The mess was the heart of any ship, and the Magellan's Hope had a heart condition. It was too small for seven people to eat comfortably, which meant they ate uncomfortably, shoulders pressed together, elbows competing for space on the fold-down table that had last been cleaned sometime before the current century.
Elara Chen had the watch, which meant she was the only one eating alone. The others were scattered across the ship—sleeping, working, or in the case of Dmitri Volkov, probably staring at the stars and thinking about the wife and daughter he'd left behind on Titan Station.
Chen poked at her rehydrated eggs with a plastic fork. They were yellow, vaguely egg-shaped, and tasted exactly like the cardboard container they'd come in. She'd been on the Magellan's Hope for eight months, the shortest tenure of anyone aboard, and she still hadn't adjusted to the food. Or the smells. Or the way the ship seemed to breathe around her, metal ribs expanding and contracting with the temperature differentials between day and night cycles.
She was twenty-four, the daughter of Ganymede miners who had scraped together every credit to send her to the Merchant Marine Academy. Seven years of debt and study, and she'd graduated into a shipping recession that left her qualified for exactly one job: cargo specialist on a deep-space tug at the edge of human space.
The irony wasn't lost on her. Her parents had broken their backs in the mines so she wouldn't have to. Now she spent her days in a can, breathing recycled farts and eating eggs that predated her birth.
"Penny for your thoughts."
Chen looked up. Marcus Webb stood in the mess doorway, coffee mug in one hand, data slate in the other. He was the ship's executive officer, which meant he did most of the work while Captain Saito took the credit. He was also, at thirty-eight, the second-youngest person aboard, and the only one who seemed genuinely interested in Chen's wellbeing.
"Just enjoying the gourmet cuisine," she said, pushing the eggs away.
Webb smiled—a genuine expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You get used to it. Or you don't. I've been on ships where the food was actually worse, if you can believe it."
"I can't."
He sat across from her, cradling his coffee. "Three days to rendezvous. Then we hook up to whatever's waiting for us and start the slow crawl back to Ceres. Another six months, maybe seven depending on mass. Then you can have all the real eggs you want."
"Assuming Weyland-Yutani pays us before the next fiscal year."
"They always pay. Eventually." He took a sip of coffee. "That's the thing about corporations. They never forget they owe you money. They just take their time remembering to give it to you."
Chen pushed her tray away entirely. "What do you think it is? The cargo?"
Webb shrugged. "Could be anything. Mining equipment. Pre-fab habitat modules. Another ship that lost drive power. I once towed a floating casino all the way from Saturn to the Belt. Full of frozen corpses—some kind of life support failure. Smelled like hell when we cracked the airlock."
"That's comforting."
"Space isn't in the business of being comforting." He finished his coffee and stood. "Finish your watch. Get some sleep. In three days, we'll have something to do besides stare at the walls."
He left, and Chen sat alone with the flickering lights and the distant hum of engines that had been running continuously for longer than she'd been alive.
Three days to something new.
She wasn't sure if that was a promise or a threat.