Interstellar Doyle Page

Doyle looked at her. Looked at the chip. Then at the wanted poster of himself stapled to the bar’s corkboard — two systems old, but still flattering.

She slid a holo across the table: a ghost signal, repeating every 47 minutes. A voice. A woman’s. Speaking in a dead language that Doyle hadn’t heard since his mother sang him to sleep on Kepler-186f. interstellar doyle

Doyle hadn’t planned on becoming a legend. He’d planned on paying his tab at The Rust Bucket and forgetting the taste of recycled whiskey. Doyle looked at her