Harbour’s shipyard greeted me with heat, noise, and the smell of scorched wiring. Sparks showered down from the overhead welders, and hydraulic lifts groaned under the strain. And beside an open maintenance bay, bent over a half-disassembled housing, stood a young woman in a white tank top. Her dark hair was messy and stuck to her neck, her hands were smeared with grease—and still she stood out. Not deliberately, not for show. Just by being herself.

“That your Striker waiting for diagnostics? Or are you just here to watch sparks fly and bolts rattle?”—that was the whole greeting. No “hello,” no “how can I help you.” That’s how I met Selena, and I understood right away: here, people don’t size you up by your looks but by whether you know the difference between a thermal clamp and a cup of coffee.

Selena is the shipyard’s mechanic. If a ship needs its hull patched up or new weapons installed, sooner or later you’ll end up in her workshop. And it’s best to get straight to the point: she has no use for idle chatter, and even less for pretension.

On the job she’s dry and terse. She can ignore you for several minutes, then, without turning around, toss out: “Wrench. Third from the right.” And you’d better not get it wrong. Compliments on the clock aren’t accepted either—I tested that myself. The answer was short: “I’m working. Don’t distract me.”

But if you watch her for a while, the prickly act vanishes. What remains is focus and precision: every movement deliberate, not a trace of hurry. She isn’t trying to impress anyone—she’s simply got other things on her mind. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to look away from her.

Selena isn’t the type to bare her soul to the first pilot she meets. But if you look closely, you can work out quite a lot about her.

Breaks are rare for her. One day I found the workshop unusually quiet: Selena was lying on a long crate covered with a cloth, headphones in, looking at a picture of a thermofox on her communicator. She smiled at me—openly, not just with her lips but with her eyes. And I badly wanted that smile to stay on her face a little longer.

She also doesn’t like coffee. She says it gets her wired and makes it harder to think. A mechanic who doesn’t drink coffee—I’d never met one before.

Selena openly admits that she doesn’t know what she wants from life. But she knows exactly what she doesn’t want: to go back to where she came from. In that, it seems, we’re alike: we both know what we’re running from, but not where to.

She doesn’t like talking about her past, but sometimes it makes itself known.

Once, right in front of me, a fleet commander demanded that his ship be repaired out of turn. Selena refused calmly but firmly: “I’m not used to moving people up the queue because of uniforms or insignia.” Still, it clearly wasn’t about the queue. What irritated her wasn’t the request, or even the pressure, but the man in uniform himself, certain that his rank gave him the right to demand special treatment. She looked straight at him, without fear and, if anything, with a kind of dislike. I try to steer clear of people in uniform myself, but I have my own reasons. She, it seems, has hers.

Another time, I heard her ask a pilot who had come from Cassandra Ring Station, as if in passing, whether a certain Keller still ran the hangars there. Her voice stayed even, but her jaw tightened and her gaze froze for a second. When I tried to ask her about it myself, the reply was: “That’s not a conversation for the shipyard. And not for you.”

I don’t know who Keller is. But I already don’t like him.

Still, there is one thing from her past that Selena looks after. In her spare minutes she tinkers with an old service droid—scuffed, with a couple of dents and an arm that is clearly not original. “It’s not an order. Personal project,” she said when I first saw it on her workbench, and ran her palm over its casing. Almost tenderly. I recognized the model: an MSD-3. Units like it worked with us during field practice back when I was still at the Academy. Where she got it, Selena didn’t explain—she only said it had come to her a long time ago. But the way she looks at it makes it clear: for her, it’s not just a pile of scrap metal.

There are no shortcuts to Selena. Fine words and pushiness don’t work on her—if anything, they backfire. But she’s quick to notice who keeps their word, who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty, and who stands beside her when things heat up.

You can’t beg for her trust—you can only earn it. Slowly, through actions rather than grand words. But I’m almost certain: if Selena ever lets someone in, it will be for real. And maybe, next to that person, she’ll finally figure out what she wants.

Who am I? Not long ago, I could answer that question without hesitation. Now it sounds more like a string of random labels: a former Starfleet Academy cadet, an unwilling killer, a starship hijacker, and someone who suddenly ended up too far from home to just go back and pretend nothing ever happened.

On Harbour Station, though, no one finds that surprising. Everyone here has their own story—and most of them begin with the words: “I didn’t mean to…”

There was a time when everything in my life was simple: Academy uniform, regulations, class schedules, and a very clear path forward. Sure, there was some bias because I got in on a “captain’s quota,” but there were also parties with friends and late-night trips into the girls’ dorms.

All in all, a pretty normal life with a predictable future.

My father was a Starfleet cruiser captain. Too proper, too legendary—and too often absent. People knew his name, admired his operations, while I only knew one thing: there was always another mission in his life, another raid, another order that mattered more than a family dinner.

Then he disappeared—somewhere on the edge of known space during an operation against Silver Joseph’s gang. Lily, my stepsister, refuses to believe he’s dead, even though Starfleet sent all the official reports.

I was his opposite. I liked spending time with my stepsister and friends, didn’t mind breaking the rules when it felt necessary. I loved racing flyers and modifying them.

Maybe that’s why Phoebe, my stepmother, and Lily convinced me to enroll in the Academy. They hoped it would settle me down.

Everything changed in a single day.

First, I was expelled from the Academy for “inappropriate relations” with an instructor (sorry, Samantha). Then there was Steve. Where the hell did he even come from in that bar? I don’t even remember how it really happened. I don’t remember throwing the punch.

But it happened.

The prospect of hard labor wasn’t exactly appealing, so—here I am. A fugitive who hijacked someone else’s ship (sorry, unnamed pilot) and ran to the edge of the galaxy to escape the consequences.

Right now, I’m someone stuck between two versions of himself. Between a cadet in a perfectly pressed uniform and the guy the news calls “wanted” and “highly dangerous.”

In the mirror, I still see the same cadet I used to be. But to the system, I’m already a criminal with an impressive record. To Harbour—just another pilot with a shady past.

I know how to find solutions. The Academy taught me how to follow rules—and where they can be bent. Life before it taught me to value love and friendship. I can fly, I can fix electronics, I learn fast, and I know how to talk to both officers and the kind of people who prefer to stay off the radar.

I’m not a hero—but I’m not a complete bastard either. Sometimes I do what feels right. Sometimes I do what helps me survive one more day.

What I hate most is when someone else decides who I’m supposed to be and what I’m supposed to do. Maybe that’s how I ended up here—on a station in a part of space where everyone has their own version of the truth, their own goals, their own rules.

I don’t know who I’ll become next: the leader of a pirate crew, a law-abiding citizen who one day returns to the core systems, or someone who simply disappears in search of himself among the stars.

But for the first time, the direction is mine to choose.

Right now, I have two goals.

The first is simple: survive, adapt, stay out of prison, stay alive, and avoid the people who remember my face a little too well.

The second is harder: figure out what comes next.

Go back to the core systems and clear my name? Forget the past and become part of this world—a pirate, a smuggler, something else? Or find a third path, where no one knows my name—or what it’s worth?

I don’t just want to breathe. I want to live. I want to wake up one day knowing I chose that day myself—not that I’m just trying to get through it.

Out here, trusting people is difficult—and sometimes dangerous. Especially the ones who have something to hide. So even in a crowded bar, I’m usually alone.

But in my short time on Harbour, I’ve already met a few beautiful women I wouldn’t mind getting to know better. Zoe in the docks, Selena at the shipyard, Annie behind the bar—each with her own story and her own expectations.

We’ll see where that leads.

Maybe here, among other people’s stories, I’ll finally manage to write my own.

When my starship first dropped out of hyperspace near Zeta Caeli, it took me a moment to figure out where I was — everything around was pitch black, like I’d slipped into interstellar space. The Ship AI helpfully switched on the infrared filters, and only then did I spot the star: a tiny red disc far off the starboard side. With so little light, the station itself was just as hard to see — the AI outlined its shape on the display and plotted a docking course on its own.​

“Cold Heaven” is a small research station far away from trade and passenger routes. That’s exactly how the scientists here like it — no one around to interfere with their work. I’m not sure about the technical details, but I’ve heard the station’s location is especially good for studying gravitational fields and peering very deep into space. A team of researchers based here charts potential hyperspace routes for a good half of the Federation’s known stars.​

Dock — probably the smallest dock I’ve seen so far. It can handle maybe half a dozen mid‑class starships, and if anything larger shows up — something like a Trident‑class — it has to dock via external connectors or drop crew off by shuttle. The local attraction here is the dock manager, an android named PUSS‑25. I’d really like to know who decided to program her that way.

Laboratory — obviously, there are at least a dozen labs on this station. But only one of them really interests me. They don’t study astrophysics or even astrography here, but xenoarchaeology — more specifically, the long‑gone, almost completely vanished civilization of the Jarr. From what I’ve gathered, Doctor Myers is a pretty big name in that field, but to me she’s first and foremost an incredibly beautiful woman.

Trade Deck — if you can even call it that. In reality, it’s just a storage deck staffed by a warehouse android, VAG‑12. Still, he buys and sells a few goods, so technically the name checks out.

Bar “The Tavern” — the busiest place on the station. If you can ignore the weirdos playing tabletop games, it’s a decent spot to relax and try the local drink, “Blue Shift.”

Even though “Cold Heaven” sits at a dead end of hyperspace routes, I still find myself needing to come back here from time to time. And not just because I want to talk to Doctor Myers. Julia is so absorbed in her research that she barely noticed me when I first walked into her lab. The only thing that truly matters to her is the Jarr civilization — their artifacts and the remnants of their forgotten technology. I got lucky during one hyperjump and ran into one of their drones, managed to destroy it, and brought Julia a shard of its hull. Since then, she’s been treating me with a lot more attention, and I’m hoping that won’t be the last drone I get to shoot down and salvage for her.​

Right after dropping out of hyperspace, I felt the heat. Usually, jump exit points are placed far enough from a star, but Lambda Hadrionis is so massive that it hardly helps. Good thing it’s a red giant, not a blue one.

“Melting Point” is a popular spot in this sector. Although the colony has almost no permanent residents, its rich deposits of rare minerals attract both workers and all sorts of traders.

Underground Hangar — spacious, yet probably the hottest area in the entire colony. Constant takeoffs and landings never let it cool down. Maybe that’s why Max Sholar—the dock manager and part-time mechanic—is always in a bad mood.

Crew Quarters — a place where temporary workers and staff can spend the night or simply catch their breath after a shift. The room I rented turned out to be even smaller than the capsule I stayed in back at the “Haven” station: instead of a private shower module in each room, there’s just one shared shower for the entire section.

Bar “Degree of Consequences” — the liveliest place in the colony. It’s always noisy and crowded — thanks in no small part to the charming bartender Mira, who always has something to say, and to the colony’s brightest “star,” the prostitute Zara.

Control center — I wandered in here by accident during my first walk around the station. But the moment I saw the colony administrator, Linda Craven, I knew I’d be looking for excuses to come back. Fortunately, that’s easy — her son Eric runs the local trading terminal. A shy, awkward guy, but I think we’ll get along just fine.

“Melting Point” is a mandatory stop along the routes through this sector. You can always repair your ship here, sell your cargo — and of course, grab a drink at the bar, because no journey feels complete without that.

When I approached the station, it didn't stand out much—an ordinary modular structure, one of hundreds scattered across the galaxy. A bit battered, sure, but still fully functional. Maybe its location on the border between Federation-controlled sectors and unclaimed territory is what makes it so appealing to fugitives like me?

"Harbour" is one of the oldest stations in this sector. The system's resources are scarce, and the station's population has been steadily declining. Over the past decade, it has turned into a hub for smuggling and all sorts of illicit activities.​

Docks — the first thing anyone sees when docking at the station. Dock manager Zoey works here. Open and sincere, she dreams of one day becoming a starship crew member herself.

Capsule Hotel — where I rent a room to rest from long hauls and check my communicator for personal messages or job offers. Hotel manager Marcus is a pretty notable guy. I can't quite put my finger on it yet, but there's something in his gaze that makes me want to keep a close eye on him.

Reactor Room Bar — the local watering hole where you can unwind from the hustle with a glass of "Azurite," chat up the regulars for potential contracts, and admire the charming bartender Annie.

Trading Section — the part of the station dedicated to trade operations. Some areas are just warehouses, but Deck Seven is a full-fledged trading hub. I got lucky meeting broker Dayron here—he really knows his way around profitable deals.

Shipyard — where I can patch up hull breaches on my starship, buy mods, and armaments. Importantly, this is where Selena works—the sharp-tongued mechanic beauty whose look warms you up more than the ship's heating.

Roy, a buddy from the Academy, told me about "Harbour." He said stations like this are perfect for covering your tracks if things go south. There are probably plenty of similar holes on the edge of known sectors, but this name popped into my head when I hacked the onboard AI panel and decided where to point the stolen starship.​