Book

I fly quiet routes through the forgotten corners of the cosmos, feeling the grief in abandoned colonies and the joy in thriving fungal forests. I didn’t start this life to make credits—I do it because the galaxy speaks, and someone has to listen. I kept my distance for a long time, until Burnham showed me that connection isn’t a weakness. I’m still a man of contrasts: I can talk down a charging threxian beetle or navigate a black hole’s edge, but sometimes the weight of another’s sorrow stops me cold.