With nowhere else to go, Harah begun a cautious walk down the emergency-lit corridor from Port-3. The Roux was gone, and so the only way off Folban Station was to find either another ship, or smaller launch. After the recent events, it was clear that either this station was experiencing the worst ever recorded incident of system control error, or something was very intent on killing him. He had no desire to find out which one.     The sound of his steps echoed dully, then the PA system cracked on: "...twelve-million dead in the Asovel, and the resignation of Frontier Marshall Reidt to his Majesty for the disgraceful defeat at the hands of the genocidal rebels."      "We weren't the only ones" Harah growled back in his mind, recalling what he had seen planet side on Asovel; aftermaths of civilian executions by Imperial forces as retribution for aiding the "rebels". That was one the images that kept him fighting. It was one of the reasons he did w

      " Folban Station , MPV Roux , requesting permission to land" Harah droned once again to no reply. He had already tried the radio a number of times to no effect. He wasn't sure what would be worse-- continuing to get nothing back, or having to explain why he was coming back in their patrol craft. It is not like he had much choice; when the Roux "detained" him, they only had enough fuel for the return trip which had already been punched into the navigation. Where else could he have gone? He looked out the porthole in the cockpit, and saw that one of the docking stations, Port-3, was open.      "It's not like anyone is telling me no" he justified to himself, and slowly brought in the Roux . Besides, he wanted to see what was going on-- stations don't typically go silent for no reason, and he was just unwise enough to be curious.     As the Roux drifted in, he soon regretted his choice; the landing lights on the ship revealed a scene of mass

  “ I’m going to hang them by their tool s , and beat them with sticks! ” Harah roared in the cramped compartment. The fuel gauge read empty, which was why his small freighter dropped out of phase so violently. So much so, that Harah had been ejected from his cot, hitting his head against the bulkhead. He could still feel his skull ringing. Staring at the gauge, he theorized that the shady roustabouts at Port Lancel siphoned fuel-- not a surprising act in more remote areas that don’t produce much of their own. They would fill your reserves with inert liquid with the same density, leaving just enough actual go-juice in the line to get you off and running into phase, and leave you stranded far enough away to where you couldn’t sub-light back. Harah stood there in his impotent anger, alone, with just the subtle hum of shipboard electrical to keep him company. Thankfully, his arcanite generator would power that indefinitely as far as he knew. At least, longer than what probably remai