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An excerpt from the journal of Grey Gloaming, Co-Owner of the Brink space station and clearing house, and former agent of the Rapid Evening.
I used to wonder if sometime, deep in the future, far away from the here and now, someone would look back from a more perfect world and write about this year we've had.
It has been 11 months since the Miracle of the Mirage.
11 months since the living world of Quire split itself eight ways and enveloped us in the Twilight. 11 months since millions disembarked from their generational homes in search of hope. 11 months since the secessionist ploy was foiled. 11 months since a man of great reach was forced to confront the limits of his grasp.
Once borne across the stars, the newly renamed Divine Free States now sprawl across three worlds: Thyrsus, Gift-3, Altar. Across three others, the New Earth Hegemony has colonized en masse: Tens of millions spread across Skein, Crown, and Moonlock. The pirate world Brighton recognizes no authority--not even its own. And on Seneschal the NEH and DFS live alongside each other in an experiment whose success is even more unlikely than the twisting of time, the distortion of space, and the horrors of Volition.
And between those worlds, things must move. People, supplies, contraband. They move in silent exchange, with lookouts and passwords and bribes. And that is how I know that whatever words are put to page, no one will ever really write about this year of ours.
Because this year was not only made by politicians and soldiers, by spies and scientists. It was built by the hands of those who came from little and those that fell from grace.
Those like...
This week on Twilight Mirage: This Year of Ours: The Scoundr
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