Pieced together from the bruised and battered hulls of ships soaring in FTL space, the city of Tachylan is hardly more than a flotilla of wreckage. Loosely strung together by guylines and mafioso politicking, it’s hardly a vacation destination.

Tachylan is populated by a diverse population of brigands and fools, the stranded and the desperate. And there are those like me, who seek solace, somewhere to hide, whether from the law, a syndicate, or themselves.

Most Tachyi did not come here by choice, but by necessity. Living faster than light is not pleasant. Everything you see is accompanied by a ghostly blue- or red-shifted glow. Some wear goggles to adjust, some have optical augmentations, others have nothing.

There are no street lamps in Tachylan, and few plants. Ship’s colonies of oxygen-producing algae are treasured, and their cultivation is one of the few public services our council provides beyond meager efforts to keeps the ships tethered.

Despite it all I landed here, and I call Tachylan home.