The Haulers' Alliance

The comms panel aboard the *Ironmule* crackled to life, a symphony of static and urgent voices. Maya, perched at her console, her fingers dancing across the holographic displays, frowned. “Captain,” she called, her voice tight with a concern that had been simmering for weeks. “More of them. Same story. OmniCorp blockers, arbitrary fines, cargo confiscations. They’re hitting everyone, not just the usual suspects.”

Hampton, his worn hands resting on the helm, his gaze fixed on the swirling nebulae outside the viewport, grunted. He’d heard the whispers, the growing fear on the Hyper Highways. OmniCorp, Silas Vance’s monolithic corporation, was tightening its grip, squeezing the lifeblood out of the independent haulers like water from a sponge. It was a familiar kind of oppression, the kind that had driven him from the Fleet, but this time, it was personal. These were his people now, the rough-and-tumble souls who navigated the arteries of the galaxy, and Vance was strangling them.

“Anything specific, Maya?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, laced with the weariness of a man who had seen too much war and now found himself fighting a different kind of battle.