Beneath the Twisted Skies

[TTD]

Tom Jeroen: A Clear, Grounded Character Portrait

Tom Jeroen isn’t a hero by design. He isn’t born into prestige, prophecy, or expectation. On his home world, he’s simply known as:

“that clever kid at the academy.”

Nothing more.
No titles.
No aura of importance.
No one projecting greatness onto him.

And that’s exactly what makes him compelling.

1. Ordinary origins, extraordinary trajectory
Tom’s background is deliberately unremarkable. He’s an Argon descendant living a normal life, studying, working, doing what’s expected. People around him see competence, not destiny. He blends in easily because he doesn’t try to stand out.

2. Quiet intelligence
He’s sharp, observant, and adaptable — but he doesn’t flaunt it. His intelligence shows in how he reacts to situations, not in how he talks about himself. He listens more than he speaks, and he absorbs details others overlook.

3. A natural responder, not a self‑declared leader
Tom doesn’t seek power or recognition. When events pull him forward, he steps up because someone has to — not because he believes he’s special. That humility gives him a grounded, relatable presence.

4. Emotionally steady, but not hardened
He feels deeply, even if he rarely announces it. His bond with Gurrngurr, his reaction to separation, his quiet moments of reflection — all of these show a man who carries emotion with sincerity rather than drama.

5. A man shaped by movement
Tom adapts quickly to new environments, new quarters, new roles. Not because he enjoys upheaval, but because he’s learned to make the best of whatever space he’s given. Each “temporary home” becomes another step in a life that keeps shifting under his feet.

6. The universe sees more in him than he sees in himself
This is the heart of his arc.
Tom doesn’t think he’s important.
But others — the Fokari, Gurrngurr ( a Boron ship he pilots), even the forces moving behind the scenes — recognise something in him:

steadiness

empathy

resilience

the ability to listen

the capacity to change without losing himself

He becomes significant not because he believes he is, but because he acts with integrity when it matters.

==========================================================================================

Introduction: Tom Jeroen
Tom Jeroen never set out to be anything more than a name on an academy roster.
On his home world he’s known, if he’s known at all, as the quiet one — the clever student who kept his head down, did the work, and slipped through life without leaving ripples. No titles. No legacy. No expectations.

Just Tom.

An Argon descendant with a steady mind and a habit of noticing things others overlook.

He isn’t a hero.
He isn’t chosen.
He isn’t even particularly ambitious.

But the universe has a way of finding people like him — the ones who listen, the ones who adapt, the ones who carry their strength quietly. And when it does, it rarely asks permission.

Tom’s story doesn’t begin with a prophecy or a battle.
It begins with a routine flight, a familiar docking message, and a ship that seems to understand him a little too well. It begins with a question he didn’t know he was asking, and an answer waiting far below the surface of a world he’s never seen.

He doesn’t know it yet, but the path ahead will test every assumption he’s ever held about himself.
And somewhere out there — in the dust, the silence, the pulse of alien machinery — something has already taken notice.

Tom Jeroen is just an ordinary man.

For now.

[TTD]

In my last, but brief story, based on the initial brake up of the Gate System, ( in X3- Albion Prelude), I finished with the following...


Twisted Skies was now weak and vulnerable, both politically and militarily.

One morning, the whole of Zyarth's military fleet passed in through the south gate.
The governance of Twisted Skies was given a choice....
Give all space beyond the atmospheres of the planets to Family Zyarth or suffer the consequences!

What choice did they have?
Any ships capable of space to atmosphere conversions were modified and all space personnel were transported to the planets.
All political activities were to continue planet-side, while Zyarth ruled space.

This is the state of play as a new era begins.
Twisted Skies needs a hero.


And so, many more years passed by.
Governors of both planets came and went.
Politics of both planets evolved into a mutual understanding.
Neither of them took full responsibility for the loss of space superiority.
They accepted that they both had a role.
They had both been complacent about the Split power-shifts.
Neither of them realized until too late, that their sovereignty in space would be lost...not to either side, but to the Family Zyarth.

And so, the stage was set.
They formed the Alliance of Planets.
Diplomats travelled across the expanse to the other worlds in Twisted Skies.
Occasionally they were
intercepted by Family Zyarth's Military Police, but rarely detained.
Even then it was a cordial invite to the HQ for "diplomatic discussions".
Usually this was a term that really meant "we're watching you. Don't do anything stupid".

One day Tom Jeroen was in the library, as usual for him, researching the escapades of his great grandfather Norman.... How he restored the family name and discovered unique ways to build station complexes.
He often went there after his academy training, just to remind himself of how he came to be stranded on a planet so far from Norman's home world.
He would read and re-read every article he could find and looked into the possession of Twisted Skies and its eventual demise.

Every time he did this, he would try and find a way out.
Somehow, he had to restore the status quo...."But how can I? There must be something somewhere that weakens Family Zyarth's claim to this sector" he would ask himself time and again.

Members of the Alliance of Planets had learned about Tom's curiosity about his family background and how it was instrumental in the colonization of Twisted Skies.

"Mr Jeroen", came an unfamiliar voice, "I believe you are interested in our background culture. Are you aware of the other race living in this sector?"

"Not until now sir." he replied. "There seems to be some blanks in the history books that I can't quite piece together. Perhaps it's those gaps in our history that you refer to?"

"It is Mr Jeroen. And perhaps you might like to learn more.... off the record, of course?"

Secrecy! Conspiracy? Who was this official looking gent watching him, scrutinising every expression and word?

"Maybe I need to know more about the offer, before I respond. Who are you? Who do you work for?"

"Let's just say that your research has caught the attention of very high officials. Your family heritage is important to them, but you are the only family member inquisitive enough to delve into your ancestry and connections to this sector. They feel you need to no more than what is in the public domain."

"And if I decline?"

"Then what you seek may never be found by you. It will be wasted time and effort."

"Then how am I to learn what I seek and how do you know what I seek?

"If you wish to continue your research under our guidance, then you are to report to your academy Principle first thing tomorrow. Your principal will be expecting you.
And Mr Jeroen…
do not speak of this conversation to anyone. "

With that, the official turned on his heals and left, leaving Tom both puzzled and intrigued.

[TTD]

The door whispered shut behind the man, and the library seemed to exhale.
Tom stood there for a long moment, the weight of the encounter settling over him like dust from an old book.

Puzzled… yes.
Intrigued… far more than he wanted to admit.

He glanced down at the open volume on Norman Jeroen — the familiar lines, the stories he’d read a hundred times — and suddenly they felt different.
As if the pages were no longer just history, but a doorway he’d been circling without realising it.

Whatever tomorrow held, it was no longer just research.
Someone had been watching.
Someone thought he mattered.

And that thought stayed with him long after he closed the book....

He slept uneasy that night. Characters from his research coming and going in his dreams.
And one shadow character that he knew was important, but could not quite focus on...Like this figure was not really part of the dream...more of a psychic intruder.

[TTD]

He suddenly awoke restless a mizura or two earlier than normal. His heart hammered against his ribs as if the dreams had been real,
but they dissolved quickly, leaving only the shadowy figure lingering at the edges of his mind — watchful, patient, almost expectant.

He sat up slowly, breathing through the fading panic. The room was growing lighter by degrees, morning creeping in with quiet indifference.
His body moved on instinct: wash, dress, pack his data pad, food tablets, a flask of water. His hands worked while his thoughts replayed yesterday’s encounter in looping fragments.

The stranger’s words echoed like a half‑remembered warning.

He paused at the doorway, glancing back at his room. A strange thought tugged at him — had he forgotten something, or was it the room itself he might not see again?

A whisper brushed the back of his mind.

You’re fine.

He froze.
“What? Did I hear that… or imagine it?”

No answer came. Only the faint hum of the academy waking up.

Tom left his digs and headed toward the principal’s office, the early‑morning corridors still carrying that half‑awake hush the academy never quite shook. Tom moved through them like a ghost, his mind replaying the stranger’s words with every step. Report to your academy Principal first thing tomorrow.
He swallowed. Whatever this was, it had already begun.
The walk to through the academy felt different. Students passed him by in idle chat. but he was barely aware of them. Everything seemed different somehow.
The closer he got, the more the building seemed to change around him — not physically, but in atmosphere. The administrative wing always felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were listening. Today that weight pressed harder than usual. When he reached the principal’s door, he paused, hand hovering just short of the chime. A faint tremor ran through his fingers.

Why me? Why now? And what exactly do they think I’ve found?

Now he stood outside the Principal’s office — the threshold between the life he knew and whatever waited beyond.

What future? Who or what is waiting for me past this door?

He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself.
His hand rose to the door handle.

And for a heartbeat, the shadow in his mind leaned closer.


He exhaled slowly, straightened his shoulders, and tapped the panel.

The door slid open with a soft hiss.

“Ah, Mr. Jeroen,” the Principal said, already standing, already waiting. “Come in. We have much to discuss.”

[TTD]

Tom entered the Principal’s office. He wasn’t alone. A Teladi stood beside the desk, scales gleaming.
“Mr Jeroen,” the Principal said, “this is Tassila Tissakos, representative of the Inter‑Sector Commercial Exchange.”
Tassila clicked her claws.
“Yesss. Young Jeroen has potential. Curiosity. Persistence. A profitable combination.”
Tom was confused, but the Principal gestured toward a side door.
“There is more you should see.”
7. The Multi‑Species Mentors
The door opened into a chamber where five figures waited:
· A Boron diplomat
· A Split warrior
· A Paranid scholar
· A Fokari representative
· A senior Argon officer
“These,” the Principal said, “are your instructors.”
Each introduced their role:
· Boron: diplomacy, empathy, communication
· Split: discipline, survival, situational awareness
· Paranid: language, logic, truth‑discernment
· Fokari: hidden history of the region
· Argon officer: inter‑species law and protocol
· Teladi (Tassila): trade, negotiation, market flow
Tom realised this was no ordinary programme. Someone was preparing him for something larger.

[TTD]

Tom lived a double life: normal classes by day, secret instruction by night.
He returned to Norman’s journal whenever he could, reading a few pages at a time. The name Sahr’kath lingered in his mind.
His mentors reacted subtly:
· The Fokari mentor stiffened when Tom mentioned the name.
· The Split mentor grew suspicious of Tom’s questions about early Split‑Argon relations.
· The Teladi encouraged him to “follow the profit trail,” which led him to understand the political tensions between Zyarth and Rhonkar.
· The Argon officer warned him: “Some histories were buried for a reason.”
Tom began to realise Norman wasn’t just a station builder — he had been involved in political manoeuvring far deeper than the public records suggested.
And Sahr’kath might be the link between the ancient Fokari and the early Split clans, from a time when control of the region shifted repeatedly over millennia.

Upon graduation, Tom received a modest posting: a refurbished M5 scout, assigned to courier and trade duties between the ringed Fokari planet and nearby factories.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was freedom.
He traded energy cells, food rations, and basic materials — small runs, but enough to build a reputation. The Split clerks found him unusual but competent. Some even respected him.
And slowly, he began to gather information.
Fragments.
Hints.
Contradictions.
Until he realised the truth:
The stations weren’t run by Family Zyarth at all — but by Family Rhonkar.

[TTD]

Given the chance to trade a bit in the sector, taking resources to and from the Ringed Planet of the Fokari, he is allowed to assist in the productions at the factories in the space between the two planets.
It is then that he realises that all is not as most thought.
The stations weren’t run by the Family Zyarth. But by the Family Rhonkar !
How did this come about? He would have to report this to his sponsors.

Gradually, over time, he amassed enough profit to enlarge his cargo hold, by trading between the Solar power Plants and the High Yield Production Complex, or other factories at times.
Being the virtually the only Argon the split ever saw there, Tom gradually became well known by the station clerks, who almost admired him and the relative freedom he had gain.
Over time, with carefully orchestrated idle chats, he was able to gather many snippets of information, that would later prove invaluable as a whole.
It was like looking for those elusive jigsaw components that looked so similar to others of the same jigsaw, but slowly he was able to piece them all together.


Eventually, Tom climbed the trade ranks to Journeyman and earned the title of Split Comrade, thanks to his steady support of their arms production.
He often spotted missile crates and other ordnance drifting in open space—tempting little prizes—and more than once he considered scooping them up for the Split. Perhaps even keeping the occasional one for himself.
Split security crews were never opposed to a discreet payment for “not noticing” a stray container tucked behind a stack of e‑cells. Their wages were hardly generous, even at higher ranks.
But one day, just as Tom was preparing to collect a few abandoned crates, the Military Police swept in and scanned his ship. For a moment, he felt the cold edge of trouble brushing against him. He shelved the idea—for now.
He kept watch on the ships moving through the sector. Mostly pirates in M4s and M5s. Occasionally a Teladi would slip through, though rarely.
Sometimes a visitor’s ship wouldn’t leave at all. It would simply… vanish.
“Why?” he wondered. “Were those drifting containers a warning? A clue? Or was something else happening out here—something I wasn’t meant to see?”

[TTD]

He began tracking the comings and goings of every ship in the sector.
Some of the vessels that “vanished” didn’t truly disappear at all — they slipped toward what had once been his late great‑grandfather’s Headquarters. Yet the structure didn’t match the descriptions in the old academy journal. Something had changed. Something subtle, but unmistakable.
Other ships drifted beyond the reach of the shipping satellite’s scanners. A few returned hours later. Others never reappeared.
“What’s out there?” he wondered. “And what’s going on with the old HQ?”


After a while, he noticed a rise in the number of escorts moving through the sector.
Mostly M5s — quick, lightly armed, the sort of ships used when someone wants surveillance more than protection.
But who were they escorting?
And why now?

They never formed up around anything obvious. No convoys. No VIP transports. Sometimes they’d appear from the direction of the old HQ, sometimes from beyond the satellite’s reach, flying tight patterns as if shadowing something he couldn’t see.
The more he watched, the more it felt deliberate. Coordinated.
As though someone was moving pieces on a board he didn’t know he was standing on.

When he finally reached the rank of Trade Prospector, he found himself wondering whether there was a way to climb the ladder a little faster. So one day, while signing off a routine delivery, he tried a casual question on the station clerk.
“I’m slowly building up my navigation and trade experience,” he said lightly. “Are there any stations further north, beyond the satellite’s range, where I might find better opportunities?”
The clerk’s reaction was immediate — too immediate.
“Split say not go there! Some don’t return!” he blurted, before abruptly turning away and hurrying toward the back of the warehouse, pretending to be urgently needed elsewhere.
Tom watched him go, unsettled. The man hadn’t just been dismissive. He’d been afraid.

[TTD]

This was getting a little too deep for comfort.
Tom decided he’d run a few more trade routes, keep everything looking normal, and then formally request a short leave from the Split authorities.
He’d tell them he needed time to settle some family matters — nothing dramatic, nothing that would make them question his loyalty.
He’d assure them he’d return soon to continue assisting their production lines. What he wouldn’t tell them was the truth: the strange escort patterns,
the disappearing ships, the clerk’s fear, the old HQ that didn’t match the records. He certainly wouldn’t mention that he wanted clarification from his mentors.
Some things were better kept quiet until he understood them himself.

=================================================================

He settled into his old apartment again, letting the door slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.
The familiar scent of recycled air and old data pads wrapped around him like a worn jacket.
“Hello, old friend,” he murmured, running a hand along the edge of the console desk.
The place hadn’t changed — same scuffed flooring, same faint hum from the ventilation, same view of the docking bay lights flickering in the distance.
For the first time in days, he felt his shoulders loosen.
Here, at least, nothing was watching him.
Here, the walls didn’t flinch when he asked the wrong questions.
He sank into the chair, letting the quiet settle.
He wasn’t done with the Split. Not by a long shot.
But for now, he needed this — a moment to breathe, to think, to let the pieces of the puzzle stop rattling long enough to see their shapes.

He sat there for a moment, letting the familiar ambiance wash over him. The room had automatically shifted to the settings he’d programmed years ago — soft lighting,
a low hum from the air recycler, the faint scent of old circuitry. It felt like stepping into a memory.
He reached across to the small shelf and picked up the old journal he had “borrowed” from the academy library.
The cover was worn, the edges softened by time and handling.


“There must be some clues in here,” he whispered, his voice carrying the faint rasp of exhaustion.
He thumbed the first few pages, not really reading yet — just grounding himself in the feel of it.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured, closing the book gently. “Tomorrow we’ll find more answers. I hope.”

[TTD]

And this time, just for a heartbeat, he caught sight of a Military Rapid Response Python — a dark,
angular silhouette knifing through space at impossible speed before it vanished beyond the radar’s reach.
He blinked, unsure whether he’d imagined it.
Pythons didn’t patrol here. Not quietly. Not alone.
And certainly not at full burn toward the northern void.
Whatever was happening in this sector, it was no longer subtle.


And all this time, while trading and building his ranks, Tom noticed something else — something so ordinary that most pilots would never have questioned it.
There were no job offers.
Not a single courier run.
No “collect cargo” requests.
No stranded pilots.
Not even the usual low‑pay errands that cluttered every other sector’s comms.
It was as if the entire civilian contract network had gone silent.
Tom frowned at the empty mission board.
Silence, he’d learned, was rarely accidental.

His great‑grandfather had always said that in most sectors, the civilian ships outnumbered the military patrols three to one.
Freighters, couriers, miners, haulers — the lifeblood of the universe.
But here…
Here it was the opposite.
This sector rarely had more than a third civilian traffic.
The rest were Split military assets: patrol wings, escorts, interceptors, and now even heavy M3s sweeping the lanes like hunting packs.
It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t economic. It was controlled.
And the more Tom watched, the more he realised that the Split weren’t protecting the sector from something outside. They were protecting something inside.

[TTD]

.

[TTD]

He paused, fingers hovering over the console.
“If only I could get a simple Scan Asteroids job in this sector,” he muttered. “Just one. That would give me a reason to drift a little further north.”
He glanced at his equipment readout.
Duplex Scanner. Reliable, but limited. Barely enough to see past the nearest traffic lanes.
“I wonder if they’d even let me buy a Triplex Scanner,” he said under his breath. “I’ve earned the credits. I’ve earned the rank. But will they sell one to me?”
He leaned back, thinking. Even if he couldn’t push far into the northern void, a Triplex might catch something — a faint contact, a shadow, a trace of movement. Anything.
“If I’m lucky,” he whispered, “I might see something they don’t want seen.”
What makes this moment so strong is how grounded it is:

[TTD]

The Split monitored everything.
Traffic lanes. Docking requests. Cargo manifests. Even the idle drift of a ship between stations.
Every so often, a patrol wing would peel off and perform a “random” spot check — the kind that wasn’t really random at all. Just enough to remind him that he was tolerated here, not trusted. That his passage through the sector was permitted, not granted.
Tom kept his responses polite, his flight path predictable, his scanners pointed nowhere unusual.
He knew the rules.
He knew the consequences of breaking them.
Whatever he did, it had to look routine.
Unremarkable.
Invisible.
Because in this sector, attracting attention wasn’t just unwise.
It was dangerous.

“Ay up… Split dropship? Hmmm.”
He narrowed his eyes. Dropships didn’t wander. They didn’t patrol. They went somewhere — fast, direct, and with purpose. And whatever purpose brought one here, it wasn’t civilian.
It’s a perfect little beat of tension, the kind that tells the reader Tom’s instincts are sharpening, even if he’s trying not to draw attention to himself.
If you want, we can explore what direction the dropship was heading, or whether it was escorted, or if it appeared on his scanner for only a flicker before vanishing north like the Python.



Out of curiosity — and against his better judgement — Tom eased his ship into the wake of the Split dropship, keeping a respectful distance. He wasn’t tailing it, not officially. Just… following the same vector. Pure coincidence, if anyone asked.
The dropship’s route was odd. First stop: a high‑yield ammunition plant. Then a missile factory. Both made sense for military logistics but seeing them back‑to‑back felt deliberate, almost rehearsed.
Then the dropship veered toward a Chelt Meat supplier.
Tom frowned. Ammunition, missiles… and food? That combination didn’t fit any standard Split deployment pattern he knew. Troop movement, maybe. Or something more specialised.
He drifted a little closer — and that’s when a Split Police Scout cut across the dropship’s path, sharp and sudden, like a knife flicked through space.

[TTD]

Tom’s heart lurched.
If he’d been even a few seconds closer, the scout would have scanned him, questioned him, maybe worse. But he was just far enough behind to be invisible in the clutter of traffic.
He didn’t wait for a second chance.
He throttled back, swung wide, and slipped neatly back onto his usual trade route — predictable, harmless, forgettable.
Exactly how the Split preferred him.

Tom blinked at the contact tag. NMMC Freighter.
He hadn’t seen a single Teladi‑pattern ship in this sector since he arrived. The Split kept their borders tight, their trade lanes tighter. Outsiders didn’t wander in without a reason.
But the journal had mentioned NMMC — not strictly Teladi, but close enough. A corporation with one foot in legitimate profit and the other in… less official arrangements. Pirates. Smugglers. Opportunists.
Seeing one here, now, felt wrong.
He watched it drift along the northern vector, slow and heavy, as if it belonged here. As if it had permission.
Tom felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. If the Split were allowing that kind of ship through, then whatever was happening in this sector wasn’t just military.
It was commercial. Or covert. Or both.

A Split passenger shuttle lifted from the military base and angled toward the gate, engines bright against the sector haze.
Tom frowned. He hadn’t seen it arrive.
Had it taken passengers? Officers? Specialists?
Or had it slipped in quietly while he was docked, unseen and unannounced?
Either way, a shuttle leaving a restricted base wasn’t routine.
Not here.
Not now.

He watched it vanish through the gate, a thin line of unease settling in his chest

And the timing — heading straight for the gate — raises even more questions.

[TTD]

1. It did take passengers — but not civilian ones
A shuttle from a military base usually means:
· officers being rotated
· specialists being moved
· someone important being transferred discreetly
· or personnel being extracted
If that’s the case, the Split are moving people in and out of the sector with a level of secrecy that fits everything Tom has been noticing.

2. He missed its arrival
And that possibility is even more unsettling.
If he didn’t see it come in, then:
· it arrived while he was docked
· or it came through a different gate
· or it slipped in under escort
· or it wasn’t meant to be noticed at all
A shuttle that appears only when leaving is the kind of thing that makes a man wonder what he wasn’t supposed to see.

3. It wasn’t carrying passengers at all
Split “passenger shuttles” are often repurposed for:
· secure data transport
· biological samples
· diplomatic packets
· or covert cargo that doesn’t fit in a standard freighter
The hull says “shuttle.”
The manifest could say anything.

[TTD]

Barely south of the military base, a Split Military Raptor slid into view — slow, deliberate, as if it had always been there. On any other day, Tom would have dismissed it. Raptors came and went. They were symbols of Split strength, nothing more.
But the timing…
The shuttle had only just departed.
And the Raptor’s position gave it a clean line of sight to the shuttle’s entire ascent and departure vector.
Too neat.
Too coincidental.
Too… intentional.
Tom felt the familiar prickle at the back of his neck. The Split didn’t do coincidences. Not in a sector this tightly controlled.
He kept his ship steady, eyes forward, pretending not to notice.
But he noticed.

A Split News Agency vessel drifted into the sector, its transponder blinking the familiar press code. Tom watched it for a long moment, unsure what to make of it.
Independent news?
Or state‑issued propaganda?
In a sector this tightly monitored, the answer seemed obvious.
The Split didn’t invite journalists into restricted zones unless they controlled the story.

The ship’s flight path was too neat, too deliberate, shadowing the military lanes rather than the civilian ones. It wasn’t here to report. It was here to observe.
Tom kept his distance.
This fits beautifully with everything you’ve built:
· the escorts
· the misplaced laser
· the Rapid Response Python
· the dropship
· the NMMC freighter
· the shuttle
· the Raptor
· the constant monitoring
A “news” ship is just one more piece of the puzzle — another quiet sign that the Split are managing not just the sector, but the story of the sector.
And Tom is one of the few who notices.

[TTD]

The transport ship re‑entered the sector on a lazy arc, its transponder blinking the same civilian code as before.
Tom watched it drift toward the old HQ, curiosity tugging at him despite himself.
He pulled up the pilot registry.
Lo tSht. Split. Mid‑rank. Nothing remarkable on paper.
He tracked the ship’s approach, eyes flicking between the external feed and the station’s public docking channel.
The transport settled into Bay 3 with the same unhurried precision as earlier.
Tom opened the docking logs.
There it was. Lo tSht — logged, authenticated, timestamped.
Perfectly normal. Perfectly routine. Perfectly… reassuring.
And yet the reassurance didn’t quite settle. Instead, it left a faint aftertaste — a reminder that even when the facts lined up, the feeling didn’t.
Maybe he was imagining patterns where none existed.
Maybe he was letting the missing ships and pilots cloud his judgement.
Maybe he was starting to see conspiracies in shadows that weren’t there.
But the name in the log didn’t erase the unease.
It only made it quieter.
A nagging doubt, nothing more.
But doubts have a way of growing when the sector refuses to behave like it should.

[TTD]

The transport’s vector wasn’t unusual at first — a slow, steady descent from the northern trade lane.
Tom almost dismissed it, until the ship adjusted its course with a deliberate, unmistakable arc.
Straight toward the old HQ.
His great‑grandfather’s HQ.
Tom leaned forward, eyes narrowing. He’d watched that station for days now, out of habit more than suspicion.
Nothing ever docked there. Not anything this size, at least. A courier might slip in unnoticed,
a drone might skim the hull, but a full transport? No. He would have seen it.
He checked the registry again.
Checked the pilot.
Checked the docking lane.
Everything was legitimate. Everything was routine.
And yet…
This was the first time he’d seen a ship dock there. Too large to miss. Too deliberate to ignore.
Maybe others had come and gone while he was OOS or distracted. Maybe he was reading too much into it.
Maybe it was nothing more than a supply run to a forgotten station.
But the trajectory stuck with him — a quiet, persistent itch at the back of his mind.
A nagging doubt he couldn’t quite shake.

[TTD]

Now there were two NMMC trade ships.They seemed to be doing relays from OOS to the Raster oil refinery and back again.
Was there not a pirate who worked undercover at an oil refinery. One who asked for one of his competitors to be put out of business "permanently".
Not to terminate him..."That would be illegal, wouldn't it?" he asked of Tom's ancestor.
Two NMMC traders running a tight relay between OOS and the Raster Oil Refinery is nothing unusual on paper.
Corporations do that all the time. But the pattern is what catches him: the rhythm, the precision, the way they seem to be moving with purpose rather than profit.

Tom’s great‑grandfather had written about him in the journal.
A man who wasn’t really a pirate, not in the romantic sense — more a fixer, a shadow‑broker,
someone who lived in the cracks between corporate respectability and outright criminality.
He’d worked undercover at an oil refinery.
He knew every pipe, every valve, every shipment.
And he’d once approached Tom’s ancestor with a request:
“I need a competitor removed from the market. Permanently.”
Then, with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes:
“Not terminated, of course. That would be illegal, wouldn’t it?”
It was the kind of line that stuck in the mind — half‑joke, half‑confession.

It’s not that he believes the same thing is happening. It’s not that he thinks pirates are running covert sabotage ops through a Split sector. It’s not even that he suspects NMMC of anything.
It’s that the memory fits the shape of what he’s seeing.
· A refinery
· A relay
· A pattern
· A sense of something happening just out of sight
· And a story from the journal that suddenly feels a little too relevant
His mind is starting to weave threads together — not because he’s paranoid, but because the sector is giving him just enough oddities to make old stories feel newly plausible.
And yet, he still doubts himself. Still wonders if he’s reading too much into it. Still feels that nagging tug of “am I imagining this?”
He was now caught between logic and instinct, between memory and reality, between coincidence and pattern.

[TTD]

The sector lit up like a hornet’s nest.
Seventeen escorts dropped out of the lane almost on top of each other — Asps, Mantas, Mambas,
every variant Tom could name and a few he couldn’t. No formation, no spacing, just a dense, purposeful cluster moving as one.
Police patrols reacted instantly, streaking toward the swarm with weapons unpowered but ready.
Tom expected a challenge, a scan, something.
Instead, the police veered off. Not gradually — abruptly, as if someone had whispered in their ear.
Leave them be.
Tom felt the shift before he understood it. The escorts weren’t the point. They were the curtain.
From the centre of the mass, a shadow unfolded — long, angular, unmistakable.
A Military Raptor.
It moved with the slow, deliberate confidence of something that didn’t need to justify its presence.
The escorts tightened around it, not protecting it, but announcing it.
The sector had been quiet for hours. Too quiet.
Now it felt like the quiet had been a held breath.
Tom’s pulse ticked once, hard.
Whatever was happening, this wasn’t routine.
And the Split didn’t send a Raptor unless something mattered.