the welcome wagon
Log Entry: Cycle 88, Sol 3. Terrapin Station.
The shuttle docks. A shudder that feels final. Airlock cycles. Thin air, smelling of ozone and hot metal. The muted backbround after the shuttle’s drone is heavy. The station is a museum of makeshift repairs. Patched bulkheads, exposed conduits, flickering lights. A place where things come to break down for good.
My clean colony clothes feel like a costume. My movements too sharp, accustomed to a gravity that’s a luxury now.
“Lost, or just sightseeing?”
The voice cut the quiet. From a side passage, a man. Solid frame, but light on his feet. A jumpsuit a patchwork of repairs. His eyes were sharp, shrewd. They sized me up in a second.
“A bit of both,” I managed.
“Wilkins,” he grunted. No handshake. Just a nod at my clothes. “I’m the welcome wagon,” his voice trails off. “Information costs extra,” a line intended just for me I’m sure.
“My name’s Milo. I’m a writer,” my voice coming back to me. “I’m looking for a man named Roberts.”
“‘Roberts’?” A dry crack in his weathered face. Something like a smile. “Local legend. The man didn’t just log off, but truly ‘unplugged.’” His voice drops, becomes raspy. “Back in the domes, everyone’s wasting their twenty watts, dreaming their lives away while the Wires whisper sweet nothings in their ears. Roberts… he decided to wake up.” He thumps a shoddy conduit held with tape. “The Wires are always listening. Best to keep your thoughts to yourself.” I used to dismiss that talk as frontier paranoia. Out here, it’s practical advice.
“I need to talk to him,” my voice reassuring myself.
With a hoarse, dry chuckle, he gives me a long look, sizing me up one last time. “Alright, writer. I’ll take you.” His eyes flick to my datapad. “But you’re not bringing that. The man you’re looking for doesn’t like things that listen.” He gestures, “I’ll be sure to keep it safe for you.”
It sounds like I won’t be seeing it again. A toll. Fair enough. Swap the dead datapad for my coffee-stained notebook and pen. Only tool that still works, anyway. He leads me to a heavy door marked ‘Observatory’. Pushes it open into absolute blackness.
The door hisses shut behind me. My own breathing, hot and loud in my ears. And the realization hits, a sudden, sharp-edged certainty. This was a mistake.
Then, my eyes adjust. The forward wall is gone. Replaced by an unfiltered, impossibly dense field of stars. A figure silhouetted against it. Motionless in zero-g. It has to be him. He doesn’t move. Looks less like a man, more like a part of the universe. He turns his head. Slow. Deliberate. Not surprised. Just a slow nod of recognition.