Whispers of OmniCorp

The hum of the TSV Ironmule was a familiar lullaby to Hampton, a comforting thrum that vibrated through the deck plates and settled deep in his bones. It was a far cry from the sterile silence of his former life, a life of polished chrome and echoing command decks. Here, amongst the grease stains and the scent of recycled air, he had found a different kind of peace. But even this hard-won tranquility was beginning to fray at the edges, like an old, well-worn tarp exposed to too much sun.

The whispers had started subtly, carried on the sub-ether frequencies that Maya so expertly monitored. At first, they were just hushed complaints, the grumbling of independent haulers who’d encountered “unforeseen delays” or “unexpected bureaucratic hurdles.” But the whispers grew louder, coalescing into a unified murmur of unease. OmniCorp. The name itself tasted like ash on the tongues of the spaceways.

“Anything new on the OmniCorp front, Maya?” Hampton asked, his voice a low rumble as he leaned against the bulkhead in the main cargo bay. The cavernous space was filled with the familiar scent of durasteel and the lingering aroma of a recent spice run. Briggs was across the bay, his broad shoulders hunched over a sputtering power conduit, a stream of colorful curses issuing from his lips.