The starport's massive gates slid apart with a deep rumble, like a great beast slowly opening its steel jaws.
Murky air laden with machine oil, ozone, metal dust, and countless human odors rushed at him, accompanied by the ceaseless low hum of the distant hive metropolis.
A man emerged from the shadows beyond the gates and stepped into the artificial daylight of the Colchis Capital World.
He looked as though he had spent too long baking beneath a star, or had been dried out by time itself.
His skin was a deep, almost leathery brown, covered in fine, deeply etched lines—not the sagging of age, but the tough marks left by repeated drought and exposure.
He was not tall, and could even be called short. His movements were not particularly nimble either, but carried a steady sense of purpose, every step firmly planted.
He was alone, without attendants or conspicuous luggage, carrying only a badly worn, old military pack on his back.
His uniform had long since faded. It might once have been dark blue or gray, but now only its vaguely utilitarian silhouette remained. Repeated washing had bleached the fabric, and discreet patches covered the elbows and knees.
Among the crowds struggling to survive across the Imperium's countless worlds, he was as ordinary as a speck of dust, liable to be swallowed up in an instant.
But Oll Persson knew that "ordinary" had nothing to do with him.
He was simply tired.
Across an existence long enough to see stars born and die, being a Perpetual did not always grant extraordinary perspective. More often, it brought unending exhaustion.
He had been born on Earth in 15,000 BC, walked battlefields whose names had long been forgotten, and witnessed the rise and destruction of far too many civilizations.
He had been