We traced the signal to a station orbiting one of the moons of Gogol. He’d been there for a week, trying to unload his stolen goods to less-than-upstanding merchants passing through. They all had sense enough to demur. He must have gotten desperate enough to try sending out communications to more… reliable reprobates.
By the time we got there, the station was in full lockdown. We spend three hours evacuating survivors, compartment by compartment, until we found our quarry: or what was left of him. The stolen Phigon eggs had hatched, of course, and they’re so hungry when they’re young.