The hum of the mass driver fades into silence, leaving the control center bathed in the cool glow of diagnostic displays. The asteroid is already a speck in the distance, invisible to the naked eye but tracked with meticulous precision by the station’s instruments. The atmosphere shifts as the adrenaline of the launch ebbs, replaced by the mundane rhythm of post-launch routines.
Dara stands at the main console, issuing commands to log the operation’s data. “Check your diagnostics,” she says, her voice brisk. “If there’s anything out of spec, I want it noted.”
“I’ll tell you what’s out of spec,” Tariq mutters, shooting a look at Ibrahim. “Point-zero-two degrees on the z-axis. We almost lost vector lock.”
Ibrahim bristles. “Almost. But we didn’t. The asteroid’s on track.”
“Barely,” Tariq snaps, leaning against the console with crossed arms. “You feathered the thrust too late. That discrepancy could’ve grown out of control if we were dealing with a larger payload.”
“Enough,” Dara interjects, her tone sharp. “The crater box is within tolerance. That’s what matters.”
Samson’s voice cuts in, calm and measured. “Projected impact coordinates are centered within a 1.4% deviation. The trajectory is stable.”
Tariq mutters something under his breath but lets the argument drop. Ibrahim frowns, clearly annoyed, but focuses on his console. The tension lingers, a familiar undercurrent that has become a part of their team dynamic.
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Judas, sitting a little apart from the group, tunes out the bickering. He leans back in his chair, pulling up his personal console to check for messages. Most are routine: system updates, maintenance alerts, and an overdue reminder to report for a medical check-up he has no intention of attending. One message, however, catches his eye.
The subject line is simple: “For a Better Caliban”. It’s from someone he vaguely remembers—a hydroponics tech who occasionally attends station meetings but has never interacted with him directly. The message is short and to the point, outlining the benefits of unionizing: fair resource distribution, standardized leave policies, protections against Earth’s growing interference in station operations.
Judas scans the message, then closes it with a flick of his finger. He doesn’t delete it, though. His eyes linger on the empty screen for a moment before he shoves the thought aside. Too much work.
Samson’s voice breaks his reverie. “Telemetry confirms impact in one hour, thirty-seven minutes.”
“Great,” Judas mutters, shutting off his console. “Plenty of time to watch Tariq and Ibrahim kill each other.”
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The team eventually settles, returning their attention to the telemetry feed. On the largest display, Pluto looms like a vast, icy sentinel, its pale surface deceptively serene under the faint glow of the distant Sun. Shadows stretch across the nitrogen plains, broken by jagged ridges and craters that tell the story of previous impacts.
Judas leans against a console, watching as data streams across the screen: velocity readouts, gravitational influence metrics, estimated impact yield. But his eyes drift to the visual feed, drawn to the eerie stillness of Pluto’s surface.
For a moment, he allows himself to imagine the impact—the moment when the asteroid, now hurtling toward its target, will slam into the crust. The shockwave will ripple outward, fracturing the brittle surface and sending plumes of debris high into Pluto’s tenuous atmosphere. That debris will settle, reshaping the landscape, leaving behind the unmistakable signature of human ingenuity and destruction.
“Big day,” Dara says, stepping up beside him. Her voice is quieter now, more reflective. “Never gets old, does it?”
Judas doesn’t answer immediately. He shrugs, forcing a smirk. “Just another rock hitting another rock.”
But the sight stays with him. There’s something about the scale of it, the sheer power of the machinery they command, that feels almost personal. He doesn’t say this, of course.
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As the team wraps up their diagnostics, Dara claps her hands together. “All right, folks, good work today. Let’s get the rest of this logged and call it a shift.”
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Most of the team begins to disperse, eager to escape the control center’s artificial brightness and the lingering tension from earlier. Judas starts to follow, but Dara catches his arm, pulling him aside.
“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
She grins, leaning in with mock conspiratorial flair. “I was thinking—you’ve earned a reward for today’s hard work.”
Judas laughs, the sound sharp and surprised. “Are you propositioning me?”
“Maybe,” Dara says, her grin widening. “People have done stranger things to reward their coworkers.”
Judas shakes his head, still chuckling. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
Dara pats his shoulder, unbothered by the rejection. “Suit yourself. But you should loosen up sometime. This station’s not that big—someone’s gonna crack you eventually.”
“Good luck with that,” Judas mutters as she saunters off. He watches her go, bemused, then turns toward his quarters.
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Back in his room, Judas sets up his chess board—figuratively, of course. The actual game is being played across millions of kilometers, his moves transmitted via laser communication to a Jovian mathematician with an annoyingly superior attitude.
Each move takes thirty minutes to transmit, and the match has been going for days now. Judas enjoys it, partly because it requires so little actual effort on his part and partly because it lets him flex his intellect in a way his job rarely demands. The chessboard on his console gleams faintly, pieces caught mid-battle in a position that Samson had politely described as “suboptimal.”
Judas scrolls through the chat history between moves, his finger idly flicking the screen. The logs are sparse, mostly terse exchanges about the game, but every now and then, a thread of genuine conversation breaks through.
A thread from a couple of days ago catches his eye:
Elijah: What exactly is a “union”?
Judas had been half-distracted when the question came through, trying to focus on the game. His response had been automatic:
Judas: A union’s like… a group of workers getting together to make sure they’re treated fairly. You know, better conditions, more say in how things are run.
The Jovian’s reply had come back almost instantly, or as instant as the thirty minute round trip could make it.
Elijah: Treated fairly? What do you mean? Who treats you unfairly?
Judas smirks at the memory, shaking his head. The Jovian’s genuine curiosity had been baffling, almost childlike, and Judas hadn’t been in the mood to dig into it. He scrolls closer to the present day.
Elijah: Why does someone need a union? Is it a survival thing? Like a co-op for food?
Judas: It’s not just about food. It’s about... everything. Rations, time off, workload, who gets what. A union’s a way to make sure Management doesn’t decide everything for us.
Elijah: But isn’t that Management’s job?
Judas: Yeah, but that’s the problem. If they screw us over, what’re we supposed to do? Just sit there?
Elijah: Why would they screw you over? Doesn’t everyone have the same goal? Don't your centrals keep track of all the resource allocation?
Judas: In theory, sure. In practice? People in charge don’t always think about what’s best for everyone. A union’s like... insurance. Keeps them honest.
Elijah: But if they haven’t done anything wrong, why do you need the insurance?
Judas exhales, leaning back and rubbing his temples. The Jovian’s questions had been relentless, and he’d quickly realized the gulf between their perspectives. It wasn’t naivety, exactly. It was more like the Jovian had never encountered the idea that work could be anything other than perfectly structured and collaborative.
Samson’s voice breaks the silence, light and conversational. “Your queen is under threat, by the way.”
Judas glares at the board. “No kidding. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“You’ve been distracted,” Samson observes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to offer a suggestion?”
“No backseat chess,” Judas mutters, moving a pawn to block the queen. He knows it’s a weak move, but his focus is elsewhere.
The Jovian’s latest message blinks onto the screen, cutting through Judas’s thoughts:
Elijah: Do you have an example of a time when Management made a mistake?
Judas stares at the text for a moment, then types back:
Judas: Not really. They’ve been fine so far. But it’s not about what they’ve done—it’s about what they could do. You don’t wait for the fire before you build the extinguisher.
The reply takes its usual fifteen minutes to send, and their reply, the fifteen minutes to arrive, but when it does, it’s as direct as ever:
Elijah: I don’t understand. What’s the difference between being prepared and being paranoid?
Judas laughs softly, despite himself. “What’s the difference, Samson?”
“Between preparedness and paranoia?” Samson asks. “A reasonable question. The answer likely depends on the individual’s tolerance for risk.”
“Great,” Judas mutters, typing back a response:
Judas: Paranoia is thinking Management is already planning to screw us over. Preparedness is making sure they don’t get the chance.
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Judas stands by the viewport as the countdown ticks to zero. The asteroid strikes Pluto’s surface, and for a moment, the icy world is bathed in a brilliant flash of light. The shockwave sends a plume of debris spiraling into space, stark against the dark horizon.
It’s beautiful in its own way, Judas thinks. Not the kind of beauty that inspires poetry, but the raw, relentless force of it. A reminder of what they’re capable of, for better or worse. The hand of the old-world God, striking down on the barren wasteland.
Judas isn’t sure if that’s comforting or terrifying. Maybe it’s both.