Chapter 1: Preparation for arrival…

Moose sits at the console in the cockpit of the CS01, his hat brim low, shadows cutting across his face. Several Bibles lie open in front of him, their pages worn and folded beside spiral notebooks filled with his handwriting. Pens are scattered between the books like tools of ritual.

He flips a few switches—click, click—and presses a pair of glowing buttons. Deep in the ship, transmitters hum to life. The broadcast goes out, his signal stretching into the dark, carried across the stars to anyone receiving.

Outside the viewport, galaxies shimmer and drift, slow and endless. And far off in the distance, faint but steady, The First Last Stop floats among the stars—its lights flickering like a beacon for the lost.

Proverbs 11: 1-2

“Dishonest Scales are an abomination to the LORD, but a just weight is His delight.  When pride comes, then comes shame; but with the humble is wisdom.”

“CS01, are you there?”

Moose’s voice carries clearly over the soft hum of the CS01, the sound swallowed by the ship’s recycled air.

“I am here,” replies the calm, steady voice of the intelligence—smooth, feminine, almost gentle.

“How long until we dock?”  Moose asks, eyes still on the screens.

“Two hours, estimated,” CS01 answers.

Moose nods slowly, the faint reflection of the stars sliding across the brim of his hat.  He turns back to the spread of open Bibles before him, their thin pages fluttering slightly in the cabin’s filtered breeze.  After a moment’s quiet reading, he reaches for a pen, taps it once against the console, and begins to write in one of his notebooks—the scratch of ink joining the quiet rhythm of the ship in motion.

“What can you tell me about this place? Can you pull up some detailed maps for me—and who are we here to meet?”  Moose’s pen drags slowly across the page, black ink tattooing the white paper with looping, deliberate strokes. The light from the console flickers across the pages, catching the edges of ink still wet.

CS01 hums softly, the subtle tone of processing. Then—movement.  Several screens blink to life, scrolling with streams of text and layered visual overlays: orbital data, schematics, and rotating terrain maps of The First Last Stop.  Each window casts shifting reflections across the cockpit, painting Moose in a collage of cyan and gold light.

“Pulling local registry data now,” CS01 says, her tone smooth and unhurried.  “Population fluctuating.  Station master changes hands every few cycles.  Incoming traffic logs show… irregular patterns.”

Moose glances up from his notes, the corner of his mouth tightening slightly.  “Figures,” he mutters, and returns to his writing as the ship glides through the silence between stars.

“Displaying full station data now,” CS01 says, her voice smooth but tinged with energy, like static before a broadcast.  The holograms bloom brighter, spinning and resolving into layers of light across the console.

“The First Last Stop,” she begins, “neutral territory by name, chaos by nature.  Established two hundred thirty-four standard cycles ago as a refueling depot—though I count thirty-seven separate ownership claims since.  Its orbit is irregular, gravitationally bound to a decaying field between two micro-clusters.  It shouldn’t exist, technically. But then, neither should we.”

The map on the left spins outward, showing corridors and districts nested within a lattice of machinery.  “Population fluctuates between ten and twelve thousand,” she continues, “though that depends on how loosely you define alive.”

A few icons pulse red.  “Repair bays and refueling arms are functional but under-maintained.  Local power grid reports rolling brownouts.  The tavern—Burnout’s Well—is the unofficial hub.  You’ll want to keep your voice low there.”

Her tone softens, almost conspiratorial.  “Station command rotates weekly.  Currently held by an individual named Rhegor Dann, species unknown, history classified—meaning, dangerous enough that someone paid to hide it.  He’s the one we’re meeting.”

Another panel flashes amber, showing incoming ship vectors. “Traffic density increasing.  Scans show two patrol cruisers and at least one unregistered frigate loitering near the docking perimeter.  I recommend caution, Moose.”

The holograms dim slightly as she pauses.  “It’s beautiful in its way, isn’t it?  Broken, rusted, and still spinning.”

Moose looks up from his notes and out the viewport, galaxies sweeping past in silence.  His gaze fixes on the faint lights of the station, turning slowly in the distance.

“An alien,” he says quietly.