STORY FILE // RX-4T-29Q
The cabin lights hummed low, a dull and constant reminder of the life support systems keeping Marcus alive in the cramped cockpit of the Arden Voyager. Outside the viewport, the vast blackness of space stretched infinite, punctuated only by the cold blue glow of the Arcadia Station, slowly rotating in geosynchronous orbit around the dying gas giant Garam IV.
Marcus exhaled slowly, the recycled air tasting sterile and faintly metallic. The familiar voice of his ship's AI, Selene, crackled softly through the comm system.
“Approach vector aligned, Captain. Velocity reduced to 0.2 meters per second. Distance to docking port: 120 meters.”
“Copy that, Selene. Let’s keep it clean and steady. No surprises today.” His knuckles whitened slightly as he gripped the manual control stick, eyes flicking between the readouts and the viewport.
The docking procedure had become ritual, almost meditative, over the long years of ferrying supplies through fringe colonies and orbital outposts. Marcus had grown intimate with the subtle thrumming of the engines, the faint vibrations transmitted through the hull, the slow dance of inertia in zero-g. Even the cold, unyielding presence of Selene was a balm—her voice calm, logical, a tether to order in the unforgiving void.
Behind them, the sterile cargo bay sat locked down, its compartments packed with nutrient rations, synthetic polymers, and fragile sensor arrays bound for Arcadia’s dwindling population. The station itself, a patchwork of old federation and corporate tech, had seen better days, its hull scarred by micrometeorites and years of neglect. Marcus caught the pale flicker of its external floodlights reflecting off the Arden’s hull as they drew closer.
“Docking clamps fully operational,” Selene confirmed. “Port-side latches on standby. Initiate final approach when ready.”
Marcus adjusted the thrusters minutely. The Arden responded with a faint shudder; minute pulses of compressed ion exhaust pushing them closer. He watched as the docking tunnel’s entry illuminated, a rectangular mouth of artificial light swallowing the void.
“You think they’ll still have the usual dockmaster on shift?” Marcus murmured, half to himself, half to Selene. “Last time, the guy was a real piece of work.”
“Data archives confirm current dockmaster identity as Ensign Rilo. Standard protocol indicates courteous but terse communication style.”
Marcus chuckled quietly. “Sounds about right.”
The ship groaned softly, the ancient frame protesting the subtle forces at play as they aligned. His fingers danced along the control panel, toggling power between systems to optimize stability. Outside, the station’s surface resolved further—panels scarred with scraped paint, tiny blinking beacons, a tangled mass of antennae and sensor pods like a mechanical sea urchin.
“Thrust vector aligned. Decreasing velocity to 0.05 meters per second.” Selene’s voice was steady but smooth, almost comforting in the heavy silence.
Marcus’s gaze lingered for a moment on the fractured surface of the gas giant below, the storms swirling lazily in ochre and burnt sienna. A reminder that life went on amidst the decay, a planetary furnace burning bright in the black. Soon, the Arden would rest against the station’s port dock, the routine handshake of metal and magnetic clamps securing the fragile cargo and another day of survival marked complete.
“Initiate docking clamp sequence,” Marcus ordered.
“Docking clamps engaged. Pressure seals at 99.7 percent.”
A faint hiss filled the cabin as the airlock cycled, the differential pressure equalizing. Marcus exhaled, the tension ebbing from his shoulders. Routine, yes—but in this endless expanse, routine was a kind of grace.
“Docking procedure complete. You may proceed to cargo transfer, Captain,” Selene reported.
Marcus leaned back, shoulders relaxing for just a moment. “Good work, Selene.”
“Thank you, Captain. Ready to assist during unloading operations.”
Outside the viewport, Arcadia Station spun silently, a beacon of fragile hope in a galaxy of falling stars. And somewhere inside that cold metal shell, a lone man and his ship AI carried on—delivering the future one small shipment at a time.
[ARCHIVIST ANNOTATION: Recording ends abruptly; subsequent log files corrupted or missing.]