Judas-12 wakes to the soft, relentless buzz of Samson’s voice, nudging him toward consciousness like the station’s artificial morning light slipping through the slats of his vent panel. The light was practical, a cold glow calibrated for efficiency, but Samson’s voice carried an edge of humor this morning.
“Judas,” Samson begins, with the exaggerated patience of someone reciting a script they’ve already performed a thousand times. “You’ve ignored three alerts, missed breakfast call, and are now seven minutes late for your shift briefing. Statistically speaking, you are already in the bottom five percent for punctuality this week. Are you trying to beat last week’s record?”
Judas groans, shoving the thin, regulation-standard blanket off his legs. The quarters are cramped even by station standards—a single bunk stacked into the wall, barely enough floor space to swing a leg off the bed without bumping into his cluttered work desk. Hand-drawn schematics are pinned to one wall, curling at the edges in defiance of the station’s carefully controlled humidity. A battered acoustic guitar leans precariously against the opposite corner, and somewhere under a heap of spare cables and modular circuits is a coffee mug, still faintly stained with yesterday’s brew.
“Morning, Samson,” Judas mutters, his voice gravelly as he stretches. “I’d love to hear your lecture on my inefficiency, but I think I’ll settle for silence and coffee.”
“You mean engineered sludge,” Samson replies, the lights on his embedded screen pulsing faintly. Samson exists mostly in Judas’s head—or in the station’s many servers—but the Buddy manifests physically as a slim black device mounted near Judas’s desk. A neural relay tether keeps Samson’s responses eerily quick, though always tinged with just enough personality to remind Judas he’s more than a simple program.
Judas finds his coffee mug, gives it a suspicious sniff, and drops it into the sanitization unit. “It’s not sludge. It’s efficient. Synthetic coffee does exactly what it says on the tin. Real beans are just… nostalgia in a cup.”
“And yet,” Samson replies, “you’ve been muttering about today’s shipment since last night.”
“Mutters aren’t endorsements,” Judas counters, stepping into the narrow communal hallway that connects the personal quarters. The air smells faintly metallic, tinged with ozone from some ongoing repair three decks down. A vibration underfoot tells him someone’s testing a mass driver. All of it—sounds, smells, sensations—melds into the familiar rhythm of Caliban Station.
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The kitchen is busier than usual. Rows of gleaming metal countertops and mismatched chairs host clusters of crew members chatting animatedly. A dull hum of conversation fills the space, rising occasionally when someone makes a crack about the incoming shipment.
Reya-9 duo Magnus sits at the far end, cross-legged with a datapad balanced on one knee. She’s wiry and sharp-eyed, her free hand gesturing enthusiastically as she talks to anyone who’ll listen. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing like the first brew from a real batch. It’s an experience.”
“Yeah, if you like bitter water,” Caleb-7 duo Pax interjects from across the table. Caleb is broad-shouldered, perpetually grease-stained, and currently nursing a mug of synthetic coffee with a grimace that says he wishes it were something else. “Synthetic coffee tastes better. Admit it.”
“Algae sweat,” Reya shoots back, her tone playful but uncompromising. “Synth coffee tastes like algae sweat.”
Tessa-14 duo Io leans against the counter, her Buddy Io perched neatly on the shelf beside her like an unusually judgmental toaster. “Caffeine dependency aside,” Tessa says, her voice calm but tinged with practiced exasperation, “the health risks of coffee consumption are well-documented. Decaf exists for a reason.”
Judas slides into a seat and accepts a mug from the dispenser. It’s synthetic, piping hot and pale brown, with just enough bite to remind him he’s awake. “You’re all wrong,” he says, taking a deliberate sip. “Synthetic coffee is superior. Real beans are unpredictable. You never know what you’re getting. It’s the taste equivalent of gambling.”
Reya fixes him with an exaggerated look of disbelief. “You wouldn’t know good coffee if it brewed itself and poured into your mouth.”
Judas smirks. “Maybe, but at least I’m not losing sleep over a shipment of beans.”
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As the kitchen chatter winds down, a crew member from logistics pops their head in to announce the docking process is ahead of schedule. Reya lights up, Caleb mutters something about hoping the shipment isn’t delayed by another “system glitch,” and Tessa looks vaguely disapproving but doesn’t comment further.
Judas lingers, mug in hand, as Samson speaks softly into his ear. “It’s interesting,” Samson says, almost musing. “Real coffee is essentially a luxury artifact. Logistically inefficient to grow in space, prone to spoilage, and nutritionally inferior to synthetic alternatives. Yet, you humans seem endlessly enamored with it.”
Judas shrugs. “Maybe because it’s inefficient. Not everything’s about function, Samson.”
“And yet,” Samson replies, “you just made that exact argument against it.”
Judas’s smile is faint but genuine as he leans back in his chair, savoring the moment. “I did, didn't I?” He says, watching the stars rotate out from under him as the station's centripetal force keeps him stuck to the ground.