He stepped back from the edge of the Vegas Tunnel, which stretch vertically as far as he could see in both directions. Gate Control was little more than a ridge around the tunnel’s interior, a massive metal construct built over the course of centuries by the slave populations of entire systems. Hank leaned back against the safety cage that kept him within the confines of Control and prevented him from falling thousands of miles to his death at the center of the planet. Mother would not be pleased at all if her only surviving human fell to his death.

Hank retrieved an ancient pack of Marlboros from the front pocket of his denim shirt. He took great pleasure in removing the cellophane from the pack and tossing it over the side of the Control cage. It floated lazily down into the blackness of the tunnel. How long would it take for the wrapper to finally hit bottom? How many millions of wrappers would it join on the bottom of the Vegas Tunnel?

A shiny golden Zippo ignited his delicious sin, and Hank inhaled deeply, never fearing for life. Mother would see to it that the cigarettes, one of the few luxuries that he had requested for his tour in Vegas, would never spin any free radicals out of place to damage tissue and spur cancer growth. Mother looked after Hank quite well.

He looked out across the void of the tunnel. Sometimes he imagined that he could see the other side, the faint flicker of his cigarette reflected on the mirrored wall. Hank had never been one for imagination. It was not his place in Mother’s plan to imagine.

He took one last draw from the cigarette and tossed the butt over the side. He wondered for a moment if the cellophane wrapper had even landed yet.

Incoming vessel.

Hank’s jaw dropped and he frowned reflexively and he spun around to the simple control panel on the wall of his makeshift living quarters. Incoming vessel? There hadn’t been an incoming vessel in decades. The control panel flashed with the display of a standard Agent corvette cutting through the atmosphere.