Draft 2

Day 1, Docked at Luna Hub, Moon Orbit

Inside the engineering workshop of the USCSS Persephone, Helen Mitchell hunched over her workbench with a micro-soldering iron in her hand.

“Madam, if you fuse that processor bridge with a tremor like that, my cognitive functions will be reduced to that of a standard toaster,” a tinny voice vibrated from the workbench.

“I don’t have a tremor, Seven. And if you keep nitpicking my work, I will turn you into a toaster.” Helen tapped the iron against a frayed wire.

Unit Seven, currently lying on his back with his bumblebee-sized metal casing popped open, flickered his single blue optic. “I only mention it because you salvaged this primary relay from a garbage compactor on Mars. I am already operating at a severe disadvantage.”

“It was a recycling center, not a garbage compactor.” Helen blew a stray strand of blonde hair out of her face.

She tapped the final bead of solder into place. Seven’s blue eye flared brightly, then immediately sputtered and dimmed as his metal legs locked up.

Helen set down the soldering iron, closed the casing, then flicked the body with her fingernail.

Seven’s optic began to glow blue. “Reboot successful. Though I must protest the physical abuse.”

“I’m working out the bugs, Seven.”

The door to the workshop opened. Magnus Cantarini entered, carrying two dented aluminum thermoses. The cargo deckhand looked exhausted, the tattoos on his arms slick with grime.

“You still playing with your metal pet, Chief?” Magnus teased. He set one of the thermoses on her workbench, right next to the scattered tools. “Brought you some engine sludge. Black, just the way you like it.”

“I am not a pet, Mr. Cantarini,” Seven buzzed, hovering up from the workbench to eye-level with the mechanic. “I possess an intelligence matrix fourteen times more advanced than your own. Statistically speaking, you are the pet.”

Magnus chuckled, taking a sip from his thermos. “I like this little guy. He’s got more spine than half the dockworkers out there.”

“Don’t encourage him.” Helen opened the thermos and poured herself a cup of the coffee. “That’s awful, but thanks anyway.”

Seven hovered over the open thermos, his blue optic scanning the dark liquid. “Madam, I must advise against ingestion. This substance is sixty percent synthetic caffeine substitute, twenty percent recycled water, and eighteen percent unknown particulate matter. It could possibly erode your stomach lining.”

“That’s what gives it the kick, little guy,” Magnus said.

“I will prepare an antacid,” Seven buzzed dryly.

Magnus reached into his utility harness and tossed a small, silver cylinder onto the workbench.

Helen raised her eyebrows. “Is that a Grade-A thermal fuse?”

“Slipped it off a Luna Hub loading cart when the Omni-Corp suits were looking the other way. Figured you could use it for the mess hall synthesizer. I’m tired of eating lukewarm nutrient paste.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Helen began cleaning her workbench. “How’s it looking out there?”

“It’s a nightmare. The Luna Hub dockworkers are rushing the umbilicals, and the Omni-Corp suits are standing on the gantry literally looking at their watches. They’re treating these terraforming kits like they’re late pizza deliveries.”

“Omni-Corp just wants to get this bio-cargo out to the colony so they can start cashing checks.” Helen grabbed a rag to wipe the grease off her hands. “They don’t care that the Persephone is seventy years old and holding together with duct tape and crossed wires. Did you check the primary coolant pumps?”

“I checked ‘em. They’re whining like a dying dog. I put in a requisition for replacement seals three weeks ago.”

“Let me guess.” Helen tossed the rag onto a crate. “Corporate denied it. I bet it cuts too much into their profit margin. So we’ll get to fly fourteen months through the Dead Zone praying the seals hold.”

“Pretty much,” Magnus said. “The Captain’s been pacing the bridge all morning.”

“I bet he has.” Helen sipped the coffee.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Your hubby’s the captain and the replacement navigator is his old flame. Doesn’t it bother you that they’ll spend most of their time alone together on the bridge?”

An unwanted memory flashed through Helen’s mind: a neon-lit bar, years ago. She remembered walking in and seeing John and Ingrid sitting together in a booth. They had been dating at the time. Helen remembered the way Ingrid laughed at something John said and the way their shoulders brushed.

Ingrid had been re-stationed shortly after, and John had fallen completely, undeniably in love with Helen. She wore his ring. But history was history, and knowing it used to exist haunted her.

Before Helen could answer, a voice came through the room’s speaker. It was Ingrid Mills, the navigator and pilot.

“Engineering, this is Flight Command. Are we finally done tinkering in the dirt down there, Mitchell? We have a red light on the board and we’re losing our departure window.”

Helen’s jaw tightened. “I’m looking at the grid right now, XO. The main drive is fine.”

“It’s not the main drive, it’s Cargo Bay 4. The bio-stasis monitors are throwing a fit. Let’s wrap it up, Helen. John is getting incredibly grumpy up here, and you know how he gets when he’s behind schedule.”

You know how he gets. A subtle reminder that Ingrid knew John’s moods.

“Helen? Talk to me, sweetheart.” John sounded exhausted. “Can you get Cargo Bay 4 green-lit? The Omni-Corp executives are literally threatening to dock our payout by the minute if we miss this launch window.”

They needed this payout. Desperately. Fourteen months on this rusted bio-hauler was the only way they were ever going to afford their own independent salvage ship. It was their ticket out of the Omni-Corp grind forever.

“I’ve got it, Captain. On my way.” She reached over and clipped her hydrospanner to her belt.

“Copy that. Move your ass, Mitchell.”

Magnus watched Seven hover over the workbench. “When I was checking the primary coolant pumps, Kinskey had half the access panels locked down near Cargo Bay 4. The guy gives me the creeps. He walks around in that white lab coat like he’s afraid to breathe the air.”

“Science officers are protective of their bio-samples.” Helen grabbed her diagnostic pad. “Magnus, get down to the engine room and prep the main slip-drive for ignition. Do not let the dockworkers detach the umbilicals until I give you the all-clear.”

“You got it.” Magnus headed toward the door. “Can’t wait to break moon orbit and leave this madhouse behind.”

She tapped her collarbone, signaling lockdown. Unit Seven immediately flew toward her and latched onto the velcro patch on the breast of her jumpsuit.

Helen set off at a swift pace down the hallway.

“Madam, increasing your walking stride by four inches would improve our arrival time at Cargo Bay 4 by eighteen seconds, thereby saving the Captain approximately five credits in corporate delays.”

“Thanks for that information, Seven,” Helen said, moving toward the quarantine doors of the bio-dome.

Looping video of Chief Engineer Helen Mitchell working out the bugs in the micro-matrix of her bumblebee-sized, highly sarcastic AI companion, Unit Seven.