The Farthest Fuelling Station
Does anyone remember that post about space fuelling stops, because I haven’t seen it in ages, can’t find it, and it is ABSOLUTELY the inspiration for this.
Interstellar exploration is, when you get right down to it, no different from travel by steam, or even horse. The real limit isn’t in the power of the engines or the size of the vehicle, it’s in the supply lines. It’s in the fuel.
Fuelling stations are fortresses. Synocrystal is the most precious substance in existence. This moonlet, orbiting a dead planet that circles a minor sun, is more heavily armed than many whole settled planets. And it’s an important post, because this is one of the stations where synocrystal is actually synthesized, not just stored. There aren’t many places it’s even marginally safe to do that, given how the stuff reacts to… well, everything. When I think of how the Ancestors used to fuss over the dangers of nuclear fusion engines, and how much more dangerous synocrystal is, I can’t help but laugh.
We’re a pragmatic species. Given a choice between using an insanely dangerous fuel-source, or being limited to our own solar system by slower-than-light travel, we barely hesitated.
This particular refuel started out badly. My fuelling hours are clearly posted on the beacon. So is the notice that out-of-hours fuelling requires a prior appointment. I’ll make exceptions for the couriers, sometimes, because they don’t always get enough notice to make an appointment and because they’re usually so appreciative, but that’s my business. I’m entitled to an uninterrupted sleep-shift, like any other sentient.
But this wasn’t a courier. This was a big ship, a trader… one of the private company traders, at that. I know they have to register incredibly detailed plans, in case of damaged or delayed cargoes, so they had absolutely no excuse for showing up in the middle of my sleep cycle and blaring alerts at me.
I dragged myself out of my bunk, ignoring Pepper and Choi’s protests, and went over to the console. There’s one in my private quarters for situations like this, and I reluctantly leave it active on the outside chance that it actually is an emergency. Even as I got there, the contact alert blared again, and I toggled ‘audio only’. “This had better be life or fucking death,” I said, over whatever form greeting they were spitting out. “The posted hours are really damned clear.”
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