We have one thing in common;

Dandra was a backwater nowhere planet, all rock and scrub and bad weather. The Bosses only cared about it for the ore that came from its mines; the locals only cared about it because they'd fought for it over generations, first terraforming it into something approaching livable, then carving out their hardscrabble mining towns and forcing down roots into the craggy soil. Nobody loved the place -- nobody was that flat in the head. But the Dandrites were proud of it, attached to it, in the way that only colonists and the descendants of colonists could be attached to a place like Dandra.

And then the news came down from the Bosses. There was new ore, better ore, deep down in the core of the planet, where the only way to get at it was to crack Dandra like a nutshell and pick it out of the remains. And that was what the corporation that owned the planet intended to do.

The Dandrites fought it -- four generations of legal battles, hardened and intractable locals facing down the Bosses across boardrooms and courtrooms, arguing that it was their world as much as the Bosses', that they had the right to stay there. When property rights didn't prevail, they argued for right of home soil -- but a colonist isn't a native, and a colonist's twelve-times-great-grandchild isn't one, either. And even with their own language, culture, holidays, half a million people wasn't enough to count as a race with rights to their homeworld.

As the battles raged Offworld, Dandra started to die. People packed up and pulled up roots, new generations seeing no reason to stay somewhere they'd soon enough be forced out of anyway. Every mine that closed its doors gave the Bosses more ammunition for their battles.

And they won, of course, like Bosses always do. The best the Dandrites' lawyers could get was the right to compensation. Every remaining Dandrite got a fat payoff check and an eviction order in the same envelope. Those who didn't hit atmosphere then were dragged Offworld soon enough by the Authorities.

Only a handful stuck around to watch the very ending. From safely out of orbit, they watched as Dandra burst apart into a shower of shards, and the ships sent by the Bosses began combing the wreckage, picking out the valuable bits, leaving the rest to drift.

And then they scattered, too, to the corners of the universe, a people without a planet, miners with no more claims, Dandrites with no more Dandra. You can tell them now by the hard sounds of their talk, by the sharp edges of their tempers. You can tell them by how unwilling they are to put down roots, or call any world home, no matter how long they stay.

They had a home, once. Now they have fragments that drift through space, picked-over and broken and growing more scattered with every passing year.