Judas-12 wasn’t sure how he’d let this happen, but here he was: floating along the hull of Caliban Station, a six-legged murder machine closing the gap between them. The NSS Buddy moved with unsettling efficiency, its polymer limbs extending and contracting with hydraulic precision. It was built for this—vacuum, zero-G, the cold nothing of space. Judas wasn’t.
“Samson,” he muttered, his breath fogging the interior of his helmet. “Got any advice?”
“Yes,” Samson replied crisply. “Stop taunting hyper-competent security robots.”
“Not helpful,” Judas growled, gripping the tether line looped around his waist as he launched himself toward the nearest hull strut.
The station loomed around him, massive and indifferent. Caliban Station wasn’t a marvel of human engineering so much as a compromise: a sprawling, segmented maze of modules and gantries built over decades of necessity and neglect. The mass driver stretched from its belly like a syringe, its hollow core aligned with Pluto’s surface far below. Its purpose was simple—hurl mined material back toward the inner solar system—but its sheer scale defied simplicity. The driver’s rails extended out into the void for kilometers, their lengths shimmering faintly in the distant light of the Sun.
Judas couldn’t take in the view, though. Not entirely. He was busy not dying.
The NSS Buddy was gaining. Its thrusters flared in short bursts, correcting its trajectory with mathematical precision. Judas kicked off the hull again, using his suit’s compressed air jets to propel himself along the station’s surface. Every motion was sluggish, deliberate—he couldn’t afford to overshoot, not with Pluto’s gravity well waiting to swallow him if he made a mistake.
“Samson,” he said, gritting his teeth as he drifted toward the next strut. “How fast is this thing?”
“Faster than you,” Samson replied. “Its thrusters are optimized for pursuit. Yours are not.”
“Great,” Judas muttered. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yes. It appears to be carrying a grappling mechanism. Likely designed to—”
Before Samson could finish, the Buddy fired. A metallic claw shot past Judas, missing him by what felt like centimeters. It slammed into the hull ahead, magnetic clamps activating with a sharp, metallic snap.
Judas cursed, yanking himself to the side with his tether. He drifted, his compressed air jets hissing as he adjusted his trajectory. The Buddy retracted its grappling claw with a smooth, mechanical motion, recalibrating for its next shot.
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“Samson,” Judas said, his voice tight. “I need options.”
“I’m calculating,” Samson replied. “But if your goal is survival, I suggest avoiding capture.”
“Solid advice,” Judas muttered.
He glanced down, his visor’s augmented display overlaying the distant surface of Pluto with telemetry data. The planet wasn’t the icy wilderness he’d grown up reading about. Centuries of mining operations had left it scarred, its once-pristine plains now dotted with craters and jagged debris fields. Massive chunks of ice and rock drifted lazily away from the surface, forming a slow-motion exodus into the void.
The sight was mesmerizing in a way that felt almost sacrilegious, as if humanity had taken something beautiful and made it... useful. Judas didn’t have time to dwell on it. The NSS Buddy fired again.
This time, the grappling claw grazed his boot, throwing him into an uncontrolled spin. He flailed, struggling to reorient himself as his HUD screamed warnings about suit integrity and rotational velocity. The station blurred around him, its segmented modules and endless rails blending into a kaleidoscope of utilitarian geometry.
“Samson!” Judas shouted, panic edging into his voice.
“I’m here,” Samson replied, his tone maddeningly calm. “You need to stabilize.”
“No kidding!” Judas snapped, fighting the urge to vomit as his spin slowed. He managed to grab the edge of a nearby strut, his gloves’ magnetic clamps activating with a satisfying click.
The Buddy was closer now, its visor glowing faintly as it adjusted its approach. Judas could feel the cold precision of its focus, like being hunted by a predator that didn’t need to eat.
“Plan,” Judas said, his breaths coming fast and shallow. “Tell me you’ve got one.”
“I have several,” Samson said. “Most involve you not panicking.”
“I’m not panicking,” Judas lied, pulling himself along the strut. He glanced down again, his gaze drawn to the debris field below. An idea—half-formed and incredibly stupid—began to take shape.
“You’re panicking,” Samson said flatly. “What are you thinking?”
Judas didn’t answer. Instead, he unclipped his tether and launched himself toward the edge of the station. His trajectory was wild, uncontrolled, but deliberate. The compressed air jets hissed again, their output erratic as he adjusted his descent.
The Buddy followed, its thrusters firing in perfect synchrony. Judas could almost hear the calculations it was running: his velocity, his angle, the probability of his next move. It didn’t matter. Judas wasn’t thinking like a machine. He was thinking like an idiot.
The debris field was closer now, the jagged remnants of Pluto’s surface drifting like forgotten memories. Chunks of ice the size of buildings tumbled slowly, their surfaces reflecting faint sunlight. Smaller fragments orbited them, a chaotic ballet of mass and inertia.
Judas angled himself toward the largest chunk, a jagged slab of ice and rock spinning lazily in the void. His HUD screamed at him again, warning of impact. He ignored it.
“Judas,” Samson said, his voice sharp. “That is not a safe landing zone.”
“Good thing I’m not looking for safe,” Judas muttered.
He hit the slab hard, his suit’s impact gel absorbing most of the force but leaving him breathless. He scrambled for purchase, his gloves slipping on the icy surface before finally finding a crack to grip.
The Buddy followed, landing with a mechanical thud that sent vibrations through the ice. It paused, recalibrating its stance, its visor glowing faintly as it locked onto Judas.
“Got you now,” Judas said under his breath.