Go ahead. Say it. Everyone does.

“You’re too young to be a captain.”

They’re not wrong. I am too young. And I’m not a real captain. But while I’m flying the ship, I am the captain, and what I say goes.

“Talk to me, Chrys,” I call out. “What’s it looking like out there?”

“Particle density is minimal. No radiation detected. Exterior temperature is 2.7 Kelvins.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say, nudging the thruster up half a notch. I lean back in my chair and put my feet up on the dash.

I stare out the glass in front of me, arms crossed across my chest, the inky black of space staring back. It’s quiet. I listen for the low, steady hum of the engine, the almost imperceptible sound of fine-tuned machinery and automated systems. The sound of a ship gliding effortlessly through cosmic nothingness, slipping across the infinite vacuity.

It’s there. It’s faint, but it’s there.

Suddenly, I’m reminded how lonely it can get out here. I try to shake the thought from my head. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember what the gleam of natural light looks like, what solid ground feels like beneath my feet. I take a deep breath and try to remind myself that I’m not alone out here. Not really.

But the feeling sticks. Better distract myself.

I swing my feet down from the dash. “Hey, Chrys, why don’t you put on some music?”

“Please specify—”

“Classic rock. 70s,” I say before she can finish.

“Now playing.”

I stand up and stretch my arms above my head just as the speakers come to life with music. Lynyrd Skynyrd. My dad’s favorite.

“Chrys, can you change the music,” I call as I head across the bridge toward the back of the ship. “Crosby, Stills, and Nash,” I blurt out before she can even ask. In a moment, Déjà Vu comes on over the speakers throughout the ship, the steely twang of the guitar echoing through empty hallways, electrifying the silence. “You know, technically…” I start, before thinking better of it, “ah, nevermind.” I know better than to pick a fight with Chrys.

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I make my way back to the canteen where the lights are already on. Still on. Bad habit, I guess.

I press the coffee button on the dietary synthesizer. In a matter of seconds, a cup slides out, steaming and full to the brim. I take the cup carefully by the handle, trying my best not to let a single drop of the searing hot liquid slip over the edge. A “low level” warning flashes across the display screen. “Shit,” I mutter to myself. “Well, I guess you can’t make something out of nothing.”

Despite my impatience, I set the cup down on the counter to let it cool for a minute while I flip through the synthesizer catalogue to see what else is running low. I don’t even know what half of this stuff is. Usually, I stick to the same four or five things when I’m on the ship. Synthesizer food can be…unpredictable. I notice the stores are low on a surprising number of things and make a mental note to pick up a DS ration pack at my next stop. I head out of the canteen, cup in hand, and start back toward the front of the ship, leaving the lights on. The coffee is still hot, and I sip it gingerly, taking slow, careful steps as I make my way back to the bridge.

I’m almost back to my seat at the helm without a single spill when something catches my eye. There it is, in my peripheral: the command chair. It sits there, empty, smack dab in the middle of the bridge. Waiting.

These MASSA 50s can easily be run by one or two people with comp assist, but they were designed to have a crew. The person commanding the ship isn’t supposed to be the one flying it. But here I am. The captain.

I’ve never touched half of the bridge controls, and I’m not even sure what some of them do. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of them have been disabled. Maybe I don’t really know the ships capabilities all that well, I realize. I mean, I know what we use it for, but there’s got to be more to it than that. It’s an eight-man bridge. But I’ve never seen even half that many people on the bridge at once. We’ve got six decks. Three cargo bays. Two canteens. Living quarters for 50, but we could easily carry far more.

No wonder it feels so empty.

I pause, trying to decide where to sit. After all, I’ve got my choice of seats. I look around at the empty stations—comms, tactical, atmos control—the chairs that haven’t been sat in in god knows how long. I usually sit at the helm, but that doesn’t mean I have to.

“Chrys, what coords do you have locked in?” I ask aloud.

“Current coordinates: GCP Beta4, 0.026. Destination: Olympia Station.”

I stare out the front of the ship into that dark celestial void and make up my mind. I walk over to the command chair, sit down, and make myself comfortable. It’s firm, but it’s better than the nav chair, that’s for sure. Why haven’t I done this sooner? I take a few more sips of coffee before going to set the cup down, but I realize there’s nowhere to put it. I look around, but there’s nothing—no dash, no table, no cupholder. Finally, I decide to just leave the half empty cup on the floor next to me. “Ah, what the hell,” I mutter to myself. It’s not like there’s anyone to trip over it.

“We still looking good outside, Chrys?” I ask with a yawn as I settle in. The coffee evidently hasn’t done much.

“Particle density is minimal. No radiation detected. Exterior temperature is 2.7 Kelvins.”

“Perfect.” I lean back, lock my fingers across my stomach, and close my eyes, letting myself relax.

“Wake me when we get there.”