The uncanny stillness and ‘rubbery’ terrain of New Barath was hard to get used to. The inhabitants of its small spaceport had learned to distract themselves from the pervasive strangeness with work, companionship and entertainment, such as the gossip zine now cradled in the lap of dock manager Ilor Alt.
Alt perused the pages with disinterest, sipping anaemic coffee as he read about celebrities from lightyears away. Turning to his colleague Keal, who was tapping at their tablet with similar boredom, Alt began, “You hear about—?”
A ping from the traffic monitor interrupted him. Carefully setting down the coffee and zine, Alt pushed his reading glasses up and peered through the large windows into the night. Twin specks of light were speeding towards them.
“Heads up,” he drawled. “We got ships approaching from the Dominion, and fast.”
“Huh,” Keal responded, reluctantly stirring. “The diplomatic convoy? They don’t usually come this way.”
Alt inspected the radar. “I’m not reading any cruisers, just two personal craft. The… Gunmetal Gyre and the Looking Glass.”
Cautiously, Keal ventured, “Ain’t that…”
Keal broke the pensive quiet, saying, “I hear the bounty on her is over a million now.”
“Stow that!” Alt snapped. “That other ship is Tren Krellos! You and I would never stand a chance against him.”
“I hear that,” Keal conceded with a sigh. “I guess I prefer living. Prep the docking bay. We can always circle back on this later.”
Comments