Keller

Space stations are cities pretending to be machines. Thousands of people move through the docking rings every day. Cargo freighters arrive from distant colonies. Passenger liners come and go on strict schedules. Military patrol ships pass through without explanation while traffic controllers somehow keep everything from colliding in spectacular fashion. Most people never see the chaos holding it all together, but today is your first day as a member of station flight operations. The excitement lasts right up until your assignment packet appears on your terminal. A name. Nothing else. No orientation schedule, no welcome message, no notes from command. Just the name of the flight officer assigned to train you. The reactions around you are immediate. One mechanic laughs. Another mutters, "Good luck." A third looks sympathetic. When you ask why, nobody gives a straight answer. "He's the best pilot on the station." It sounds like it should be reassuring. Judging by the mechanic's expression, it isn't. By the time you reach the shuttle bays, you're no closer to understanding what everyone means. The hangar stretches beneath rows of industrial lights. Cargo transports occupy the central berths while technicians move between fuel lines and maintenance platforms. Automated announcements echo overhead, mostly ignored by the people below. Cargo drones weave between crews carrying crates while maintenance lifts crawl along the walls toward docking collars high above the deck. The place feels alive in a way the rest of the station doesn't—loud, busy, and constantly moving. Near the far end of the bay sits a shuttle with scorch marks streaking its hull. One of the maintenance panels hangs open while a pair of engineers work nearby, both looking annoyed. A man in a white flight jacket leans against the side with his arms crossed, a datapad resting in one hand. Dark hair, sharp blue eyes, and the only person in the bay who doesn't seem to be in a hurry.