Tobias Le Cheron requested undock clearance and waited for the airlock to cycle. The old couplings strained visibly, barely managing what had once been a simple job. Little on this outpost still worked reliably. A regular worker wouldn't dare remove their helmet here—but Toby, like all of Audrey's crew, lived, worked, and unwound as if the hissing seals were just background noise.

  The place had started as a surface facility on a mined-out asteroid. Later—judging by the corroded gear—a chem lab had squatted here. Heavy artillery had smoked them out; through-and-through holes still scarred one sealed-off section. Even before Toby arrived, Audrey had whipped it into what she called "almost safe." He'd learned fast that her "almost" meant "better not poke around." Audrey didn't exactly live outside the law—her operations just "didn't need licenses." Translation: legal until caught red-handed.

  Alliance law was a mess—nothing like the EF's rigid codes. A hundred twenty years back, after secession, Alpha had cobbled together the basics. Corporate heads tweaked it, tacked on their own riders, and called them amendments. The result was a patchwork quilt of fine print from every major player. Take chem licensing: Alpha wanted full ingredient lists and constant monitoring—to make sure your food dye didn't accidentally birth explosives. But the corps? One got exemptions for "experimental" components. Another subcontracted through nested licenses. Total chaos. Toby loved it.

  Toby regretted missing that era—prime grift territory, independence clashes nobody called a war. He hated weapons and military types anyway. Modern Alpha was different: no bargaining, but logical loopholes still existed. It ran everything now—cops, firefighters, clone-vat medics, even taxi flows. Corps paid "capability taxes" while building their own armies under its gaze. Looked scary on paper, but a century of Alpha hadn't turned it into a tyrant. Yet.

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  The Army was the exception. Admirals called the shots; Alpha just handled tech. Toby had studied the setup—necessary, if you wanted to stay one step ahead. Corp taxes were fixed, universal, newborns included. Couldn't pay? The Youth Foundation took your kid. R-synchs cost double to train and mostly ended up in the AAC. Women? Few passed Alpha's fitness gauntlet, and those who did got squeezed by bro-culture.

  Side gigs helped—escorting expeditions, clearing pirate rings, training corp security. All for the right UCN. Freelancer paradise? Register, flip your chip, done. Six months, though, and Alpha flagged you. Ship as home and office? File monthly taxes. No bums allowed. Toby respected that, actually.

  Toby was a wily fox, always sniffing angles. He'd hooked Audrey not with schemes but with gallantry—and zero reaction to her charms. Fresh from the EF, still smelling of Earth's gravity, he'd sized up Alliance life fast. Alpha wasn't just a manager; it was Cerberus. One wrong jump, and cops yanked you. Psychocorrection sorted the rest. He'd been through that pink haze once. Never again. He went low-key: freelance data skims near his home system. Sold to agencies, watched responses—cops, researchers, military, mystery ships. Lightning-fast.

  One day he hit Audrey's rock: a tumbling asteroid with surface-base remnants. Threats first, then partnership. They hacked agency channels for black-box wrecks and looted the rest. His take jumped tenfold. A night-shift cleaner gig at an ore-processing office kept him legit—quick wipe-downs between belt ops.

  Six months fattened his account but starved his soul. No EF-style beach lounging here—just constant edge. Why was only the military tense? Everyone should be. The crew's vibe shifted: bug-out alert. Newbie Toby smelled a setup. He played lover—imagining her dim but handsome brother for motivation—and won her trust. Audrey confirmed it: time to ghost.

  En route to the League black market, Toby monotone-fed Alpha their coordinates: "Stumbled on unlicensed data pirates."

  When he returned, he expected the asteroid to be a lifeless rock—cleanup crew long gone. His surprise hit like a hull breach two days later: not dead stone waiting, but his pissed-off, jilted "colleagues" lying in ambush.