S01E03 · Folks Like You (Kellan)

(Chapter Two of Legacy, Book One of the Orriona Universe)

Former Sector Guard Commander Kellan Harr sits alone in Nebula's Edge Bar on Level 9, nursing cheap whiskey and watching his credits drain away. Two years of searching for his father's missing freighter, the Starweaver, have led him here—to Edgepoint Station, where trails go cold and answers dissolve into corrupted data logs.

Tonight feels like the end of the line. But on a station where survival trumps truth and everyone has something to hide, Kellan is about to discover that sometimes the universe offers one more chance—if you're desperate enough to take it.

The question is: how far into Edgepoint's depths is he willing to go

WHAT TO EXPECT:

1. Audio drama adaptation of Legacy with cinematic sound design
2. A queer-norm galaxy (no homophobia, no coming-out angst—just space adventures)
3. A former commander haunted by loss and duty
4. Mysterious strangers and dangerous encounters
5. The weight of family expectations and impossible choices
6. Grand, hopeful adventure with a massive heart

CONTENT NOTES:

Alcohol consumption, mild violence/intimidation, grief, family trauma references

WHERE TO PURCHASE THE BOOK:

Ebook is currently exclusive to Amazon and available in Kindle Unlimited.

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Welcome aboard. The Driftline awaits.

#GaySciFi #AudioDrama #SpaceOpera

Book 1 Legacy Chapter 2: "Folks like You" |

Kellan

| Nebula's Edge Bar | Level 9 | Edgepoint Station

Kellen sat at the worn bar, letting the sting of synthetic whiskey distract him from the neon glare that was beginning to etch itself into his retinas. A grimy screen above the bartender's head spat out a galactic news feed.

Breaking News from Axratha High Priestess Nienna's ceremonial fleet, last seen departing from the Third Quadrant's frontier, has missed three consecutive check in points.

The anchor's professional tone hinted at a growing crisis, but the bartender switched channels with a casual tap. An instant later, brutal arena combat flooded the display, drawing roars of approval and dismay from the cramped patrons.

The bartender shrugged, as if updates on dignitaries half a galaxy away held no relevance here. Kellen downed the rest of his drink, regretting its cheap bitterness.

The last two years of his life had been spent tracking phantom trails of his father's missing freighter, the Starweaver.

The search had led him to Edgepoint Station, a forgotten outpost clinging to the edge of the civilized galaxy, where optimism felt like self sabotage.

Navigation isn't just about knowing where you're going, Kel. It's about respecting the journey enough to plan every step.

The memory surfaced without invitation, his father standing at the Starweaver's navigation console, fingers moving over charts with methodical thoroughness. His father never wasted time, never squandered fuel on unnecessary detours.

Even now, Kellen could see the familiar way his father's eyes narrowed when charting course corrections, that small furrow between his brows deepening with concentration. If the Starweaver had diverted to dock here, something momentous must have pulled it off course.

After weeks questioning weathered dock workers and outdated station bots, Kellan had collected nothing but vacant stairs and corrupted data logs that dissolved into static when probed too deeply. He eyed the flashing neon sign above the bar and told himself, not for the first time, that maybe it was time to quit. To go home.

The thought had always settled like a stone in his gut. A crash of glass broke the uneasy lull in his thoughts.

Near the far wall, two miners squared off, their voices rising over the background noise in the mirrored surface of the bar. Kellen watched the way the crowd shifted, not moving exactly, but aligning themselves to avoid the potential fallout.

Even the pirates had gone quiet, waiting to see if this would be the night's entertainment.

Another one?

The bartender asked in a low tone, grabbing the battered whiskey bottle Kellan's first drink had been poured from.

Kellen touched his credit stick across the sticky bars payment machine, watching half his balance Drain away. "Might as well. No sense in trying to make these credits stretch. Not planning on staying much longer." The bartender poured, then shook his head.

Folks like you don't usually stick around.

"Folks like me?" Kellen focused on the bartender's reflection, wanting to press the man for details, but the bartender just shrugged, uninterested in conversation.

Across the room, the energy shifted as a new arrival stepped inside. Conversations faltered. The two mineral miners squaring off froze, tension replaced by wary curiosity.

Kellan turned, trying to mask his own reaction, and took in the woman who strolled into the neon haze. Platinum hair framed a tailored jacket that looked like it belonged on a Primus World Runway.

She carried herself with a calm that made onlookers fade.

Kellen tried to appear unbothered, resting his hand on his glass, but he noticed how the centurion next to him quietly gathered his belongings and backed away. You're

"You're new,"

she said, taking the centurion's vacated seat and settled beside him at the bar.

Her tone was direct, neither hostile nor friendly, just factual. Cullen exhaled and forced a genial half smile. "I'm guessing that's more obvious than I thought."

The bartender served her a drink so dark it seemed to swallow the neon light. Her fingertips traced the rim with a deliberate motion that the suggested calculation rather than nervousness.

Kellen noticed how the bartender's eyes shifted away the moment he set down the glass, as if making eye contact might somehow invite consequences. Her scrutiny felt like being disassembled, every component of his appearance or identity evaluated and found wanting.

Kellen fought the instinct to shift his weight or adjust his collar, knowing such movements would only confirm whatever assessments she was making.

Unlike the rushed evaluations of the other patrons, quick judgments about wealth or danger, her examination carried the weight of someone who understood nuance, who could read the difference between affectation and authentic wear. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, not quite a smile, more the recognition of something confirmed.

Kellen resisted the urge to create a cover story. She'd likely see through it before he finished his first sentence.

"The boots, even from a distance, they're too new. Despite the scuffs."

He shot a quick look at his feet, surprised that anyone could catch that detail in this dim environment.

Like someone trying hard to look the part.

The drink remained untouched as she completed her appraisal, the dark liquid reflecting fractured neon in hypnotic patterns.

When she finally lifted the glass, the movement was smooth and controlled, revealing a small scar across her knuckles, the only imperfection along her skin. He was able to notice. "The illusions we try to weave," he said. Lightly.

Not too surprised her observation struck true, but disappointed in himself for now noticing it, he had been trying to appear like he belonged. She tipped her head slightly, as though something else in the room snagged her attention.

"We've got about three seconds before Tarav'vax comes over here."

"Who?" Across the bar, a towering insectoid rose from a table, heavy footsteps shaking the floor.

Patrons stirred uneasily, some turning away to avoid drawing attention to themselves. The bartender stiffened, polishing a glass with unnecessary force. The insectoid halted before the woman, compound eyes fixed on her.

His antennae twitched, releasing a chemical scent that made Kellan want to recoil. Ayowa, he said, voice clacking through his mandibles.

Would you join me for a walk in the gardens on Level Three?

Not tonight, Tarav Vax.

she responded, her tone so cool it might have lowered the bar's temperature. He hesitated, whiskers adjusting with frustrated courage.

Tomorrow, then.

Her stare sharpened.

My answer will remain unchanged.

The insectoid's mandibles clicked in a tight rhythm, and his gaze drifted to Kellan. For a moment the tension coiled like the brute was ready to spring and eliminate the perceived obstacle.

But Ieoa's finger motioned him away from Kellan and back towards his table. Tarev Vax offered a curt inclination of his head and retreated. Kellan let out the breath he'd been holding.

He realized how the entire bar had quieted for those few seconds, as though everyone had braced for an outburst. Once Tarev Vax sat defeated at the table of his origin, the background noise returned.

"Thanks for the rescue," Kellan said quietly, not sure if that was really what happened, but feeling the need to break the tension. "Kellan." She shrugged one shoulder, glancing at his empty glass.

Ieoa. He thinks of himself as charmingly persistent.

There was another long pause until he said, "Starweaver." The name felt heavier as he cast his last line of hope. Disappeared two years ago. My father's ship. He never strayed off a flight path in his life.

Yet here I am at the last place he fueled up. He was supposed to be on Jua Talo II, which is pretty far from here. No one seems to know anything.

"The Starweaver?"

Her eyes flicked to the chronometer above the door, her expression shifting between boredom and impatience, as if calculating the cost of each second spent on this conversation.

Never heard of it. Two years is a long time on Edgepoint. That's several lifetimes. Legitimate transponder codes get bought, stolen, or repurposed constantly.

How certain are you that it was actually your father's freighter that docked here?

Kellan studied her expression, searching for some telltale sign of deception. A forced pause, A too quick denial. The subtle tension around the eyes that betrayed a lie. He found none. Only that same calculating assessment.

Like she was determining his worth. To the nearest credit, "I'm sure. Some footage with hull markings.

A distinctive scar near the portside thruster housing that my brother Ollie always joked looked like a comet trail." His fingers tightened slightly around his glass. "Except it wasn't a comet. It was a weapons impact from a run in with pirates near the Pelarian Drift."

That mark wasn't on any registry. It was specific to his father's ship.

Her eyebrow lifted a fraction, the barest acknowledgment that his certainty carried weight even if she remained unmoved by it. She didn't respond, so Kellen nudged the conversation. "That's what everyone here says. If they say anything at all. Bots stonewall me.

Station records are conveniently corrupted or access restricted. People with real information decide it's safer to keep their mouths shut. The rest just want to rob me."

She let the silence stretch between them for a moment, letting the weight of her gaze settle on Kellen.

Then, with a casual turn of her wrist, and to Kellen's surprise and embarrassment, she placed the credit stick from his jacket pocket on the table and slid it toward him. The small screen pulsed a stark truth. Eight credits. Her eyes twinkled in a way that suggested it was a lesson than a threat.

They wouldn't get much.

She said, her voice carrying the edge of amusement, but her eyes shifted into something sharp as Kellan retrieved the credit stick and returned it to a safer pocket.

People on Edgepoint avoid divulging that kind of information to outsiders. Employment is a commodity here, and not a lot of vessels looking to hire. And if they are, silence is part of the contract. And it's enforced.

She tapped a finger against the table, eyes scanning him one last time.

You served in the military. Not locally, though OSSA is too patched together for your type. Yours was something more legitimate. Sector Guard.

She studied his reaction, and he tried hard not to reveal much.

You probably ranked in the Guard, but never made it to Commander. If you did, you didn't stay long enough for it to harden you completely, though the hardness is still there under the surface.

But there's something else mixed in. My guess it would be from your missing ship and differences within your family on how to handle it.

You have a Primusworld polish, but it's slightly off, so not Meridian Prime. Third Meridian, maybe, but a better bet would be Second.

Kellan laughed suddenly feeling more vulnerable with her sitting next to him than when Tarav Vax had been standing inches away, more than ready to pull his limbs apart. He breathed "How?" Her voice dropped lower, something almost intimate in her delivery.

You still fold the corners of napkins when you're thinking. An exclusive habit ingrained into Sector Guard Academy students.

The observation jarred him. He hadn't realized his hands had been folding the napkin beneath his glass, a ritual drilled into him during his first year at the Academy.

And the rest.

There's value in maintaining some professional secrets.

She slowly pushed herself off the stool, sending a faint scent of spice and something richer. Perfume. But not the artificial kind.

Go home, Kellan. This station collects ghosts, not answers. Whatever big family you have left is waiting. Edgepoint doesn't release what it catches.

It's a star consuming its planets.

Before he could answer, she tapped her credit chip against the bar. Buying his next drink, she looked him over one last time and tapped the payment reader a second time.

Save one of those drinks for when he comes back over. Just might save your life.

Ieoa ignored a last glance from the Insectoid as she walked away. The crowd's collective gaze followed her exit in careful, reverent arcs. Once she was gone, that same gaze shifted to Kellan.

He felt the weight of it in the sudden hush. Were they surprised? Curious? Or maybe a little apprehensive? Clearly he'd spoken with Iowa longer than most dared to.

Kellan lifted the glass, letting starlight colored whiskey catch the neon. She make a habit of buying drinks for strangers? First time for everything, the bartender's tone suggested.

This particular first time ranked somewhere between miraculous and suspicious. At a nearby table, a group of mineral miners huddled over drinks.

Their conversation drifted over in fragments, captured between the clattering of glasses and the overhead arena commentary.

Payments legit. I checked twice.

An older woman with burn scars along her forearms leaned across the table.

Not the usual salvage operation, another was saying.

The Orriona Class T exploration vessel, full crew quarters, long range capabilities. The youngest of the group shook his head in disbelief. Kellan adjusted his position, angling closer without making it obvious he was listening.

But by private invitation only.

Harktark got one of those invites was heading down to Twelve's Bay Sea when someone jumped him in the maintenance corridor. Left him for the med bots.

An off duty OSSA Merc who had remained silent finally added his own grim practicality.

Which means there might be an opening now. Still strange, though. Nobody gets invited to anything good on Edgepoint.

A Class T exploration vessel operating in the frontier wasn't unusual but what was was that it was recruiting locally.

Typically, they were corporate or government sponsored vessels that would spend time mapping uncharted space, looking for lucrative mining or colony opportunities. While getting the star charts wouldn't be likely.

The captain of the vessel could at least think about it, cross reference his data on the Star Weaver, maybe pass any available information along. A new scent cut through the bar's usual mix of stale air and spilled drinks. Something biologically foul rather than chemical.

Why were you talking to Aowa?

The voice rumbled through his bones like an older ship breaking orbit. Kellan didn't need to turn to know who was standing behind him.

The bar's neon reflected off chitinous plating in his peripheral vision, casting fractured shadows across the scarred counter. He kept his grip loose on his glass, his smile fixed in place.

Of all the ways this night could have gone wrong, an angry insectoid of muscle hadn't even made his top five list. Sergeant Lan's voice echoed through his memory. If

You want to avoid a fight, make them think you've already won.

The old academy instructor had drilled that lesson into every Sector Guard cadet, usually right before throwing them into simulated diplomatic encounters with species notorious for aggression displays.

"Fascinating observation, though talking might be overselling it. More like she pointed out everything wrong with my fashion choices and left."

The insectoid moved faster than anything that size had a right to. One moment Kellan was contemplating his drink, the next he was engulfed in a cloud of rotting musk as Tarevvax claimed the space around him.

She doesn't talk to people. Especially not to people like you.

People like me? You know, I think I'm starting to develop a complex from that phrase.

Kick his ass, Tee!

The alien's secondary arms twitched, a movement that sent sent the nearby patrons sliding further away.

Even the miners had gone quiet, their job offer forgotten in favor of potential violence. "Look," Kellan tried again. Clearly there's been a misunderstanding. She told me to leave Edgepoint Station tonight. Not exactly a grand romance.

TaravVax's hand shot out, catching Kellan's jacket. The fabric protested as the insect pulled him close enough to count the battle scars etched into its exoskeleton.

You think this is funny?

"Not particularly," he admitted, keeping his voice light despite the very large set of mandibles positioned at throat level. "You can have my seat and my next drink." He signaled to the bartender, who began to pour whatever Taravax had been drinking before "Both of them."

Tarevvax's breath hit like hot, hot copper and ammonia.

I'm only going to say this once.

The scent thickened his body, releasing something borderline corrosive.

If I see you in here again, they won't find enough of you to identify.

Kellan let the threat hang in the air as he weighed his next move. The two shots of whiskey in his veins nudged him toward boldness, but survival instincts kept the urge in check.

He remembered the aftermath of a Lobba-Centurian border score skirmish, how quickly violence escalated when territorial instincts overrode reason, and how many body bags they'd filled afterwards. The miner's conversation refused to let go of his thoughts. 'Level 12, docking bay C, a Class T exploration vessel with deep space capabilities'.

After false leads and dead ends, this was something solid. You couldn't afford to end the night in a med bay or locked up.

Agree,

apologize, and walk out. Those are the smart options.

Sergeant Lan's voice echoed from the earlier memory. Got it crystal clear. I'm practically gone already.

The moment stretched out like depressurized time, Tarev Vax's compound eyes reflecting fractured pieces of Kellan back at him. The insectoid's chelicerae twitched, a predatory assessment cycling through those alien creatures.

Kellan stayed perfectly still, employing the same posture that had once kept him alive during a standoff with Pelarian raiders. Then the grip on his jacket released with explosive force. His back found the bar's edge. He managed to keep his feet under him.

A small victory, but he'd take it. Tarifax stepped back, head tilting in an Insectoid challenge.

Tonight, you leave tonight.

Kellan nodded once, keeping eye contact despite every instinct warning against it as he backed away from the bar with careful, measured steps. Only when he reached the exit did he turn his back on the alien and the silent crowd of observers.

The corridor outside assaulted his senses in its own kind of way.

Recycled atmosphere pushed through ancient filters, carrying a scent cocktail of alien sweat, industrial solvents, and the overworked metallic of dying air scrubbers. It was a stark contrast to the bar's alcohol infused haze.

Temperature shifted jarringly as he moved, patches of clammy cold giving way to pockets of humid heat where the climate systems fought their disconnected battles. He calibrated his stride to casual confidence, letting his usual military posture soften just enough to blend with Level Nine's current of bodies.

The lift bank sprawled before him. Centuries ago it might have been an elegant design, but now looked degraded by years of poor maintenance.

Exposed conduits ran along the ceiling where decorative panels had fallen away, their naked wiring bundled with industrial tape that glowed faintly radioactive under inconsistent lighting. A small crowd had gathered before five transport tubes, their frustrated expressions suggesting a long wait.

The status panel above displayed a grim reality. Three indicators pulsed angry red, leaving just two functional lifts to service the entire level.

A chime sounded and Lift C's ancient display blinked to life. The door slid open with a screech that echoed through the waiting area.

Kellan stepped forward but noticed the others hanging back, shooting curious, curious glances his way. He wondered if news of his confrontation with Tarevvax had already spread, or if his interaction with Ieoa had marked him somehow.

No one else entered, so he tapped the panel for level 12. The doors began to slide shut but stalled halfway, as if reconsidering. Eventually they sealed with a concerning lurch.

The lift groaned downward, swaying enough to make him brace against the railing. Light sputtered, turning his reflection in the semi polished doors into a strobing, warped memory of himself.

The readout clicked by levels with agonizing slowness. The elevator stopped, either intentionally or due to malfunction, which seemed to trigger an edge point station Advertisement jingle.

Join OSSA today because peace doesn't patrol itself. Think you've got what it takes to maintain galactic order? The Outer System Security Agency is now recruiting across all quadrants.

Whether you're a licensed pilot, cybernetically enhanced, or just good at yelling, there's a place for you in the stars. Benefits include hazard pay, adrenaline rations, and 37% armor coverage. Sign up today and receive a complimentary Loyalty tattoo.

Optional removal fee applies, bringing stability, because otherwise our planets will be raided. This message was approved by the Department of Recruitment Oversight... after appeal.

The elevator lurched forward, Kellan watching as the levels began to tick towards his destination. Level 9. Level 10. His thoughts drifted back to the Oriona and sifted through potential approaches to the ship's captain.

Because Class T vessels operated on the frontier of known space, their crews were hand selected for specific psychological profiles.

During his guard years, Kellan had encountered several of these unique crew configurations, eclectic collections of brilliant outcasts within their ranks who thrived in isolation. Some captains favored researchers who found human contact distracting. Others sought out social pariahs whose skills outweighed their peculiarities.

A few legendary explorers, explorer explorers, built teams around adrenaline junkies drawn to uncharted space like moths to plasma flames. Each vessel developed its own microculture, shaped by months or years with minimal outside contact. The display flashed Level 11.

The lift shuddered to a stop, the sudden deceleration nearly throwing him forward. He tightened his grip on the rail as the doors struggled open, their mechanism protesting with the sound of metal grinding against metal.

Kellen straightened, expecting someone to enter, but instead found himself staring at a pair of figures framed in the doorway. A woman stood there, late 40s, he guessed. Her jumpsuit marked with the telltale stains of hydraulic fluid and engine grease.

Beside her was an antiquated bot.

Its small metallic frame had to be at least a couple centuries old, yet it had a pair of fresh blue ocular lenses that must have been recently upgraded. She shook her head once, firmly stepping back from the threshold.

The bot let out a soft electronic tone that might have been agreement, its optical sensors still fixed on Kellan with unsettling intensity. The woman turned away, heading toward a nearby access corridor.

The bot lingered a moment longer, as if capturing Kellen's image for future reference, then followed her with a fluid motion that contradicted its perceived age. The doors shuddered closed again, leaving Kellan alone with his distorted reflection.

The lift resumed lurching through its descent with industrial groans.

Go home, Kellan. Edgepoint collects ghosts, not answers.

Ieoa's voice threaded through his thoughts. She'd said it like a warning. But wasn't that what he'd been doing all along?

Haunting hangar bays, listening to the same dead leads now, waiting for Edgepoint to give up something it never would? Yes, he could walk away, just like she told him to. He could book a passage back to Second Meridian, step onto solid ground and into fresh air.

Breathe something that hadn't been recycled through a thousand lungs.

His mother's garden would be in full bloom by now, those heritage roses she tended with fear, fierce devotion, spreading their perfume across the eastern porch. Charlie would have another child on the way, his fourth, continuing the HA legacy.

While Kellan wandered, Ollie would pour him that expensive centurion brandy he kept hidden in the library cabinet, and they'd talk about everything except the Star Weaver until the bottle was empty. His family was waiting. His old life was waiting.

The lift stopped with a gut shifting jolt, its doors scraping open to level 12, metal against metal like a rusty invitation. He couldn't go home. Not yet. Something tugged at him, stronger than reason or exhaustion.

The same instinct that had guided him through asteroid fields and hostile territory. That bone deep certainty that had kept him alive through countless patrols.

Two years of searching couldn't end in a half empty bar with a stranger telling him to give up. He stepped into Edge Point Point's labyrinth of rust and neon, where the corridor lights cast shadows that stretched like accusatory fingers.

Salt residue crusted at the edges of his vision, waste product from the station's failing atmospheric processes. The air tasted of metal and desperation, thick enough to coat his tongue.

This was where trails ended, where ships and people vanished from official records, where answers hid beneath layers of corruption and indifference.

If his father had been here, touched these same corridors, breathed the same stale air, then something of him remained, some echo that couldn't be erased by Station bureaucracy or the passage of time. Kellan strode forward. Because he knew he wasn't ready to let it go. Because the Starweaver wasn't just a ship.

It was his inheritance, his responsibility. The last connection to a man who never would have abandoned his family without reason.

If Edge Point collected ghosts, then he'd become one of them a long time ago, haunting the spaces between stars, searching for fragments of truth that might finally bring him peace.

And ghosts, by their nature, could not rest until their purpose was fulfilled.