Railjack

  Hank Lewis stepped off of his ship, whistling an old, half-forgotten tune. Two technicians in beige jumpsuits approached the 'Belle carrying a large nozzle, followed by the attached hose that snaked through the docking port into the fuel tanks. He waved at them politely. With the supplies he was looking to sell still secured in the hold, Hank thought to lock up before going to check in with the customs office at the Port Authority. He hadn’t brought his sidearm for this stop; that would mean more paperwork, and frankly, he was hoping to keep to his scheduled run. The Port Authority, and over a third of the Freeport colony, for that matter, was owned and operated by TerraVent Systems. Hank remembered watching holo-ads for the corporation as a kid, featuring a cartoon planet going from a barren iceball to a luscious paradise with oceans of azure blue. He could still hear the infectious jingle ringing in his ears: "When your world looks heaven-sent, That’s not God, that’s Terra...