Greg kept his head down, weaving through the crowd, the inverter's weight pressing against his spine like a brand. The noise of the market rose and fell in a dull roar, but beneath it, the same quiet pressure lingered—the eyes he couldn't shake. Whoever it was, they hadn't slipped.
He cut into a side street, past rusted ore drills and ration packs long past expiry. The crowd thinned. Shadows stretched long between the prefab walls. Greg slowed, pulse hammering, then stole a glance over his shoulder. Nothing. Only a pair of miners arguing over a broken cart.
He quickened his pace, slipping out of town and onto the gravel path that led toward the station. The road was quiet, empty save for a handful of miners trudging toward their shifts. Dust crunched under his boots, and the low hum of distant drills carried faintly on the wind.
The prickle on his neck began to fade. Greg exhaled slowly, telling himself he'd imagined it. Still, he checked his back more than once before the heavy outline of the station finally came into view. Machinery thundered within, drowning his thoughts in metal and noise.
The blast doors rumbled open, spilling light and heat into the corridor. Alan stood in the frame with a smirk plastered across his grease-streaked face.
"What miracle kept you alive?" he said, a rough chuckle chasing the words.
Greg's brow furrowed. This bastard—always amused by turmoil, he thought, spitting inwardly.
"Do you think I'm worth the help now?" he asked flatly.
Alan hopped onto a workbench, sitting cross-legged with exaggerated ease. "Nope," he said. "I'm sure you'd be dead if not for luck."
Alan leaned forward, wiping his hands on an already-filthy rag. His eyes flicked to the bulging pack on Greg's shoulder.
"So. You actually brought something back, or is that just rocks weighing you down?"
Greg swung the pack off, letting it thump against the floor with more force than necessary. He unzipped it and pulled free the coolant cores, the flux conduit, and finally, the inverter—careful to keep his hand steady despite the ache in his ribs.
Alan's smirk faltered. He slid off the bench and crouched to inspect the haul, grease-black fingers tracing the edges of the inverter like it was some relic.
"Well, I'll be damned. You didn't just stumble back alive—you actually found it."
"Almost died for it too," Greg muttered, rolling his shoulder. "But you'll just say that's luck again."
Alan grinned without looking up. "Of course. Can't have you thinking you're competent." He stood, holding the inverter with both hands. "This, though… this will work. Runner might not fly like she used to, but she'll fly."
Relief washed through Greg, heavy and fleeting. One more step, one more inch out of this hole. He reached for the rag to wipe the sweat from his palms when Alan suddenly froze mid-movement, eyes flicking to the far wall as though he'd heard something Greg couldn't. For a breath, neither of them spoke. Then Alan shook himself, muttering, "Give me three hours and the Runner will be ready."
He ushered Greg out of the bay without explanation.
Greg lingered in the corridor, frowning. Three hours to fix a starship. Brilliant—if he wasn't half-mad. Still, he'd take genius wrapped in madness over being stranded. He'd come back in four, check the ship, scan for ESC updates, then haul the Xilvi crates out of the refinery. After that, he was gone.
Dust crunched under his boots as he made his way back toward town. The thunder of the station faded behind him, replaced by the mutter of miners and the hiss of wind through sheet-metal alleys. For the first time all day, the pressure at his back eased, though it never disappeared entirely.
Wooden panels creaked as he stepped inside Tewa's. The bar smelled of aged grain and something earthy, thick with the usual noise—arguing, loud laughter, the occasional clink of mugs. Tewa stood behind the counter, lifting a crate like it was a simple box of air. The Wever was shorter than Greg, with a stocky, muscular build, his skin a burnished orange.
His kind were forged on Ferser, a world where survival meant enduring blistering heat by day, freezing nights, and storms fierce enough to rip stone apart. The planet had carved them into resilient fighters, shorter but stronger than humans and twice as stubborn. But strength had also bred defiance. Many Wevers, Tewa included, had rebelled against Exnec's grip—rebels who now lived in exile, scattered across the fringes.
"Hayo!" Greg greeted in the Wever tongue, raising his chin in respect.
Tewa's wide grin split his face as he thumped the crate onto the floor with a dull crash. "About time," he boomed, his laugh rolling over the room's din. "You look like hell, pilot. Sit. I'll get you something hot before you keel over."
Greg dropped onto a stool, and a moment later Tewa set a heavy mug in front of him. The liquor steamed, thick and amber. Greg took a sip, and the sharp burn gave way to a warmth that spread through his chest, a brief reprieve from the ache in his ribs.
For a moment, he let himself savor it. Then the thoughts crept back in. What if he never made it back to Earth? What if the Runner failed, and all that was left for him was this—sitting in exile's taverns, waiting for Exnec to decide his fate? He'd seen what the Aren did to those they didn't need. Some were demoted to the mines. Others chained into service as little more than slaves.
On the surface, the Exon Nebulic Concord looked like a union of planets, a proud interstellar alliance. But Greg knew better. It was an empire, and the Aren—its true rulers—made sure everyone else remembered it.
He took another long swallow of the drink, forcing the bitterness down with the liquor.
The noise in Tewa's blurred—miners shouting, mugs clanging, the drone of a half-broken jukebox—until it all seemed to fall away, leaving only the weight of his thoughts. The Aren. Exnec. Earth slipping further out of reach.
He set the mug down with a soft clink and stared out the bar's smeared window. The street outside was still alive with movement, but the prickling on his neck returned, sharper than before. Someone was close.
The hairs on his arms rose.
A shadow fell across the table.
"You've got a knack for surviving," a voice said—calm, steady, too measured for a miner or a drunk.
Greg's hand twitched toward his belt, but when he looked up, his breath caught.
The figure didn't belong here. Not among rebels, exiles, or miners. Cloaked in dark brown fabric that seemed to drink the light, hood drawn low, face obscured. Pale eyes glinted from the shadow—unnatural, fixed on him with a hunter's patience.
No one else in the bar reacted. The laughter, the clink of mugs, the low drone of a jukebox all rolled on, untouched. Either they didn't notice the figure—or they were pretending not to.
The stranger lowered himself into the seat opposite Greg. The table creaked under his weight. From beneath the sleeve, Greg glimpsed purple skin with faintly ridged lines that caught the dim light. Only one race bore that mark.
A Kasman.
Greg's mind spun. He'd never seen one in the flesh, only heard stories. Their world lay so deep in the Fringes that even Exnec left it untouched. And like the stories said, the Kasman towered—easily seven feet, shoulders broad as a bulkhead.
What did a Kasman want with him?
The giant leaned forward slightly, voice rolling out slow and deliberate, every word like a stone dropped in still water.
"I have watched you," he said. "You endure."
Greg's throat tightened. He forced his hand away from his belt, resting it flat on the table. No sudden moves.
"Endure?" he said, keeping his tone flat, though his chest hammered. "That what you've been watching for?"
The Kasman didn't blink. His pale eyes seemed to cut through the smoke, through Greg himself. "Survival is more than chance. You resist. You adapt. Few do."
Greg swallowed hard, heat prickling at the back of his neck. He'd been hunted, cornered, written off as nothing more than scrap. Now some giant from the farthest edge of the Fringes was sitting across from him, speaking like he was… what, some chosen piece on a board?
"What do you want?" he asked.
The Kasman's lips curved—not quite a smile. "To see if you're the one I seek."
Greg's palms dampened against the table. Whatever this was, it wasn't chance. And it sure as hell wasn't luck.