Adam continued his lessons and training with Bezarak daily. Meanwhile, his clone—the one who had gone to rescue Yves—returned to Eden, only to find it in ruins. With nowhere else to go, he traced his steps back to the planet where he had saved her.
They called it Roanoke—a waste planet claimed by mercenaries, thieves, and smugglers. The air was thick with rust and rot, the land bare except for the wiry, parasitic growths known as Satan's Beard. Survival here was brutal. Adam's clone scraped by on odd jobs, taking whatever work he could find. The same old man who had once shot him in the chest took pity on him, offering him and Yves a storage room to sleep in. It wasn't much, but it was better than the streets.
Over time, he started helping out around the bar. It was there, one afternoon, that Pictoria walked in. She slid onto a stool and waited as he served a customer. He knew why she was here. They had a deal, and she had come to see if he still honored it. She hated that he was staying here. So did he. But with Eden gone, what choice did he have?
"Kinky, I'll have a blue honey ale."
He ignored her. That nickname. That voice. It grated on him more than it should have.
Pictoria sighed, then swung her leg over the bar, slipping to the other side with practiced ease.
"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, but before he could stop her, she landed right in front of him. Too close.
"Relax, I'm getting ale." She reached past him, grabbing a bottle from the shelf.
His heart stuttered. Not from anger. Not yet. For a brief second, his wife's face flickered through his mind.
Then the rage came.
The glass in his hand shattered as he squeezed too hard.
From the back room, a voice growled, "Break any more of those, and you won't be eating for weeks."
Gree. The old man stepped out, holding Yves in his arms, his gaze sharp with warning.
Pictoria barely glanced at him before turning back to Adam's clone. "I told you—we need someone like you on our crew. No illegal work. You just carry the goods to the ship." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "You don't belong here. Neither does the girl."
She was hoping he'd say yes this time.
It had been almost a year since Chavah's death. Adam had spent that time drifting, lost in grief. But now, a different thought took hold—what had happened to his clone and daughter? He decided to look for them.
"If I were searching for a missing person, where would I start?" Adam hoped Iyan could provide some insight.
Iyan sighed. "Unfortunately, there are a lot of places like this in this quadrant alone. I think your best bet would be Fadama Station."
"Who are you looking for?" Iyan asked.
Adam hesitated. "An echo."
Fadama Station was as bleak as Adam remembered—dim corridors, the smell of unwashed bodies, the weight of desperation hanging in the air. He walked through the market levels, scanning faces, looking for any sign of recognition. Hours passed. Just as frustration set in, he felt the cold press of metal against his spine.
"Don't turn around. Move."
Adam obeyed. The robber led him down a narrow alleyway, where flickering neon barely reached.
"Empty your pockets."
Adam complied. The man grabbed what he wanted and gestured for Adam to run.
So Adam ran.
Then, he returned.
The robber was by a burning trash bin, sifting through Adam's discarded belongings, tossing anything useless into the flames. He didn't hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.
He tensed, clutching his knife. Spinning fast, he slashed—at nothing.
Then he turned back.
Adam stood in front of him.
The robber lunged, aiming to stab Adam. But Adam was faster. He caught the man's wrist mid-thrust, gripping it tight enough to make the knife tremble in his grasp.
"I need to find someone. Where's a good place to start?" Adam's voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the threat beneath it.
"Sorry, I can't help you."
Adam applied pressure, twisting the man's arm just enough to make him wince. A little more persuasion—nothing fatal, just enough to loosen his tongue.
The robber gasped, then caved. "Alright, alright! There's a butcher shop, downtown. People go there when they don't want to be found."
Adam let go. The man stumbled back, rubbing his wrist.
Without another word, Adam turned and walked toward downtown.
Adam reached the butcher shop. The moment he stepped inside, the door locked behind him.
When he walked back out, everyone inside was on the ground.
He had a name. He followed up on it.
This pattern repeated—one lead after another, one locked door after the next.
Until he arrived at Roanoke.