Draft 2

Week 3: Transit to Charon Outpost

The lower logic hub of the Persephone was a cramped, cold cavern of blinking server racks and tangled fiber-optic cables.

Helen sat cross-legged on the grated metal floor with a magnifying visor pulled down over her eyes. She held a pair of micro-probes, carefully recalibrating the ship’s primary optical cables. It was highly technical and tedious work, but she liked it. Down here, things made sense. If a wire was frayed, you spliced it. If a circuit was broken, you bridged it.

Her datapad chimed on the floor beside her knee.

Helen paused and lifted the visor. The screen displayed a tiny “ghost draw” pulling from the ship’s secondary power grid. It was a minor routing error, barely a fraction of an amp, but she wouldn’t let it go. Left unchecked, a ghost draw could eventually compound into a blown relay.

She traced the schematic on the pad. The wiring for that specific grid was located behind a welded, three-inch-thick titanium bulkhead near the aft cargo holds.

Helen sighed. Instead of spending four hours hauling a plasma torch to cut the panel open, she tapped the side of her helmet.

“Seven, you’re up.”

Unit Seven detached from his charging port on her utility belt and hovered into the air. “Awaiting instructions, Madam.”

“I have a ghost draw on the secondary grid. I need you to bypass the titanium bulkhead by using the climate-control vents to get into the cable conduits and run a diagnostic.”

“Acknowledged.” Seven spun around. Because of his size, he easily slipped through the narrow slats of the nearest ventilation grate. His articulated metal legs clicked softly against the aluminum ductwork as he began his ascent through the ship’s circulatory system.

Helen had felt isolated over the last three weeks. She missed her husband. She missed the sun.

Feeling the sting of that loneliness, Helen tapped the console on her wrist. She intentionally left Seven’s audio feed open, piping it directly into her bone-conduction earpiece. It was technically using her AI as a flying wiretap, but she just wanted to hear the voices of the crew as he traveled.

A few minutes later, the audio feed crackled to life as Seven crawled over the grate above the mess hall.

“I swear, this Omni-Corp degreaser is fifty percent battery acid. It eats right through the utility gloves and melts my skin, but God forbid it actually cleans the grease off a hydrospanner.”

“Let me see.” Janet set down her sandwich. “It’s just a minor chemical burn. I have a dermal patch in the med-bay. It will synthesize new tissue in a few hours.”

Helen smiled as she worked, listening to the conversation.

“How’s Helen holding up?” Janet asked.

“The Chief is buried in the logic boards down there, and the Captain’s a ghost. I’m telling you, doc, this ship is running on stress and duct tape.”

Seven whispered over the feed, “Madam, Mr. Cantarini’s blood pressure is elevated by annoyance. Medical Officer Wilson’s heart rate remains a steady sixty beats per minute.”

“Let them be, Seven. Keep moving toward the aft conduits.”

The audio shifted to the muffled hum of the ship’s slip-drive as Seven navigated the cabling network above the Science Lab.

Through the feed, Helen heard the click of micro-tools. Claude was humming a classical tune—Bach, maybe—to himself.

“Madam,” Seven dimmed to stealth mode as he scanned the room below, “I have located the source of your unauthorized power draw. Science Officer Kinskey has spliced industrial-grade microcontrollers onto the secondary relays leading to Cargo Bay 4.”

“So that’s where my power went. He’s piggybacking off the engineering grid without filing a requisition.” Helen knew Claude had an incoming shipment scheduled for Docking Bay 7-C when they reached Charon Outpost next week. “He must be modifying the Persephone’s grid to handle whatever sensitive Omni-Corp bio-samples he’s picking up.”

“It is an unusual and highly excessive modification for the transportation of soil samples,” Seven said.

“I think it’s fine, Seven. He’s just being a paranoid scientist trying to keep his precious dirt warm. Keep moving to the forward arrays.”

Seven’s legs clicked as he moved further down the ship.

A few moments later, he reached the forward climate vents near the bridge. The ambient noise over the feed dropped to a hush. Helen stopped working to listen.

“Pitching down two degrees,” Ingrid said.

“Copy that. Adjusting gyros to compensate,” John said.

“You know,” Ingrid said, “if old man Higgins from Luna Hub Dispatch could see us feathering a rig this heavy, he’d probably swallow his own chewing tobacco.”

John laughed.

Helen felt insecurity twist in her chest. The camaraderie between the ex-lovers felt like a wall she couldn’t climb over.

“Madam, the Captain’s vocal stress patterns decrease by eighteen percent in XO Mills’ presence. If you wish, I can release a localized spray of Freon from the climate vents into the cockpit. It will give the Navigator a severe head cold, effectively removing her from the bridge.”

Helen wanted to say, do it. Instead, she said, “Stand down, Seven. Return to Engineering.”

Twenty minutes later, Helen was packing her tools when the blast doors opened and John walked into Engineering.

The laughing man she had just heard on the comms was completely gone. He was wearing his heavy “Captain” persona.

“Status report on the logic grid?” he asked, treating her like a subordinate.

“Optical cables are recalibrated and the grid is stable.” Helen wiped her hands. “John . . . we’re only a week away from Charon Outpost. We have a forty-eight-hour refueling window. Do you think we can spend some time together? Maybe get a drink at a real bar?”

John sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looked at her with regret. “I’d love that. Really, I would. But I’ve got to oversee the refueling umbilicals, handle the Omni-Corp customs manifest, and log the deceleration vectors.”

Helen looked down at her boots. “Right. I understand.”

John stepped closer and embraced her. “Don’t worry, I’ll carve out some time for us, I promise. I just have a lot of plates spinning right now.”

“I know.”

“I have to get back to the bridge.” John kissed her lips. “I’ll see you later in quarters.”

Helen watched him walk out. The doors closed, leaving her in the blinking lights of the server room. Unit Seven dropped out of a ceiling vent and hovered beside her head.

She realized just how massive the emotional distance between them had become. As the Persephone hurtled through space, Helen pinned all her desperate hopes on the neon lights of Charon Outpost, praying that a few hours off the ship with John would be enough to fix their marriage.

“Madam, I detect a severe drop in your serotonin levels,” Seven vibrated softly. “But please consider the data. The Captain just kissed you. He initiated physical contact, whereas his interaction with XO Mills was purely verbal and task-oriented. Statistically speaking, you remain his primary variable.”

“You’re right, Seven. I’m sure I’m worrying over nothing.”

Seven’s blue light pulsed. “Madam, I have analyzed the Captain’s schedule. If I were to ‘accidentally’ delete the Omni-Corp customs manifest from the mainframe, it would legally mandate a twenty-four-hour processing hold at Charon Outpost. This would guarantee the Captain is entirely free to take you to a bar. Shall I execute the deletion?”

Helen laughed, the tension in her chest breaking just a little. “As much as I love that idea, we don’t need our pay docked. Leave the manifest alone, Seven. But I do appreciate the loyalty.”

A looping video of Unit Seven looking down on John and Ingrid from a ceiling vent on the bridge.

Draft 2

Day 11: Science Lab

The Science Lab was the only civilized room on the entire ship. While the rest of the Persephone was a claustrophobic maze of exposed piping, flickering lumen-strips, and the perpetual hum of the slip-space drive, Claude Kinskey’s lab was pristine. The walls were a sterile white, and the air scrubbers were calibrated to remove even the faintest scent of Deuterium residue.

Claude used a pair of micro-tweezers to strip the casing off a heavy-duty copper wire, splicing it directly into a high-capacity power relay. He was in the process of bypassing the relay’s standard fuse with a custom microcontroller when a soft, mechanical whir broke his concentration.

Click-whir.

Claude sighed. “Back away from me.”

Unit Seven hovered barely two feet from Claude. The drone’s optical lenses contracted and expanded, zooming in on Claude’s hands.

“Pardon my curiosity, Science Officer Kinskey, but my database indicates that specific relay is rated for high-yield industrial cryonics, not subterranean soil samples. Are you anticipating a massive thermal load in the near future?”

Claude set down his tools. He didn’t hate the AI, but he found the hovering appliance incredibly tiresome.

“What I am anticipating is that if you do not exit my laboratory, I will cite Omni-Corp Security Protocol 41-A and have your optical sensors permanently recalibrated to stare at a bulkhead. Do you understand me?”

Seven’s optical aperture shrank, mimicking a blink. “Understood, Science Officer Kinskey. Though I must note, Omni-Corp’s protocols are fascinatingly aggressive regarding agricultural dirt. I shall leave you to your highly classified gardening.”

With a soft hum of its antigravity thrusters, Seven pivoted and floated toward the exit.

Before the door could slide shut, Magnus strode into the lab. Claude quickly swept the modified power relay into a lead-lined drawer and pushed it shut. The magnetic lock engaged with a click.

Magnus carried a heavy crate of chemical solvent. He set the crate onto one of Claude’s metal counters.

Instantly, the lab smelled of sweat. Claude stepped back.

“Weekly supplies.” Magnus’ eyes drifted from the solvent crate to the locked drawer Claude was standing in front of.

“Thank you. You may go.”

Magnus chuckled. “You don’t look like a dirt-scratcher, Professor. Matter of fact, you got the cleanest hands of anyone I’ve ever seen on a commercial hauler.”

“I am a contracted Omni-Corp researcher. My work requires a sterile environment, not heavy lifting.”

“Right. I’ve been flying with corporate types for twenty years. Every time one of you Suits ends up on a rust-bucket like this, it means the Company is hiding something. And I don’t trust Suits who lock their drawers the second someone walks by.”

Claude offered a condescending smile. “Unless you have a sudden, burning interest in the isotopic decay rates of Tartaran terraloam and the proprietary molecular binding agents Omni-Corp utilizes in its bio-domes, I suggest you return to the cargo bays. Or would you like me to explain the covalent bonds to you?”

Magnus stared at him. Then, he grunted, clearly deciding the conversation was a waste of time.

“Keep your secrets, Professor.” Magnus turned toward the door. “But don’t get in our way.”

The door hissed shut behind him.

Claude shook his head in mild amusement. He immediately grabbed a sanitized cloth and wiped down the counter where Magnus had placed the crate.

Once the lab was clean again, Claude walked over to his primary console. Just to be certain he wouldn’t be interrupted again, he tapped a sequence of keys to bring up the external corridor cameras.

On screen one, Magnus was stomping back toward the lower decks, talking to himself. On screen two, Helen was squeezing into a ventilation shaft with her hydrospanner.

Claude minimized the feeds. Good. The hired help was busy keeping the ship running.

He opened a hidden, encrypted terminal. Bypassing the ship’s standard comms array, he typed in a thirty-two-character alphanumeric passcode. The screen transitioned from standard Omni-Corp blue to an untraceable black. A single text file waited in his inbox, sent via a heavily bounced dark-web relay.

TRANSACTION CONFIRMED. CHARON OUTPOST. DAY 30. DOCKING BAY 7-C. FUNDS SECURED. HAVE THE CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS READY.

Claude smiled. The asset he was purchasing at Charon Outpost would secure his fortune and his permanent exit from the drudgery of corporate assignments. He had already calculated the exact power draw required. Once he wired his custom modifications into the ship’s primary grid, his “cargo” would remain perfectly stabilized and frozen for the journey to Tartarus.

Claude leaned back in his chair. It was a flawless plan. All he needed was for Helen, John, and the rest of the crew to do their jobs. As long as they kept their heads down, followed their routines, and simply chauffeured the Persephone to its destination, they would all be absolutely fine.

Looping video of Science Officer Kinskey working in the science lab with Seven pestering him.

Draft 2

Day 6, Transit to Charon Outpost, Med-Bay

The Med-Bay was a sterile white sanctuary compared to the rest of the gritty bio-hauler.

Helen lay on the examination table, while Unit Seven hovered around, scanning the medical equipment with suspicious intensity.

Janet, dressed in blue scrubs, stood at the console, tapping commands into her datapad as the automated bio-scanner ran its routine. The scanner, a crescent-shaped device attached to a mechanical arm, swept over Helen’s body. It paused over her arm and quickly extracted a tiny vial of blood before retracting into the wall. Janet took the vial and slotted it into the refrigerated centrifuge.

“Madam, your resting heart rate suggests you are preparing for imminent physical combat,” Seven said. “Shall I engage defense protocols?”

Janet chuckled. “There’s no combat in the Med-Bay, Seven. Power down for a minute so the humans can talk, alright?”

“I will enter standby mode. But I advise against letting her poke you with any sharp instruments, Madam. Statistically, medical errors account for—”

“Thank you, Seven,” Helen said. “You can stand by.”

The drone’s optic dimmed, and his rotors hummed at a low idle as he settled onto the medical counter next to the bio-scanner’s docking port.

“I don’t know how you put up with him.” Janet stepped next to the table as the scanner finished its exam. “He’s like a flying, metallic mother-in-law.”

“He keeps me sharp. Besides, I kinda like him. He keeps me company.” Helen sat up. “So what’s the verdict?”

Janet looked over the datapad. “Good. Your blood pressure and heart rate are a little high, but that’s probably from white coat syndrome. Lots of people have that reaction. Otherwise, everything is fine. I’m logging this as your official baseline. Physically, you are the healthiest engineer I’ve seen on this rust bucket.” Janet set the datapad down and leaned against the counter. “But how are you doing mentally? That rushed launch at Luna Hub was a nightmare.”

Helen shifted uncomfortably on the exam table. “I’m fine. Just tired. The secondary coolant valves have been acting up since we broke orbit, and the pressure buildup in Vent Network Three is going to require me to bypass the thermal relays before we hit Charon Outpost.”

Janet tilted her head. “I didn’t ask about the ship’s coolant lines. I asked about you.”

Helen shrugged. “It’s just a lot of pressure.”

“It is,” Janet said. “And John? He’s been carrying the weight of the ship on his shoulders, trying to keep the Omni-Corp suits happy. But how are you doing with him?”

Thoughts of John and Ingrid filled her mind, but she didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to sound jealous or paranoid. “John is just doing his job. He’s stressed, but we’re fine. Once we hit Charon and top off the tanks, things will settle down.”

“Just remember, Helen, you can’t fix a marriage with a hydrospanner. You have to actually talk to him. My door is always open if you need an ear.”

“Thanks, really.” Helen hopped off the table. She picked up Seven, slipping his dormant body into the breast pocket of her jumpsuit. “But we’re okay.”

***

Later that evening, Captain’s Quarters

Helen and John’s shared quarters were cramped, roughly the size of a large closet with a desk and a bathroom, but it was the one place on the ship that felt like theirs.

Helen was sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking over the blueprints for the ship’s primary grid. Taped to the bulkhead right beside her pillow was a printed photograph of a salvage ship, a beautiful vessel that didn’t have Omni-Corp’s logo stamped anywhere on its hull.

The door slid open, and John stepped inside.

He looked exhausted as he unfastened the collar of his command uniform.

Unit Seven, currently resting on the desk, fixed his blue eye on John. “Captain Mitchell, your bio-rhythms indicate a massive spike in stress hormones, accompanied by acute fatigue. Shall I contact Medical Officer Wilson?”

“No need for that, Seven, but I appreciate you looking out for him,” Helen said. “I’m going to take care of him tonight. Could you engage your visual and audio privacy filters, please?”

“Privacy mode engaged.” Seven rotated to face the bulkhead. “Visual and audio sensors are now locked. Sleep well, Captain.”

“Thanks, Seven,” John said as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “God, I’m sorry, Helen. I know I was riding you hard today, but I don’t want to hit the Dead Zone behind schedule. They’ll dock our pay by thirty percent.”

Helen put the blueprints aside and moved closer. “You don’t need to apologize. I know how much pressure you’re under.”

He reached up and gently stroked her cheek. “I just hate treating you like one of the crew when we’re out there. I hate seeing you exhausted.”

“I’m an engineer. Exhausted is in my job description.” Helen smiled and nodded toward the photograph taped to the wall. “Besides, we both know why we’re doing this. Fourteen months. We deliver the terraforming kits, collect the hazard payout, and we buy the salvage ship. We are done with Omni-Corp forever.”

John looked at the picture. “I’ve got it handled, I promise. Just let me worry about the corporate suits, okay? I want to get us out of this grind just as badly as you do.”

Helen leaned in and kissed him. The kiss deepened.

“It’s just you and me against this rust bucket,” John said against her lips.

“Just you and me,” she whispered back.

He pulled her down onto the mattress, and the overwhelming vastness of the ship faded away into the dark.

***

03:00 Ship Time, Corridors & The Bridge

Helen woke to the rhythmic vibration of the slip-drive. She reached her hand out across the sheets, seeking the warmth of her husband.

The bed was cold. The digital clock on the wall read 03:00. John was gone.

She sat up. He was probably just restless. The corporate deadlines always gave him insomnia. Figuring he was either on the bridge running diagnostics or pacing the mess hall, Helen slipped into her jumpsuit, zipped it up, and walked out into the corridor.

She stopped by the mess hall first. It was empty. She went to the synthesizer, punched in a quick sequence, and waited as the machine dispensed two cups of coffee: one black sludge for her, and one with synthetic cream, just the way John liked it.

Carrying the two cups, Helen made her way down the forward corridor toward Flight Command.

As she approached, she stopped. The blast-proof cockpit door was sealed shut. The locking mechanism beside the frame glowed a solid red.

Helen frowned. It wasn’t standard protocol to lock the bridge doors during transit unless there was a navigational hazard.

She stepped closer and peered through the door’s window.

Inside, the bridge was bathed in the blue glow of the navigation monitors. John was standing at the dual-console. Beside him was Ingrid.

They weren’t doing anything scandalous. They were just looking at a telemetry readout together. But they were standing so close, their shoulders nearly brushing as they leaned over the screen. Ingrid’s hand was moving on the keyboard as John pointed to something on the display, his head tilting toward hers.

Then, John said something Helen couldn’t hear, but it made Ingrid laugh. She hadn’t heard John pull a laugh like that out of anyone in weeks, but this was a woman he used to be in love with.

An ugly pang of jealousy twisted like a blade in her stomach. Just a few hours ago, John had been in her arms, telling her it was just the two of them. Now, he was locked away in the dark, sharing the night shift with his ex-flame.

Helen stared through the glass. She could have punched in her override code and walked in. She was his wife. She had every right to hand him the coffee and ask what was so funny. But her instinct was to shut down.

She turned her back on the red light of the locked door and walked back to the mess hall. She dumped both cups of coffee down the recycler drain and headed to the lower decks of Engineering, burying herself in the one thing she knew she could control.

A looping video of Helen and John in the Captain’s quarters.

Draft 2

Day 1, Transit to Charon Outpost

“Engaging main thrusters.” John moved his hands over the primary flight console.

“Gyros stabilizing,” Ingrid said.

Helen braced herself in her seat at the engineering station. She watched her monitor as the Persephone’s faster-than-light slip-drive spooled up.

She felt the floorboards vibrate as the thrusters fired, pushing the ship away from Luna Hub. Then a wave of G-force hit the bridge, pressing Helen back into her seat.

“Slip-drive is at ninety percent,” Ingrid called out over the roar of the engines. “We are breaking orbit.”

Suddenly, an alarm blared through the rumble. Helen’s console flashed red.

“Captain, we have a pressure spike in Vent Network Three.” Helen isolated the warning. “The launch vibration probably knocked a secondary coolant valve loose. If it blows, the slip-drive is going to overheat before we even clear the moon.”

“Handle it, Helen,” John said, focused on the viewport. “We can’t abort the launch sequence now.”

“On it.”

The moment the G-forces leveled out into standard acceleration, Helen unbuckled her harness. With the hydrospanner still attached to her belt, she bolted off the bridge.

Minutes later, Helen was wedged inside a freezing, poorly lit ventilation shaft near the aft engine block. The space was cramped, and the walls vibrated as the ship continued to accelerate.

“Madam, the structural integrity of this secondary valve is currently degrading at a rate of four percent per minute.” Unit Seven hovered inches from her ear, his blue optic strobing against the walls. “If the pressurized liquid nitrogen breaches the seal, we will be instantly flash-frozen.”

“I’m aware, Seven. Shine some light my way.”

Seven illuminated the vibrating valve. Helen reached out, fitting the micro-hydraulic head of her hydrospanner around the frozen bolt.

Before she could engage the torque, the ship shuddered as the slip-drive hit its final gear. A wave of magnetic interference rippled through the shaft.

Seven’s voice cut out and his blue optic dimmed to a dull gray.

“Seven?”

The little drone’s legs locked up, his rotors dying instantly. He dropped out of the air like a stone. Helen lunged, catching him in her left hand just before he plummeted down the vertical drop of the shaft.

“Damn recycled hardware.” Helen tucked his lifeless body into her breast pocket.

Helen gripped the hydrospanner, thumbing the activation switch. The tool applied torque that Helen’s arm alone could never produce. With a screech, the valve turned, locked, and sealed.

The hissing of escaping coolant stopped. Her datapad blinked green.

Helen sighed, her breath pluming in the freezing air. She pulled Seven out of her pocket and popped open his casing. Carefully, using the tip of a micro-driver she kept in her sleeve, she nudged his primary processor bridge and manually reset his micro-matrix.

She tapped his chassis twice.

Seven’s optic flickered, then flared a bright, steady blue. His rotors whirred back to life, lifting him out of her palm.

“System reboot successful,” Seven vibrated. “I appear to have experienced a temporal lapse. Did we freeze to death?”

“No, Seven. We’re fine. Let’s get out of this vent.”

***

Day 4, Transit to Charon Outpost

The ship had settled into the rhythmic hum of slip-space travel. Helen walked into the mess hall after a much-needed shower.

“I’m just saying, I risked a corporate write-up to steal that Grade-A thermal fuse, and this synthesizer still makes the chicken taste like wet cardboard,” Magnus said.

The cargo deckhand was sitting at the central table, poking at a gray square of food with his fork.

Janet sat across from him, sipping hot water and lemon. The ship’s medical officer smiled at Helen as she approached. “Don’t listen to him. The synthesizer is working perfectly. Magnus just lacks a refined palate.”

“I lack a steak.” Magnus took a miserable bite of the gray meat.

Helen walked over to the beverage dispenser and poured herself a cup of coffee.

At the end of the table sat Claude. The science officer was peeling an apple, likely from his own private, sterilized stash.

Unit Seven, who had been resting on Helen’s shoulder, suddenly detached and hovered across the room. He stopped directly over Claude’s plate.

Claude paused his knife, looking up at the drone with confusion.

“Dr. Kinskey.” Seven’s eye scanned the fruit. “Your apple contains approximately fourteen percent more natural fructose than the standard synthetic rations provided by Omni-Corp. Statistically, this will lead to a minor spike in your glycemic index, followed by an energy crash at roughly fourteen-hundred hours.”

“Thank you, Unit Seven. I will be sure to monitor my fatigue.”

Seven lowered himself an inch closer to Claude’s slices. “Furthermore, your knife grip is highly inefficient. Angling the blade two degrees to the left would reduce wrist strain by—”

“Seven, leave Claude alone.” Helen hid a smile behind her coffee mug.

Claude cleared his throat, looking flustered as he shooed the drone away with a wave of his hand. “It’s quite alright. Your AI is just . . . remarkably observant.”

“He means annoying,” Magnus said. “Don’t sweat it. The little guy told me I had a thirty percent chance of dying of a heart attack based on my sodium intake yesterday.”

“Thirty-two point four percent, Mr. Cantarini.” Seven zipped back over to Helen’s shoulder.

Claude returned to his slicing. “I suppose we must all rely on the data available to us.”

Helen finished her coffee and set her cup in the recycler. “I need to go run diagnostics on the grid.”

“Don’t work too hard, Helen,” Janet said.

“I’ll try not to.” Helen paused at the door. “Oh, and Janet? I need to schedule a routine checkup with you sometime this week.”

“My med-bay is always open. Stop by this week and we’ll get you sorted out.”

Helen nodded as she stepped into the hall. The crew was fine. The ship was holding together. But as she walked toward engineering, accompanied by her drone, the isolation of deep space was already beginning to set in.

Helen, Janet, Claude, Magnus, and, of course, Seven are in the mess hall of the Persephone.

Draft 2

Day 1, Docked at Luna Hub

Helen loved Cargo Bay 4. The massive bio-dome was just like Omni-Corp’s brochures, complete with primordial terra-loam, rows of bio-stasis pods, and dormant terraforming kits, all waiting to be dropped onto the barren surface of the distant mining world on the edge of explored space, Colony Outpost 42-Kaelen.

Helen moved down the aisle between the soil-processing units. Seven detached from her suit and hovered just over her right shoulder, his blue optic sweeping the damp, shadowy space.

“Ambient humidity is currently at eighty-two percent, Madam,” Seven vibrated. “If we remain in the chamber for longer than two hours, the moisture will begin to oxidize my exposed servo-joints. Furthermore, the Persephone’s internal rust accumulation will increase by—”

“Quiet, Seven. Listen.” Helen held up a hand.

Seven silenced his servos. Beneath the thrum of the ship, Helen caught a faint, high-pitched sound echoing down the aisle. She followed the noise and stopped in front of Humidifier Unit 7B. A small red light was pulsing on its control board.

She unclipped her diagnostic pad, plugged a cable into the unit’s port, and sighed with relief.

“It’s a misaligned thermal sensor.” Helen pulled her hydrospanner from her belt. “The moisture buildup in the filter tripped a false heat warning, so the system locked itself down. Standard Omni-Corp cheap manufacturing.”

“Statistically, Omni-Corp products have a failure rate of—”

“Too high, I know. Just keep your optic peeled for any more red lights while I bypass this filter.”

Helen popped the casing, bypassed the filter, and recalibrated the sensor with three turns of her spanner. The red light blinked, turned green, and the humidifier hummed back to life, blowing a faint mist into the air.

“Problem solved.” Helen wiped her hands on her jumpsuit.

As she turned to leave, something caught her eye. Near the aft bulkhead, adjacent to the primary coolant lines Magnus had been complaining about, a series of secondary access panels were sealed shut. The digital locks glowed red.

Helen frowned. Magnus was right. “Why are the maintenance panels locked down?”

She stepped up to the bulkhead and punched her Chief Engineer override code into the keypad. The light flipped to green, and the panels opened, exposing the ship’s vital coolant veins.

“Ah, Helen Mitchell.”

Helen jumped and spun around.

Claude Kinskey stood at the end of the aisle. The ship’s science officer wore a white lab coat over his jumpsuit and held a datapad. He looked exactly as Helen knew him, harmless and mild-mannered.

“Kinskey. Did you lock these maintenance panels?”

“I did. My apologies if it caused an inconvenience.” He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and gestured to the nearest row of bio-stasis pods. “I am running a highly sensitive temperature calibration on the microbial soil samples. The Luna Hub dockworkers are notoriously careless. If they had opened those panels to tinker with the pumps, the sudden draft of excess heat from the exposed coolant lines, not to mention them clanging their tools around inside the bulkhead, would have completely destabilized my readings. It could ruin the entire batch before we even break orbit.”

Helen looked from Claude to the exposed pumps, then to the sensitive terraforming equipment. It made perfect sense. Omni-Corp’s bio-samples were temperamental.

“I get it.” Helen slid her hydrospanner back into her belt. “But next time, clear it with Engineering before you lock us out of our own bulkheads. If a coolant line blows, I need immediate access.”

“Of course, Chief Mitchell. Protocol dictates open communication. It won’t happen again.” Claude smiled.

“Wrap up your calibrations. We’re getting ready to leave.” Helen tapped the comms unit on her collar. “Engineering to Flight Command. Cargo Bay 4 is green-lit. The stasis monitors are stable. It was just a clogged thermal filter.”

John’s voice crackled over the earpiece. “Copy that, Helen. Fantastic work. Let’s get the hell out of here before Omni-Corp finds another reason to fine us.”

The ship-wide intercom chimed with John’s voice. “Attention crew, this is the Captain. Cargo is secure. Initiating a T-minus forty-five minute countdown to launch. Get to your stations.”

Helen switched her radio frequency. “Magnus, you copy that? Fire up the main slip-drive. Let it warm up slow. And tell the Luna Hub dockworkers to prep the umbilicals for release.”

“Copy, Chief. Slip-drive is warming. The dockworkers are already unlatching the primary clamps. They want us out of their hair as much as we want to go.”

***

09:50 Luna Hub Time (T-Minus 10 Minutes to Launch)

When Helen stepped onto the bridge, the pre-launch operations was in full swing.

The bridge was cramped and utilitarian, its gray bulkheads bathed in the glow of monitors and the forward viewport. Outside, the lights of Luna Hub reflected off the gantry arms that still held the Persephone in their grip.

Janet Wilson, the ship’s comms and medical officer, was already strapped into her station on the port side, running through the final cargo manifest checklists.

Claude arrived shortly after, taking a seat at the science station. Then a moment later Magnus swaggered in, dropping into his jump seat.

Helen walked toward the front of the bridge and took her seat at the engineering console.

The arrangement of the chairs bothered her. The Captain and Navigator chairs were positioned at the front of the bridge, side-by-side, sharing a dual-console. Helen’s engineering station was positioned behind them and to the right.

From her seat, Helen was forced to watch the backs of their heads.

“Luna Control, this is Persephone,” Ingrid said. “Requesting final departure vector. Slip-drive is at eighty percent capacity and climbing.”

“Copy, Persephone,” a traffic controller replied over the speakers. “Vector four-niner-bravo. Omni-Corp dispatch notes your scheduled refueling stop at Charon Outpost. Be advised, your final delivery window at the colony is strict. Financial penalties will apply for any delays once you enter the Dead Zone. Fly safe.”

“Heard loud and clear, Control.” John flipped a row of overhead switches. “We’ll be on time.”

John and Ingrid moved in synchronization. When John reached for the thruster toggles, Ingrid’s hand was already moving to adjust the stabilizing gyros.

“Pitching up two degrees, John.” Ingrid’s eyes were on the telemetry readouts.

“I see it,” John said. “Hold her steady, Ingy. Let’s ease her off the dock.”

Ingy.

Helen stared at the readout on her own console. Unit Seven, still clinging to the velcro on her jumpsuit, buzzed softly.

“Madam, your heart rate has elevated by twelve percent. Shall I ask Janet for a mild sedative?”

“Mute your audio, Seven.”

She looked up again. John and Ingrid were leaning toward each other, looking at the same central navigation screen, their shoulders inches apart. They looked like partners. They looked like a couple flying their ship, while the rest of the crew just caught a ride in the back.

“Engineering is green, Captain.” Helen’s voice was a little louder than necessary. “Umbilicals detached. We are free and clear.”

John didn’t turn around, his eyes were fixed on the stars beyond the viewport. “Engage main thrusters. Next stop is the truck stop on Pluto’s moon, Charon Outpost, where we’ll top off the tanks before entering the Dead Zone.”

Looping video of Helen walking in the bio-dome of Cargo Bay 4. Seven is hovering nearby.

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.