Character
Bonadan Shipyards, Ord Mantell
There were prettier places in the galaxy to hire a crew.
Bonadan Shipyards was not one of them.
The orbital station hanging over Ord Mantell smelled like hot metal, coolant leaks, bad deals, and people with nowhere better to be. Its docking rings groaned with constant traffic—freighters limping in on failing engines, tramp haulers loading questionable cargo, mercenaries drifting from one short contract to the next, and enough cutthroats in the cantinas to start a small war by accident. It was the sort of place where nobody asked too many questions so long as the credits cleared and the bodies did not block the loading lanes.
Which made it perfect.
Docking Bay 47 sat near the outer edge of the station's industrial ring, far enough from the main traffic to keep things quiet, but not so isolated as to look suspicious. Harsh floodlights washed the bay in pale white and deep shadow, glinting off stained deck plating and the rising steam from overworked vents. Cargo loaders sat idle near the walls. A refueling hose had been dragged clear and left coiled like a sleeping serpent beside the marked lane.
At the center of it all sat the Wandering Star.
A Wayfarer-class freighter, old and broad-shouldered, she looked less like a ship built for elegance and more like one built to survive abuse. Heavy central hull. Rugged lines. Modular cargo section mounted like a burden she had long ago learned to carry without complaint. Scored plating, patched sections, and enough wear across her frame to tell anyone with half a brain that she had seen hard miles and harder company. She was no polished Core luxury runner. She was a working vessel. The kind that hauled freight through bad sectors, outran trouble when it could, and shot back when it had to.
Her boarding ramp was already down.
That was invitation enough.
Aldren Thorne stood at the foot of it with the stillness of a man who did not waste movement. Broad, weathered, and stern-faced, he wore a battered brown jacket over a black shirt, one hand near his belt and the other resting at his side. His golden bionic left eye caught the floodlight every so often, giving off a dim burn that made his stare feel sharper than it already was. The faded scar crossing that same eye only added to the impression that this was a man who had lived through enough violence to stop being impressed by it.
He had posted the ad three days ago.
Simple. Direct. No unnecessary promises.
Crew wanted.
Freighter work. Long hauls. Dangerous routes. Discreet contracts.
Pay depends on usefulness.
No dead weight. No fools.
Bonadan Shipyards, Bay 47. Ask for Thorne.
That had been enough to draw interest.
And now they came.
One by one. Sometimes alone. Sometimes arriving close enough together to cast suspicious glances at each other before even stepping fully into the bay. A mechanic with a duffel and grease under their nails. A mercenary with a blaster too polished for honest work. A pilot with the look of somebody who had burned bridges in three systems already. Drifters. Veterans. Liars. Survivors. The desperate, the dangerous, and the merely curious.
None of them knew each other.
Not yet.
That tension sat in the air almost as thick as the engine heat bleeding off the Wandering Star's hull. Eyes measured one another. Hands hovered near holsters, satchels, or coat seams. Everyone was already taking stock—who looked competent, who looked unstable, and who looked like they would become the first problem.
Thorne let that silence sit.
Let them look.
Let them wonder.
Only when enough of them had gathered did he finally speak, his voice low and rough, carrying across the bay without ever needing to rise.
"You answered the ad. That means one of three things." His gaze moved over the small collection of strangers. "You need credits. You need to disappear. Or your judgment is worse than mine."
A beat passed.
"Could be all three."
No smile. No warmth. Just the dry edge of a man who knew exactly what kind of people took jobs like this.
He turned slightly, angling one shoulder toward the freighter behind him.
"I'm Aldren Thorne. This is the Wandering Star." His hand lifted just enough to indicate the ship. "Wayfarer-class. She hauls heavy, flies ugly, and stays together because I make sure she does."
His golden eye settled on the nearest of the gathered applicants, then drifted to the next.
"You don't know each other. Good. Saves me from pretending this is some kind of family already."
His tone stayed flat.
"If you're here, then introduce yourself. Name. Skillset. And one reason I shouldn't send you right back into the station."
The hum of the freighter filled the space after his words. Somewhere deeper inside the ship, a system cycled with a low mechanical throb, like the old vessel itself was listening.
Thorne folded his arms.
"Step aboard my ship, you earn your place. You pull your weight, keep your hands to yourself, and keep ship business off station gossip channels. You get paid when the work gets done. Not before."
His expression did not change.
"And if you bring me trouble I didn't ask for, I'll leave you on Ord Mantell and count that as generosity."
That was all he gave them.
No grand speech. No false charm. No effort to soften the edges.
Just a scarred captain, an old freighter, and a boarding ramp waiting for strangers to decide whether this was the start of something profitable—
or the beginning of a very short mistake.
