Draft 2

Month 1, Day 30: 1900 hours. Charon Outpost Slums.

Stepping into Sector 4 of Charon Outpost was a sensory overload of neon lights. Helen squinted as holographic advertisements buzzed overhead, casting pink and green light across the metal walkways. The air had the metallic tang of vented plasma.

She navigated the crowded thoroughfare, dodging burly ice-miners. She was finally out of her bulky engineering suit, dressed in a civilian sweater and her dark canvas trousers. Her shoulder still ached from being struck by the bucking cryo-hose she had wrestled earlier.

She spotted the glowing sign of The Last Drop hanging over a bulkhead door. Pushing inside, Helen was immediately hit by a wall of sound and heat. The space-bar was loud and chaotic, packed wall-to-wall with long-haul crews blowing off steam. A rhythmic bass thumped from the sound system.

Helen scanned the dimly lit room. Past the crowded bar, tucked away in a booth in the back, sat John.

When he looked up and caught her eye, she watched the distant stare of a captain carrying the fate of a corporate freighter vanish completely, replaced by a smile and the man she had fallen in love with.

Helen slid into the booth across from him.

“You look like you fought a liquid nitrogen geyser and lost,” John said.

“You have no idea. I’m pretty sure my core temperature is still hovering somewhere around freezing.”

John leaned across the sticky table and took her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you out there to handle the heavy lifting alone. I was held up in customs for three hours arguing over clearance codes.”

“It’s fine.” Helen looked into his eyes and knew he meant it.

“No, it’s not.” John let go of one of her hands to slide a rocks glass across the table. “Which is why I bought us this. Real whiskey. Not the Omni-Corp synthesized crap. It cost a week’s hazard pay, but we earned it.”

Helen picked up the glass. “A week’s pay? John, we need that for our savings fund.”

“The fund can wait one week.” John raised his own glass. “Before we drink, we make a pact. For the next two hours, there is no talking about Omni-Corp. No talking about coolant pressures or thermal relays. And we absolutely do not say the word Persephone.”

“Agreed.” She clinked her glass against his and took a sip. The whiskey burned down her throat. “I think I’m warming up already.”

For the next hour, they didn’t talk about the ship. They talked about the dream.

“I was looking at the shipyard listings before we lost Earth comms.” Helen leaned in close over the table so he could hear her over the music. “There’s a decommissioned Class-3 salvage rig sitting in the Mars orbital dock. Twin fusion engines. Needs a total overhaul, but the bones are good.”

John smiled. “Does it have a name?”

“Not a good one. We’d have to repaint the hull anyway.” She grinned. “I was thinking cobalt blue. Not a single Omni-Corp logo anywhere.”

“Cobalt blue,” John said, nodding in approval. “I like it. But I get the bigger captain’s chair.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Helen laughed. “I’m the one who’s going to rebuild those twin fusion engines from scratch. I get the big chair. You can have a stool.”

“A stool? I’m the pilot! I need lumbar support.”

It was a shared vision, a finish line that made the fourteen-month haul entirely worth it.

As she finished her drink, the music in the bar shifted. The beat morphed into a fast-paced track.

John set his glass down with a thud and slid out of the booth. He stood up and extended a hand toward her.

“No.” Helen shook her head. “Absolutely not. I am sore and probably had too much to drink.”

“I promised you a demonstration on the bridge. I am a man of my word, Helen Mitchell. Get up.”

Helen laughed as she let him pull her out of the booth. He led her into the packed space serving as a dance floor near the center of the bar.

John spun her around once, then let go of her hand to proudly debut his moves. It was, exactly as he had described, the “Slip-Drive Shuffle.” To Helen, it looked like an utterly ridiculous dance that involved erratic stomping of his boots, mimicking the gear shifts of a freighter breaking the light barrier.

He threw his shoulders into it, looking so goofy that Helen couldn’t contain herself. She burst into uncontrollable laughter. She tried to match his rhythm, stepping side-to-side, playfully dodging the other rowdy patrons.

John turned around, stomped his foot to the heavy bass drop, and accidentally brought his boot down right on top of her toes.

“Ow!” Helen said through her laughter.

“I warned you! I said it was slightly dangerous!”

Helen laughed until her sides ached. The exhaustion and claustrophobia of the ship vanished.

As the fast-paced song transitioned into a slower rhythm, the chaotic energy on the dance floor mellowed.

John stepped forward and pulled her in close, his hands wrapping around her waist. Helen stepped into his embrace, resting her hands on his chest.

The neon lights washed over them in slow waves of violet and blue.

“I meant what I said earlier,” John said, looking down at her. “I hate treating you like crew. I hate seeing you exhausted. You’re the only thing that keeps me sane out in the dark, Helen. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she whispered.

John’s lips met hers. It was a passionate kiss. Helen closed her eyes, losing herself in the warmth of her husband. The loud music, the rowdy miners, and the frozen moon outside all melted away into nothing.

“I really hate to interrupt.”

Helen’s eyes snapped open. She pulled back from John, the warm spell instantly broken.

Standing next to them on the dance floor was Ingrid. She wore a tailored civilian jacket that made her look like she belonged in a high-end Earth club rather than a frontier dive bar.

John blinked, looking slightly dazed, then let out a welcoming, albeit surprised, laugh. “Ingy. What are you doing down in Sector Four?”

“Looking for you two.” Ingrid tapped the datapad in her hand. “My command channel started blowing up a few minutes ago. The Persephone’s internal sensors just threw a critical error.”

“What happened?” Helen felt the real world come rushing back in.

“Massive localized power surge on the secondary grid. The automated failsafe is threatening to dump the power to Cargo Bay Four to protect the slip-drive. If we lose power to the terraforming kits, Omni-Corp voids our contract.”

Helen let out a heavy breath.

“I’ll come with you,” John said. “We can run a system bypass from the bridge.”

“A bridge bypass won’t stop a hardwired failsafe,” Helen said. “I need to get down into the lower logic hub, physically pull the primary breaker, and manually bridge the relay. Only my Chief Engineer biometrics can unlock that junction.”

Ingrid held up a glass she had brought from the bar. “Mind if I sit with him while you go play with the wires?”

“Not at all.” John smiled at Helen and stepped back toward their booth.

Helen forced a smile. “I’ll be quick.”

“Don’t fry yourself, Mitchell,” Ingrid said, sliding into the very seat Helen had just vacated.

Helen turned and headed for the exit, the suffocating dread of the ship settling back over her shoulders.

A looping video of Helen and John dancing at The Last Drop, a neon-lit dive bar on the edge of the solar system.