Draft 2

Month 1, Day 30: 21:15 hours. Charon Outpost Slums. POV: Helen

Helen walked through the packed dance floor of The Last Drop, her boots sticking slightly to the spilled synth-ale.

The throb in her shoulder was coming back and her toes stung from John’s clumsy rendition of the “Slip-Drive Shuffle.” Every step toward the exit was a reminder that while the rest of the crew was starting their shore leave, her shift was far from over.

At the bulkhead doors that led out into the slums, Helen paused. She couldn’t help herself. She rested her hand on the release lever and looked back over her shoulder through the dim, violet haze of the bar.

She half-expected to see John watching her go, maybe offering a sympathetic wave.

Instead, he was back in the booth, sitting across from Ingrid. Helen couldn’t hear them over the thumping bass of the sound system, but saw Ingrid raise her glass and say something that made John laugh. He looked happy.

A pang of isolation struck Helen. It wasn’t a feeling of betrayal. She trusted John. She knew he loved her. But as she watched the two of them—the Captain and his First Officer enjoying each other’s company—she felt entirely left out. She felt like the hired help. She wanted to be back in the booth, pretending the universe didn’t exist.

He’s been carrying the weight of the entire ship for a month, she thought. He deserves to blow off some steam. They’re just . . . old friends. Let him have a night off.

Helen shoved the door open and stepped out into Sector 4.

The thumping music of the bar was replaced by the roar of underground refineries. The recycled air of Charon Outpost desperately needed a filter change.

Overhead, the neon holograms advertised cheap lodging and black-market betting parlors. Helen kept her head down, dodging past a group of off-shift ice-miners as she navigated the catwalks suspended over the outpost’s subterranean refining vats.

Seeking a distraction from her thoughts, Helen reached up and tapped the comms unit.

“Seven, are you awake?”

A soft hum vibrated against her collarbone through the earpiece. “I am an artificial intelligence, Madam. I do not sleep. Though if I did, my rest would currently be disturbed by a highly irregular data stream.”

“Ingrid said the internal sensors threw a critical error. What am I looking at?”

“I am analyzing the telemetry now. There is a large, localized power draw on the secondary grid. The surge is localized entirely within the routing conduits leading to Cargo Bay 4.”

“Cargo Bay 4? That doesn’t make sense. I recalibrated Humidifier 7B before we broke orbit.”

“The current voltage requirement far exceeds standard humidifier operations, Madam. It is pulling enough raw amperage to trigger the ship’s automated failsafes. The main computer is preparing to cut all power to Cargo Bay 4 to protect the slip-drive.”

Helen picked up her pace, leaving the crowded thoroughfare behind and turning down the sloping transit tunnel that led to the private freighter slips. “Omni-Corp will void our contract if those terraforming samples die. Did the dockworkers pinch a conduit while they were hooking up the umbilicals?”

“Negative. The draw originates from within the ship.”

“Then I have to lock the primary breaker open before the computer kills the power. Just prep the lower logic hub for my arrival.”

“Acknowledged.” Seven paused. “Madam, I must point out a statistical anomaly. Captain Mitchell possesses the biometric clearance to execute a secondary bridge bypass from the cockpit. Why did he not accompany you? Furthermore, my behavioral database indicates that socializing with past romantic partners releases endorphins that—“

“Mute the psychology, Seven.”

“I am merely observing variables, Madam.”

Helen shivered from the frigid air in the docking terminal. In the distance, the Persephone sat tethered to the fueling station. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Acknowledged. Awaiting your arrival.”

By the time Helen reached the docking ring, where the Persephone was suspended by magnetic clamps, she wondered if the heat was working in the dock.

Helen keyed her override code into the primary airlock. The door opened, and she stepped inside.

The outer doors sealed shut behind her. The Persephone felt different when it was empty. Without the ambient noise of Magnus clanging his tools, Janet shuffling around the Med-Bay, or John’s voice over the intercom, the freighter became a ghost ship. The only sounds were the thrum of the main reactor and the cycling of the air scrubbers.

A soft, mechanical whir broke the silence. Unit Seven hovered a few feet down the corridor.

“Welcome back, Madam.” Seven’s voice shifted from her earpiece to his external micro-speaker. “I have unsealed the hatch to the lower logic hub as requested. I must warn you, with the ship’s life support currently operating on standby mode, the ambient temperature in the lower decks has dropped to forty-one degrees Fahrenheit. It will be highly unpleasant.”

“Thanks, Seven. Let’s get this over with.”

She followed him into the staging room and pulled an engineering coat over her clothes. Then she grabbed her utility harness, strapping the hydrospanner back onto her waist.

Together, they walked to the access hatch leading down into the belly of the ship. Helen stood over the narrow maintenance chute. She was alone, exhausted, and about to crawl into the cramped underbelly of the ship to fix a technical anomaly that shouldn’t exist.

She grabbed the rungs of the ladder and began her descent into the dark.

A looping video of Helen in the tunnel overlooking Charon Outpost and Persephone—nothing like a solitary walk back to an empty ship at the edge of the solar system.