary. “Sure, the route was all scuffed. Fucking Omicrons, right?” He chuckled to himself nervously. “Beta was alright. And we were almost through Minor when... “ He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut.

“When what?” Beige pried. He leaned in closer yet, not wanting to miss out on any detail.

“Something attacked us. In the nebula.”

Beige could feel his heart sink.

“Jelkin’s disappeared off our scanners first,” the man went on. “He screamed and was just gone.” He glanced up at Beige. “Your girl went after him.” Fear entered his eyes. “Then she was gone, too.”

Beige swallowed hard.

“What do you mean, ‘gone’”?

The man stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Gone, man! Off the scanners! Off comms!”

Beige clenched his jaw.

“Then something came out of the clouds at us,” the man continued, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “Never seen anything like it. Didn’t look human-made. Not Nomad either. It plowed right through the transport. Tore it right in half!” He shifted again. “Rudy and I, we fucking ran. Gunned it towards the jumphole. We were almost there, when Rudy just popped. His ship just blew up right next to me. And then I went through.”

The man glanced around the bar anxiously, as though afraid that whatever he had come across in the Edge was still after him. After a moment, he turned back to face Beige, his face completely colorless, his lips dry.

“They’re all gone, man!”