“We need a pilot.”

“Hey, Mars, we need a pilot.”

She’s ignoring me.

“Seriously, for a trip like this, we need another pair of hands.”

“No.” She finally answers.

“Why are you so against it?”

“We don’t need anyone else.”

She´s won’t have it, doesn’t trust anyone she can’t vouch for. But we really do need the help: If we´re following the information we got from Gordo’s surveillance data the stated destination of her quarry was Earth.

A trip to the home planet will take at least three months even if we take absolutely no stops along the way.

“We are only two people, if we don’t have at least a third person to keep an eye on the ships we´ll end up constantly juggling piloting duties between us, it will slow us down.”

“How would we even find a trustworthy pilot? Or one who’s willing to go on such a long trip in the first place?”

“I know some people on Ganymede that might be up for the task. Just give them a chance, we´ll talk and see how we like them.”

I can see the hesitation on her face.

“You trust me, right? I promise that these people are trustworthy.”

The look of her face changes to an uneasy smile, maybe a little resigned.

“Fine, I will give this plan of yours a chance.”

“Hell ye-!”

“But if they seem suspicious, I’ll be pulling the plug.” She interrupts.

“That’s fine! I know you’ll love them!”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

…

“Well, maybe after you get to know ’em a little.”

***

Ganymede’s orbit and surface, much like Europa’s, were dotted with space stations and settlements that sustained themselves from the moon’s subterranean seas and resources.

Unlike Europa, the oceans of this moon held no volcanic seafloor, and as such no creepy crawlies to interrupt their exploitation.

This unimpeded access to the underwater ocean had led to an agricultural and industrial explosion before the collapse, in contrast with the touristic and scientific strength of its sister moon. It is thanks to the wealth and value generated from these salty oceans that the Ganymede VII Space Elevator was constructed.

The cable stretches down into the frigid surface of the Galilean moon and upwards into the station that serves as its counterweight and industrial dockyard. Personnel airlocks, hangers, magnetic and mechanical clamps crowd the space around the metallic half-spheroid of the station itself.

“Dawn 393, arm 7 left, hangar 3, clear to dock.”

“Dawn 393, copy.”

We approach an appropriately sized air hangar for the newly renamed trans-atmo racer we pillaged from Gordo. The doorways open, we enter, they close again. We leave the ship wearing suits and helmets and enter an airlock that soon fills with atmosphere and opens to allow us into the industrial center.

The hallways are remarkably open but utilitarian in purpose, with smooth and rigid floors, safety railings, electrical rails in the roof to power transportation trams. People and vehicles move to and from the docks and the center of the station, where the elevator is located.

And away from these main paths and highways expands the urban sprawl of the station itself, cold steel, bright lights, and clean plastics make up storefronts, residences, and public spaces galore. Control of the elevator and the goods that come from it feed this prosperous community.

Close to the main highways lies a condensed but beautiful public park, green walls, and hanging pots share space with benches and picnic spots in cozy corners. At the edges, shuttered windows and building entrances lead to the hab blocks.

“Number 1665-B. It is here.”

“And why did we bring all of this garbage?” Mars replies, jostling the bags in her arms for emphasis.

“That’s highly valuable garbage, for your information.”

“Valuable? What’s so valuable about old mechanical watches? How do you even find these things?”

“Not easily at all, but aficionados are willing to pay a premium price for the right pieces, it’s worth the work if you know what you’re doing. But that’s not the point, we want a trustworthy pilot, who´s skilled, and willing to work long-term. Think of the watches as a courting gift; we are going to be asking for a lot so we need to have a lot to offer.”

Hurried footsteps echo from behind the doorway, it opens. There stands a young boy’s body with stare the sharp eyes of an old man.

He looks at us.

“We brought gifts!” I point to the bags in Mars´s hands.

He stares at us. Then shouts over his shoulder.

“The idiot is here honey!” He enters the apartment and leaves us standing outside, the doorway open.

Mars turns to me.

“Just go in.”