Judas-12 takes his time wandering toward the docking bay. It’s not laziness, exactly—he’ll get there—but the long, curving corridors of Caliban Station offer plenty of opportunity to stall. He’s in no rush to dive into the chaos. Around him, the station hums with subdued energy: the faint thrum of fusion reactors, the occasional echo of voices from another module, the metallic creak of expansion joints under stress.
“You know, Samson,” Judas says, hands stuffed into the deep pockets of his utility coveralls, “it’s a little cruel that you can’t appreciate the thrill of coffee shipments. I almost pity you.”
Samson’s voice follows him, calm and ever-present in his neural implant. “You seem to misunderstand the concept of pity, Judas. I understand the enthusiasm perfectly; I simply choose not to share it.”
“Cold,” Judas mutters, smirking to himself. “Anyway, what’s the ETA? I assume you’ve already checked.”
“The shipment is scheduled to dock in twenty-two minutes and thirty-four seconds,” Samson replies. “Assuming, of course, that the tugs maintain optimal trajectory alignment.”
“They always do,” Judas says with a shrug. “What’s the margin for error?”
“Two meters, give or take,” Samson replies. “A deviation beyond that risks damaging the station’s docking clamps or—”
“Or turning the shipment into a debris cloud,” Judas interrupts, finishing Samson’s sentence with mock solemnity. “Relax, Samson. It’s just coffee. You can simulate it.”
Samson doesn’t miss a beat. “Meat humans seem to prefer their pleasures unsimulated, no matter how inefficient. Besides, docking mishaps are statistically more likely during events of heightened crew anticipation.”
Judas laughs softly. “Are you implying Reya’s gonna get us killed over a bag of beans?”
“Not at all,” Samson replies, his tone annoyingly neutral. “But it’s wise to temper enthusiasm with precision.”
By the time Judas arrives, the docking bay is a hive of activity. Technicians in orange and gray jumpsuits dart between consoles, calling out to one another over the hum of cargo loaders and automated grapples. High above, the station’s observation gantry glints with artificial light, casting long shadows on the polished deck plating. The scent of coolant and metal lingers faintly in the air, sharp and sterile.
Reya-9 stands at the center of it all, hands on her hips and barking orders like an orchestra conductor on a caffeine high. Her Buddy, Magnus, hovers nearby, tethered to her by a loose cable, calmly relaying adjustments to the automated systems with a cool efficiency that seems to balance her frenetic energy.
“Keep the tugs steady!” Reya shouts. “I don’t want another scrape on the cargo pods like last time!”
Magnus, his screen flickering faintly with a minimalist green interface, adds, “Trajectory corrected by point-three-seven degrees, Reya. The pods will dock cleanly.”
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“Good,” Reya says, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. She spots Judas lingering near a control panel and narrows her eyes. “Hey, Judas! Here to help, or just here to heckle?”
“Can’t it be both?” Judas calls back, leaning casually against the panel.
Reya waves a hand dismissively but doesn’t seem genuinely annoyed. The bay’s energy is infectious, and even the usual grumblers seem caught up in the rare excitement. Nearby, Caleb-7 duo Pax adjusts the cargo grapples with exaggerated precision, muttering to himself about how Reya’s “bean obsession” is making everyone forget proper safety protocols.
Samson pipes up in Judas’s head. “The docking sequence is proceeding nominally. I estimate the shipment will reach the station in approximately two minutes.”
“You ruin all the suspense, you know that?” Judas says under his breath.
“Suspense has no bearing on operational efficiency,” Samson replies.
“You've been loving this "ultra-precise-robot" routine recently, don't you?” Judas asks.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Samson lies.
A low rumble shudders through the bay as the tugs ease the shipment into position. The sound resonates through the deck plating, a bass note that Judas feels more than hears. Overhead, the massive airlock doors grind open, revealing the cargo pods—sleek, cylindrical containers marked with identification codes and the faint scuffs of long travel.
Reya steps forward, her eyes bright. “Bring it in nice and slow,” she says, her voice steadier now. “I don’t want to hear one squeal from those clamps.”
The automated grapples engage with a satisfying clunk, pulling the pods into the bay. As the airlock cycles and pressure stabilizes, a faint but unmistakable aroma begins to seep through the seals—a warm, rich scent that cuts through the sterility of the docking bay like sunlight through clouds.
“Coffee?” Caleb asks, sniffing the air like a hunting dog. “That’s real coffee, right? I’m not imagining this?”
Reya grins. “Pre-ground and vacuum-sealed. They always add the scent as a morale booster.”
Judas arches an eyebrow. “So we’re not actually smelling the beans?”
“Of course not,” Samson interjects smoothly. “The pods are hermetically sealed. The scent is a synthetic compound released during docking to enhance crew satisfaction.”
Judas chuckles. “Even your real coffee is fake. I feel vindicated.”
As the pods are unloaded, the bay becomes a makeshift celebration. Vacuum-sealed bags of ground coffee are reverently handed down the line, their sleek packaging treated like artifacts of an ancient, sacred tradition. Reya cradles one as if it’s a newborn, ignoring Caleb’s muttered complaints about the overblown theatrics.
“See this?” Reya says, holding the bag aloft. “This is civilization in a pouch. This is culture. This is humanity.”
“It’s powdered beans,” Judas says. “Call it what it is.”
Reya glares at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Judas grabs a crate of synthetic coffee concentrate from another pod and holds it up with mock reverence. “Here’s the real prize, folks! Smooth, consistent, no surprises. Everything coffee should be.”
Caleb groans. “You’re impossible.”
Other luxury items are unloaded alongside the coffee: cocoa powder, dried fruit, spices, all things in minute quantities, barely enough to use for an entire meal if distributed equitably. Each one sparks murmurs of excitement and small celebrations as crew members claim their favorites. Tessa-14 duo Io, passing through with an inventory tablet, pauses to examine the crates.
“Don’t get too attached,” Tessa says, her tone brisk. “We’re rationing everything like usual. No midnight binges.”
Reya sighs dramatically. “Let us have this moment, Tessa. It’s been months.”
Judas leans against the wall, sipping water from his thermos and watching the scene unfold. Samson, as usual, breaks the silence. “You seem unusually content for someone who claims not to care.”
“I don’t care,” Judas says. “I just enjoy watching people care too much. It’s… endearing.”
Samson pauses, as if parsing the sentiment. “Sure, Judas.”