The alarm buzzes in Judas-12’s cramped quarters, a tinny, repetitive sound that he manages to ignore for several long moments. He groans, rolling over and slapping the wall-mounted console until the noise stops. The room is barely larger than a maintenance closet, packed with mismatched furnishings he’s cobbled together over the years: a narrow cot wedged into one corner, shelves cluttered with books and old schematics, and a small desk piled high with coffee-stained printouts. Somewhere in the chaos is his guitar, propped precariously against a bulkhead.
“Another asteroid day,” Judas mutters, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Samson’s voice chimes in through his free-floating tablet, smooth and cheerful. “Indeed. Asteroid day. The fifty-first asteroid day you’ve experienced since your gestation and graduation. That’s a lot of asteroids!”
Judas glares at the ceiling, as if that will silence his Buddy. “You’re awfully chipper for someone who doesn’t drink coffee.”
“I simulate enthusiasm quite effectively,” Samson replies. “Besides, the mass driver team has been preparing for this launch for weeks. I would hate for you to miss the excitement.”
Judas grunts in response, dragging himself out of bed. The centrifugal gravity in his quarters is low enough that moving feels like swimming through molasses. He stumbles to the viewport and taps a button to open the blind. Pluto fills the frame, an enormous, ice-patched disk stretching across the blackness of space. Its surface gleams faintly, reflecting the distant sunlight in shades of white, brown, and gray. Vast plains of nitrogen ice stretch toward the horizon, dotted with jagged mountains and shadowed craters. Charon hangs nearby, smaller and darker, a steady companion in the distance, like an old coin.
Judas stares for a moment, the sheer scale of the planet still enough to catch him off guard. It feels close enough to touch, though he knows they’re thousands of kilometers away.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Samson’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “A reminder of why you do this work.”
“Yeah,” Judas mutters, shaking his head. “Remind me again when I’ve had coffee.”
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The communal kitchen near the mass driver station is a noisy, utilitarian space, dominated by a long table scarred with years of wear. The smell of reheated meal packs lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of recycled water. Judas grabs a protein bar from the dispenser and joins the small group gathered near the table.
Dara-6 duo Hera, the team’s senior trajectory specialist, is already there, sipping from a chipped mug of synthetic coffee. Her Buddy, Hera, sits beside her in a compact, spider-like robot body, its multi-limbed frame tapping rhythmically against the table. Dara’s sharp eyes flick toward Judas as he approaches.
“Late as usual,” she says, though her tone is more amused than annoyed.
“Good morning to you too,” Judas replies, unwrapping his protein bar. “Don’t tell me you’ve already started talking about the union.”
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“Better now than later,” Dara says. “We’ve got the vote coming up. Tensions are high, especially with management breathing down our necks.”
“Management always breathes down our necks,” Judas says, taking a bite. “They were literally bred for it.”
Ibrahim-10 duo Argo, the youngest member of the team, leans forward, his face earnest. “But this time it’s different, right? There are rumors Earth’s getting involved. Some kind of interference with the vote.”
Tariq-8 duo Nyx snorts, leaning back in his chair. He’s older than the rest of them, his grizzled demeanor matched by his Buddy’s battered exterior. “Rumors. That’s all they are. Management’s too busy counting their helium-3 shipments to care about what we’re doing. And Earth definitely doesn't have a reason to care about a backwater like this. They're too busy with their own shit.”
“Maybe,” Dara says, her tone measured. “They sure send a lot of pamphlets about it.”
Ibrahim turns to Judas, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “What do you think? About the union?”
Judas shrugs, deliberately nonchalant. “I think I’m going to focus on launching this asteroid and let you lot argue about politics.”
“Typical,” Tariq mutters. “Always finding a way to do the least possible work.”
Judas smirks. “Efficiency, my friend. That’s why they keep me around.”
Samson chimes in. “It’s certainly not for your sparkling personality.”
The group laughs, the tension easing for a moment. Dara shakes her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
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The mass driver control center is a cavernous space, its walls lined with glowing displays and tactile control panels. Overhead, a series of robotic arms hum quietly, performing routine diagnostics on the machinery. The center is situated near the midpoint of the mass driver itself, a colossal structure stretching kilometers into space. Its superconducting coils shimmer faintly, charged with latent energy.
Dara takes her place at the central console, her posture straight and confident. Ibrahim hovers nearby, his nervous energy palpable as he checks the coil diagnostics. Tariq grumbles under his breath, inspecting the asteroid’s harness clamps through a handheld monitor.
Judas ambles in last, hands in his pockets, and leans casually against a console. “What’s the status?”
“Green across the board,” Dara replies without looking up. “Assuming you don’t mess it up.”
“Messing up is not in my vocabulary,” Judas says. “That’s what Samson’s for.”
Samson’s voice comes through the room’s speakers, his tone deliberately smooth. “I’m pleased to hear my contributions are so appreciated.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Judas mutters.
Dara begins assigning roles, her voice steady and authoritative. “Ibrahim, you’re managing the coils. Cycle them up gradually—no surprises. Tariq, double-check the harness and make sure it’s locked tight. Judas, you’re on trajectory alignment. And for the love of all things synthetic, try to take it seriously.”
“Always do,” Judas replies, already scanning the trajectory display. A 3D model of the asteroid hovers above the console, its uneven surface rendered in precise detail. Lines and vectors crisscross the image, representing its planned path toward Pluto. Most of the hard parts of the job - the timing, the mathematics - are handled by Caliban's central AIs. But they still need a human hand - why, Judas couldn't tell you. Maybe it was legal.
Samson’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “The asteroid’s mass distribution is within acceptable parameters, but there’s a slight variance in the y-axis. Recommend adjusting ballast trim by point-zero-five percent.”
Judas nods, relaying the adjustment to Tariq. “You hear that? Samson says trim it.”
Tariq grunts in response, his hands flying over his console. “Already on it.”
As the team settles into their tasks, the room hums with quiet efficiency. The mass driver looms outside, a testament to human ingenuity and ambition. Beyond it, Pluto waits, its frozen surface gleaming faintly in the light of the distant Sun.
Judas takes a deep breath, letting the rhythm of the work steady him. Today is asteroid day, and for all his grumbling, he knows there’s no place he’d rather be.