Draft 2

Month 1: Day 30

“Approaching Charon Outpost. Pitching down three degrees,” Ingrid said from the pilot’s seat.

Helen looked up from the engineering console. Through the forward viewport, the edge of the solar system loomed. Charon, Pluto’s largest moon, grew from a distant gray speck into a scarred sphere of rock and ice. It was a bleak world floating in the dark, the last bastion of civilization.

Built directly into the moon’s frozen crust was the Outpost—a sprawling, gritty, industrial base. Huge, automated drilling rigs were illuminated by clusters of white floodlights and neon signs. Plumes of vented plasma and super-heated vapor rose above the surface. It was the truck stop at the end of the world.

The Persephone hit the moon’s gravity without incident.

Helen felt the deck plates vibrate.

“Firing retro-thrusters,” John said. “Hold her steady, Ingy. The gravity well here is heavier than it looks. Compensate the port thruster by four percent.”

“Already on it.” Ingrid stabilized the gyros before John had finished his sentence. “I know what you need, John.”

“You always do. Aligning with Docking Ring 7-C.”

Helen sat still at her station as the ship shuddered. She didn’t like watching the two of them pilot the ship together. She needed to stay focused on the ship’s internal pressure, not her husband’s ex-girlfriend.

Unit Seven clung to the velcro patch near Helen’s collarbone. His blue optic processed the telemetry data pouring in from the station’s automated systems.

“Madam.” Seven’s audio piped into her earpiece. “My preliminary scans of Charon Outpost’s cryogenic fuel reserves are deeply concerning. The liquid hydrogen they are offering is approximately ninety percent refined ice-slush and ten percent suspended metallic particulates. I recommend praying to a higher power, if your human programming allows.”

Helen tapped a sequence into her board to prep the intake manifolds, whispering a quiet prayer. “I’m going to have to purge the filters three times just to keep the slip-drive from choking on it.”

“Fifty meters out,” Ingrid said. “Feathering the rig.”

“Copy that.” John watched the alignment crosshairs. “Brace for impact.”

The magnetic clamps of the Outpost’s docking ring shot forward. They locked onto the Persephone’s hull with a bone-rattling clank. The physical G-force jolted Helen back into her seat. The bulkhead shrieked, followed by the terrifying hiss of the station’s umbilicals attaching to the ship’s external fuel ports.

They were anchored.

John let out a heavy breath as he flipped a row of overhead switches, powering down the main thrusters. He turned his captain’s chair around to face the crew.

“Alright, listen up,” John said. “We’re officially docked at Charon Outpost. Omni-Corp has given us a strict forty-eight-hour refueling window. If we miss it, we lose our trajectory for the Dead Zone, and we add three weeks to our transit time. I am not taking that pay cut, and neither are you.”

Magnus unbuckled his restraint harness. He stretched, popping his neck. “So, what you’re saying is, we have exactly forty-eight hours to get off this rust bucket and find a real drink.”

“Shore leave is granted,” John said. “But keep your comms on. Once we leave this rock, we drop into the Dead Zone. That means fourteen months of slip-space with zero communications back to Earth. If you need anything from civilization, get it now.”

“I’ll be heading straight to the medical sector,” Janet said. “I need to restock our dermal patches and synthesize a few baseline antibiotics before we jump.”

Claude stood up from the science station, brushing a speck of lint from his lab coat. “And I have several encrypted Omni-Corp data packets to deliver, along with some sensitive research errands. I assume I am free to disembark, Captain?”

Magnus scoffed. “Researching what, Professor? The bottom of a bottle in the slums?”

Claude didn’t even look at the mechanic. “Some of us are bound by corporate non-disclosure agreements, Mr. Cantarini. Try not to start any fights that delay our departure. My bio-samples are highly sensitive to schedule disruptions.”

Magnus rolled his eyes and headed for the door. “Keep your secrets, Suit.”

Ingrid powered down the primary navigation board and unbuckled her harness, grabbing her uniform jacket from the back of her chair. “Ship is locked and secure, John. I’m going to go find a decent meal that didn’t come out of an Omni-Corp synthesizer.”

“Enjoy it, Ingy.” John waved a hand and dismissed them all. “Just be back before the umbilical clamps detach.”

As the crew filed out, Helen stayed at her station, finishing her diagnostic sequence on the fuel lines.

When the blast door shut, John slumped back into his chair. Helen walked over to him. “Everything okay?”

“Just Omni-Corp red tape.” John scrolled through an endless list of glowing red text. “Charon Control is already breathing down my neck. Customs wants to verify the bio-stasis manifest, the dockmaster needs my deceleration logs, and I have to manually input the corporate authorization codes just so they’ll turn the fuel pumps on. I’m going to be buried in meetings and paperwork for the next several hours.”

Helen looked toward the viewport, where frost-covered hoses were already locking into the ship’s belly, venting excess gas. “And I have to suit up and babysit those cryo-hoses. Seven says the fuel out there is sludge. If I don’t manually monitor the intake valves, the freezing fuel will crack our primary coolant pipes, or we’ll fill our tanks with micro-meteorite dust.”

John raised the armrest of his captain’s chair and gently pulled her down onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and they shared a kiss. The rest of the crew was off to stretch their legs, drink, and forget the Persephone existed, leaving just the two of them behind to keep the freighter alive.

John pulled her closer. “Get through the purges. Once the suits sign off on my manifest, I’m done being Captain Mitchell and I can be your husband for a few hours. I’ll buy you a good meal, if one is to be had down there, and maybe we can do a little dancing.”

Helen leaned back just enough to give him a teasing smile. “Dancing? That’s not exactly your strong suit, Captain. But I can’t wait.”

John laughed. “Are you making fun of my dance moves? Just meet me at The Last Drop in Sector 4. Nineteen-hundred hours. I’ll show you the ‘Slip-Drive Shuffle.’ It’s highly unpredictable, slightly dangerous, and mostly just me stepping on your boots.”

“Nineteen-hundred. Don’t be late.” Helen gave him one last kiss and slid off his lap.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Helen headed for the door. Suddenly, babysitting cryo-hoses didn’t seem so bad. She had a few hours of grueling work in the cold ahead of her, but tonight, she and John were going on an actual date.

A looping video of the Persephone approaching Charon Outpost for a final refuel before 14 months in the Dead Zone.