Drifting Forward  

I’ve left Carteyna behind. The ocean world was never home — just a stopover, a place to drop an old soldier and call it retirement. I tried, but beaches and waves don’t wash away thirty years of war.

Now, I ride with haulers. This life couldn’t be further from the warship decks I once called home. No battle stations. No drills. No captains screaming over comms. Just long cargo runs, quiet corridors, and the occasional laugh from the crew.

The ship’s an ironclad — old, patched, and scarred, but reliable. The crew calls it home. To them, I’m just the extra gun. A mercenary. Private security. The one who keeps watch when the shadows get too close. I don’t mind. I know my place.

It’s a long run. Six months before we reach Stanton. Six months of ports, outposts, shady docks, and quiet jumps through forgotten systems. Six months of watching for pirates, Nine Tails, and anyone desperate enough to crack open a cargo hold. The pay isn’t great, but credits aren’t the reason I’m here. I just need to keep moving. Stanton’s the goal.

The crew is fine. Hardworking. Practical. They don’t ask questions, and I don’t offer answers. I catch them watching me sometimes — wondering what a soldier like me is doing on a run like this. Truth is, I ask myself the same thing.

Still, there’s something steady about this life. Fewer uniforms, more grit. People just trying to survive the verse, one haul at a time. I get that. I respect it.

When the six months are up, we’ll dock at Port Olisar. I’ve heard it never sleeps — a station full of haulers, mercs, traders, and drifters. My kind of place. Maybe the start of something new.

I don’t know what I’ll find there. But I do know this:  The war isn’t gone. It never really is. It just changes shape.  And I’m still here, waiting for it.