Calliope Free Port was a chaotic jewel box of a station, glittering in the lawless dark of the Outer Rim. It was a place built on salvaged ship parts and broken treaties, smelling of ozone, hot metal, and the thousand alien spices vended in its sprawling, neon-drenched market. This was where empires came to die and new legends were forged in back-alley workshops. It was the perfect stage.
Our demonstration was in the Scrap-Pit, an immense, decommissioned cargo bay that now served as Calliope’s unofficial arena and auction house. A motley crowd of hundreds had gathered—grizzled mercenaries, sleek corporate spies, wild-eyed inventors, and desperate colonists looking for an edge. They stood on gantries and catwalks, their faces lit by the harsh, shifting holo-ads that flickered across the pi
