Chapter 6: Trajectory

The capsule thudded into Hesperia’s docking ring, magnetic clamps engaging with a hiss. Inside, Mara and Jax stood ready—suits half-sealed, eyes wary.

The hatch slid open.

Astrid tumbled in, breathless, one gloved hand still clutching the sleek, black cylinder.

Jax steadied her. “Astrid? Why are you—? Why didn’t your ship just launch this thing by remote?”

“No time,” she said, pulling her helmet free. Her hair was soaked with sweat. “I’ll explain once we’re moving.”

No one argued.

The casing around the fuel canister looked like it belonged in a museum—streamlined, custom-cast, no labels, just a single, recessed port like an afterthought. The kind of tech that looked too clean for actual use. But within seconds the three of them were crouched around it, tearing it apart, pulling off panels, rerouting connectors, running diagnostics in clipped, overlapping speech. Mara kept shaking her head.

As the fuel flowed into the tanks, they sat motionless.

“This whole thing is held together with ice and prayer,” she muttered

“It’ll hold,” Astrid said.

“It has to,” Jax added.

⸻

Back on Orion, the outer hatch cycled with a long exhale. The crew inside watched as the silhouette pulled itself through.

Torres.

They’d seen him drift back on external cams, one arm hooked around the patched canister, the other wrapped in tape and resolve. Now he staggered inside, helmet tucked beneath one arm, the canister still cradled like a newborn.

No one spoke. They just made space as he moved, wordless, bleeding but grinning.

Tarek took the canister with reverence and clipped it into place. A green light flared to life on the oxygen manifold.

For the first time in hours, Orion breathed easy.

⸻

Two ships. Two fires barely held at bay. One shot left.

They gathered around the holo-table, the feed linked between Hesperia and Orion. On one side: Astrid and the crew of the Hesperia. On the other: Torres, and the Orion. All drawn, all alive.

“We need to slingshot off Enceladus,” Astrid said. “There’s a narrow gravity corridor. If Hesperia rides in Orion’s wake—if we thread the needle just right—we both make it.”

“If we’re off by even a half-second,” Mara added, “we’re space confetti.”

Everyone turned to look up.

The interface panel on Orion’s wall pulsed softly. The AI’s voice chimed in, bright as ever.

“Oh, I can do that.”

They all paused.

The screens came alive—trajectory arcs, fuel ratios, orbital resonance windows. Equations that would make a veteran cry. The solution began to unfurl, a ribbon of code and curve that spiraled toward survival.

“Course locked,” said the AI. “Recommend synchronized burn in thirty-nine minutes.”

Torres and Astrid looked across at each other through the shimmering holograms, separated by distance but perfectly aligned—and in the same breath, they gave the command: “Do it.”

⸻

A week later.

Orion and Hesperia touched down, side by side on the frozen plateau—both ships spitting ice crystals into the thin, methane-salted wind. One of Hesperia’s landing struts buckled but held. By some miracle they'd made it to the nearest outpostd, a half-buried mining station on Titan.

Three stepped out from Hesperia, four from Orion. All seven alive. Haggard. Hollow-eyed. Upright. Exhausted. Blinking at the yellow sky of the Saturnian moon like people trying to remember what relief was supposed to feel like.

The silence was enormous.

Jax cracked his neck, looked around at the others, and grinned.

“I know a good card room here,” he said. “First round’s on me.”

Orion’s AI chimed in over comms, bright and eager:

“I’m in. Huge fan of Texas Hold’em. Let’s go.”

All seven turned and stared at it—expressionless.