For centuries, men and women have manned lighthouses to ensure the safe passage of ships. It is a lonely job, and a thankless one for the most part. Until something goes wrong. Until a ship is in distress. In the 23rd century, this job has moved into outer space. A network of beacons allows ships to travel across the Milky Way at many times the speed of light. These beacons are built to be robust. They never break down. They never fail. At least, they aren’t supposed to

It’s been a week since the cargo ship was lost on my watch. A week with very little sleep and not much appetite. Now the bio scanner is picking up some sign of life out there in the wreckage, and it’s my duty to go see what it is. Maybe I’m not as alone out here as I thought. And maybe I don’t want to be

I live in a tin can out on the edge of sector eight. Not much is supposed to happen here. Ships are supposed to fly by at twenty times the speed of light. My beacon is supposed to keep them safe. Things don’t always go like they’re supposed to

Out here on the edge of sector eight, I can be alone with my thoughts. Sometimes, this isn’t a good thing

The worst part about having it all, is having it all taken away