Lathe Anderson awoke before his alarm, a phantom vibration still echoing in his skull from years of programmed routine. The single room housing unit in Mercury Harbor Station offered little comfort – just a narrow bunk, a basic sanitation unit, and the dull, persistent hum of the station's life support. He hadn't bothered with the light; darkness was cheaper, and he preferred it. It matched the feeling of being perpetually underground, a darkness that lived in every Mercury worker.
He was already dressed in the dark brown coveralls he'd slept in, practicality winning out over comfort. The fabric clung to his skin with the faint metallic tang of recycled air, a mix of oil, scorched ore dust, and the musk of industrial sweat. His duffle bag was packed and waiting by the door – a standard-issue container holding the few personal belongings he allowed himself. No room for sentimentality when every kilo counted against payload weight. He pulled on his worn mag boots, the familiar click of the magnetic soles engaging a small comfort. The metal was cold against his feet, a biting cold that seeped into the iron of his bones.
He ate a ration bar in the dark, the synthetic protein nougat offering little in the way of flavor. Metallic, bland, efficient. It was fuel, nothing more. He chewed slowly, deliberately. The bar's texture was chalky, the aftertaste like ash and regret, as if he'd chewed a sliver of Mercury's own crust. He scanned his compad while eating, the pale light illuminating the shadows etched into his face. Mostly station notices, shipping manifests, and automated system updates. Then, a message from his father.
A wave of something akin to guilt washed over him. He'd been putting it off for weeks. His father, a decorated freighter pilot himself, always asking about his progress, always subtly hinting at his absence. Lathe knew his father meant well, but the messages felt like a weight, a reminder of the life he should want. A life that required… connection.
He scrolled through the message, his thumb hovering over the reply function.
“Son, just checking in. How are the runs going? Your mother and I were talking about you. We haven't seen you in months. Come visit us in the Ice Bowl when you have a moment. It's… peaceful there. A good place to recharge.”
The Ice Bowl—a bleak, desolate region on the northern pole of Mercury where the temperature rarely rose above freezing. A place where families and retired miners lived to stay out of the way of industry, close to the water harvesting. A place Lathe actively avoided. Not because it was sad – it was – but because it demanded time, demanded presence. Time he didn't have, presence he couldn't afford.
An image surfaced in his mind: a cracked watch on his wrist, its glass face etched with three notches, carved during each of his brothers' final departures. Two more runs left to join the armada.
He marked the message as read, intending to reply later. Much later.
He finished the ration bar and left the housing unit, stepping into the cold corridors of Mercury Harbor Station. As always, the station was bustling with activity, workers hurrying to meet quota. Another freighter would rotate into his unit soon, another anonymous face passing through.
He didn't bother acknowledging the few nods he received. He had a run to make.
A snippet of conversation caught his ear as he walked:
“They say cryo-sleep rots your bones,” a man growled, his voice hoarse from dust.
“But what's the choice?” a woman replied, her smudged cheeks and scarred knuckles marked by decades of labor.
“Die in a tunnel or freeze on some damn asteroid?”
He moved past them. Dreams didn't survive on Mercury—just iron and sweat.
As he had read earlier on his compad, today's freight run was a standard haul of iron from Mercury to Venus. Routine, predictable, profitable and he could run it fast.
He walked the cold hallways leading to the main lift, the rhythmic thrum of the station's machinery in his subconscious. A fading advertisement on a small screen above the lift played—a loose bracket holding it by one bolt. “Apply today and build something for the ages,” the voice urged, while glorified images displayed cities erected, stations deployed, but more importantly and recently, the great Solar Catch.
Lathe had tried. He still remembered the blue eyes of his sister, her laughter echoing in a memory he couldn't quite grasp. He had considered starting a family once, but the life of a freighter pilot meant you were gone or in cryo most of the time. Months spent in transit, weeks in sleep. Months from birth to death.
He had three runs left until he could re-apply to join the armada fleet, a prospect that both excited and terrified him. The armada offered stability, prestige, a chance to contribute to something larger than himself. But it also meant relinquishing the freedom he'd come to cherish, the solitude of the long haul.
He entered the lift and ignored the greetings. The people here weren't dreamers or idealists. They were pragmatists, driven by necessity and a relentless work ethic.
As the lift ascended, he saw a family saying goodbye to a father leaving for the armada—the wife's smile forced, her hands trembling as she adjusted his helmet. The children clung to his legs, their faces etched with a mixture of pride and sadness.
“Don't go,” the daughter whispered, her voice breaking.
The father knelt to kiss her forehead, his calloused hands trembling as he stood.
Lathe looked away.
His turn came at the central logistics desk. He stepped forward, exchanging a brief nod with Mon Rag.
“Lathe, good to see you. Still hauling iron, I see,” Mon said, his gruff voice laced with amusement.
“Just trying to earn my keep, Mon.”
Mon chuckled. “Speaking of keeping busy, your sister still single? You never introduced me...”
Lathe cut him with a look.
“Whoa, a man has to try,” Mon backpedaled. “Take it easy. You know females are rare as hen's teeth on Mercury.”
Lathe had seven brothers and one sister, youngest of the bunch. With Mercury's heavy metals and proximity to the sun, the odds of having a daughter were about one in twenty-seven—a fact that made his sister something of a target for every lonely miner on world.
Lathe lowered his shoulders. “Maybe next time, Mon,” he lied.
Mon took the hint and returned to filling out the digital paperwork. “Long Walk still holding together, I see,” he said, noting Lathe's fuel resupply and payload. “That old bucket of bolts has a new repair every time I see it.”
“She's reliable, Mon. And faster than she looks.”
“There are newer ships, Lathe. With better AI, more efficient engines. You could afford one, you know.”
“They're not faster, Mon,” he replied, his voice firm. “And my AI is well-tuned. She understands me. We work together.”
Mon sighed. “Suit yourself. But don't come crying to me when a pirate jumps you out on the road because you're missing sensors.” He paused, then asked, “Route?”
“J21.”
Mon raised an eyebrow. A flickering news feed above them played the hijacked freighter's distress signal in a loop.
“They boarded us—no chance—” the static-crippled voice pleaded.
“J21?” Mon said. “That's… unconventional. A lot of dead space out there.”
“It's faster,” Lathe stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Faster, or just… reckless?” Mon warned. “There's been pirate activity near the Venus approach. You'll be flying right through it.”
Lathe took his credentials and nav data on a hard drive, ignoring the warning. He headed to the flight deck, donning a lightweight rental flight suit and helmet that smelled like disinfectant. He didn't bother securing the helmet. He preferred to feel the air on his face and avoid the smell.
He rode another open lift up to the primary dock. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on his knee as he passed the station's exterior, scanning the patchwork hull of his ship. The Long Walk was a hulking relic, three generations of Anderson stubbornness holding her together with scrap and spit. Her cargo forks bristled with iron ore containers. He noted the long score on her hull, a scar from his father's favorite story: a close call with a derelict shipping platform in the asteroid belt.
As the lift reached the top, the ship's small pilot section loomed in front of him, a thin walkway leading to the entry door. He paused, his breath catching at the scent of fried electronics and old coolant.
“Irene,” he said, voice firm. “It's me. Open up.”
The dock attendant on the lift raised an eyebrow, but Lathe didn't meet his gaze.