Chapter 3: Contact

A thin hiss of static filled the bridge of the Orion. Astrid Vaughan leaned forward, eyes sharp beneath the reddish smudges of fatigue. For a long breath, the comm channel remained silent.

Then a voice crackled through. Gravelly. Older. Worn like sun-bleached leather.

Torres (Hesperia): “This is Captain Torres of the Hesperia. Identify yourself.”

Astrid flicked a look toward her crew slumped at their consoles, then hit transmit.

Astrid (Orion): “Captain Astrid Vaughan. Science vessel Orion. We… we’ve been tracking you for a few hours. We need to talk.”

Another pulse of static. Torres’s reply was clipped.

Torres: “Tracking us, huh? What do you want, Orion?”

Astrid exhaled, steadying her voice.

Astrid: “We’re not hostile. We’re in trouble. But I’m guessing you are too.”

A low grunt answered her.

Torres: “Define trouble.”

Astrid hesitated. She wasn’t sure how much to share. But then—screw it. Cards on the table.

Astrid: “We’re low on oxygen. A fault in our life-support config bled off reserves. We can’t reach the Saturn outpost on our current supply.”

Torres said nothing at first. Astrid pictured him squinting at some battered console, jaw clenched. When he finally spoke, his tone was softer. Almost reluctant.

Torres: “Hesperia’s not exactly flying high either. We’re short on fuel. Enough to keep drifting. Not enough to reach the inner planets.”

Astrid’s brow knitted. A freighter with no fuel. A science vessel with no air. She stared at the chart on her screen — two ships, two arcs of trajectory crossing in the dark.

Astrid: “Cargo hauler like yours… how the hell do you run out of fuel?”

Torres gave a humorless huff.

Torres: “Bad luck. Reactor leak bled us dry before we caught it. Shut down half the engines. We can maneuver, barely. But we’re stuck in a long spiral unless we refuel.”

He paused, as if testing how much to admit.

Torres: “You know… Hesperia wasn’t even supposed to be out this far. We were running a special haul—refined helium-3 and cryo-cores from a Belt station. Supposed to go to a fusion array near Triton. They said it couldn’t wait. So we pushed range.”

There was a note beneath his words, an echo of self-reproach. Astrid recognized it instantly — the quiet guilt of a captain who’d followed all the right procedures, yet still ended up failing the people who trusted them.

She swallowed.

Astrid: “We weren’t supposed to be out this long either. Our mission plan… it was perfect. On paper. Nobody noticed the O₂ flow calibration error. Not until it was too late.”

Torres exhaled. A long, wearied breath.

Torres: “Funny how that happens. One decimal in the wrong place, one hairline crack in a pipe… and here we are.”

Silence stretched between them, the background hiss of space whispering in both ships.

Then Torres spoke again, his voice lower.

Torres: “So you’re running out of air. And I’m running out of propellant.”

Astrid nodded, though he couldn’t see her.

Astrid: “That’s the math.”

Torres: “Each of us has something the other needs.”

Astrid: “… Yeah.”

Neither captain said the obvious: that any transfer of resources could leave one ship weaker. That survival for one might mean sacrifice for the other.

But the possibility now floated between them — a shape taking form in the darkness.

Torres cleared his throat.

Torres: “Well. At least we know the stakes.”

Astrid glanced around the Orion’s bridge, the lights dimmed to conserve power, the crew silently watching her.

Astrid: “Yeah. We do.”