Seven colonies scattered along the shipping lanes to a distant star.
Seven colonies alone in the cold lightless void of space.
Seven colonies connected only by holograms and voices.
The final frontier as it will be and as it must be.
Lonely Planets.
Winter 2010.
O-Man stood against the door leading out of the concession stand, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other spinning a socket wrench the wrong way by the socket end. Wenchy sat behind a laptop with a large screen with headphones tossed to one side and a microphone on the other. Her outfit — an elegant off-white dress — seemed strangely out of place amid all the communications equipment. In the back, HIM stretched out in a nice leather chair, looking distinctively bored.
Wenchy looked around the room. “Let’s go through our roles one more time, shall we?” Her voice struck a characteristic semi-serious tone.
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