Draft 2
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.
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