7: The Transients
“What?” Coreman said, immediately sorry that he’d let the word leave his lips.
While Coreman worked a console, Hochstein kept the six-man crew lined up against the wall like criminals. They had already searched the cramped egg-shaped mining vessel, pulling down its curved walls. Now, Coreman dug through every bit and byte in their data files—corporate and personal. And it would go notably faster if Hochstein could keep his mouth shut for five minutes.
“I said black would make more sense,” Hochstein repeated, as Coreman tried to focus on the data flowing through the holographic screen before him. “I mean it’s Black Mountain so…black. But it’s always white, so white I feel like it’s bleaching me right down to the bone. Though I’m not sure black would be any better. Maybe
