The thing about the surface of Zemlola is that it doesn't care about our schedules, and it certainly doesn't care about our oxygen.
The heavy mechanical thud of the transit tube deposits Ledward and me at the surface airlock checkpoint. We step into our exosuits, the heavy industrial latches sealing with a satisfying, airtight hiss. The automated gas pumps immediately kick into overdrive, aggressively reclaiming every precious gram of oxygen from the airlock chamber before the outer doors slide open. You don't waste breathable air on Zemlola. Not unless you want to be the one manually operating the algae terrariums for the next ten cycles.
The outer doors part, revealing the absolute, silent, and freezing vacuum of the asteroid's surface. We step out, our magnetic boots engaging with a heavy clank against the metal mesh of the launch pad.
Ledward walks beside me, though 'walks' is a generous term for the stiff, recalibrated gait he is currently employing. The bionic duplicant is a walking testament to the fact that technological progress doesn't eliminate our problems; it just makes them more complex. During the hydrogen incident in the mess hall a few cycles back, Ledward was caught in the brunt of the flash fire. The thermal spike melted the synthetic polymer skin right off his right manipulator arm, exposing the gleaming, scorched titanium endoskeleton beneath. Now, his servos whine with a high-pitched, overheated friction every time he articulates his fingers. He needs a dedicated lubrication station, a fresh battery block, and a complete diagnostic overhaul. But the Voice doesn't care about maintenance schedules. Ledward doesn't complain. He just impassively observes his own mechanical degradation, recalibrates his grip strength to compensate for the damaged actuators, and keeps working. I envy that bionic detachment. Sometimes, being organic just feels like a liability.
The rocket gantry towers above us, a massive, utilitarian scaffolding of steel and insulated igneous rock. We are here to configure the launch clamps and the fueling lines for the new research rocket. It is a beast of a machine—a petroleum engine strapped to a liquid oxidizer tank, topped with a cramped command module that looks more like a trash can than a spacecraft.
We begin our ascent, hauling ourselves up the gantry ladders. The vacuum of space is a harsh, silent void, but the vibrations of the base's heavy machinery below travel up through the metal struts and directly into my bones.
A few minutes later, the airlock cycles again. Bubbles emerges, her exosuit looking even bulkier than usual due to the three sealed ration crates strapped awkwardly to her back. She is one of the colony's oldest residents, a pragmatic survivor who keeps the ranches running and the water sieved while the rest of us play with explosive toys. She clomps up the gantry, her magnetic boots clicking heavily against the hull, and stops at the command capsule.
Her helmet radio crackles to life in my ear, her voice dripping with exhausted irritation. "Four thousand kilocalories of pickled meal, two nutrient bars, and a vacuum-sealed bag of muckroot," she grumbles, shoving the crates into the capsule's microscopic storage bin. She inspects the life-support loop, tapping a pressure gauge with a thick, gloved finger. "The Voice decided to bump the launch schedule up by five cycles. I told the printing pod sensors we needed more time for the bristle berries to mature, but no. 'Quickly rebuild the schedule,' it says. Now our brave explorer gets to survive on preserved dirt and whatever recycled water the capsule's condensation pipes can squeeze out of his own breath."
I check the liquid oxygen lines, ensuring the abyssalite insulation is intact. "A duplicant needs a thousand kilocalories a cycle," I reply, my voice dry. "He's got four thousand. If he doesn't finish his orbital research in four cycles, he's going to start eating the upholstery. Assuming the life-support loop doesn't freeze his lungs first."
Bubbles snorts. "I give it two cycles before he starts crying about the lack of decor."
Then, the HUD inside my helmet flashes a blinding, obnoxious yellow. The automation grid overlay in my visor lights up with a sudden influx of green ribbons. Priority 9. The Voice.
The invisible manager of our lives has decided, at the eleventh hour, that the rocket's fueling line needs to be rerouted. Not tomorrow. Not after the launch. Right now. The directive is to cross-link the liquid oxidizer and petroleum lines directly through the gantry's secondary cooling loop. Why? Nobody knows. Maybe the Voice saw a red number on a spreadsheet. Maybe it thought it was optimizing thermal exchange. It doesn't matter. When the Voice issues a Priority 9, the base obeys.
Before I can even key my mic to argue the sheer, catastrophic idiocy of the command, the automated valves actuate. The system tries to force super-chilled liquid oxidizer and highly pressurized petroleum through a ceramic junction that is absolutely not built for that kind of flow rate or thermal shock.
The fluid hammer is instantaneous and brutal. A violent, shuddering shockwave kicks through the launch tower, vibrating right through my boots and rattling my teeth. A section of insulated igneous rock pipe near the third tier violently ruptures under the sudden pressure spike.
In the vacuum of space, there is no sound of an explosion, only the physical jolt and the terrifying visual. The venting volatile propellant doesn't billow like smoke—it violently expands and flash-freezes, creating a chaotic, glittering cloud of explosive snow that drifts out into the void.
"Propulsion mass is dropping!" Bubbles yells over the comms, her pragmatic calm shattering. "If that tank drains, he's not going anywhere, and we'll have a highly combustible cloud of frozen petroleum hovering right over the solar panels!"
"Ledward, with me!" I shout, disengaging my mag-boots and pushing off the gantry railing in a reckless micro-gravity leap.
We float toward the ruptured junction. The thermal stress has sheared the pipe clean open, the metal twisted and jagged. I pull a pair of crude ceramic clamps from my tool belt. Ledward anchors himself to the main strut, his damaged servos screaming in a high-pitched electronic protest as he uses his exposed endoskeleton arm to physically force the two ends of the ruptured pipe together. He is fighting the immense pressure of the venting fuel. The super-chilled liquid splashes against his bare metal joints, causing the servos to seize and stutter as the temperature plummets.
"Hold it steady!" I grunt, slapping the ceramic clamps over the seam. I pull out a heavy-duty tube of igneous rock paste and start welding them shut, applying a thick, messy dose of the sealant. It is a hideous, bulbous monstrosity of a fix. It completely ruins the clean, aerodynamic profile of the gantry tower, looking like a metallic tumor clinging to the pristine piping. But the venting stops. The pressure gauge on my HUD stabilizes.
Like every other emergency patch on Zemlola, it will stay there forever. It is a permanent, ugly monument to the Voice's terrible ideas. We don't do temporary fixes here; a temporary fix is just a permanent fix that looks worse.
Just as we finish wiping the crystallized propellant from our visors, the airlock cycles one last time. Stinky steps out onto the launch pad.
By some incomprehensible logic of the printing pod's HR department, the guy who paints our drywall and obsesses over crown moldings is now our premier test pilot. Stinky looks less like an astronaut and more like a man walking to the gallows. His atmo-suit is slightly too big for him, bunching awkwardly at the joints, and he is clutching something tightly against his chest.
As he floats up to the capsule, I catch a glimpse of it through his visor—a small, smudged charcoal sketch of a starry sky. He drew it using the soot from his ruined marble statue in the mess hall, the one that was destroyed in the hydrogen fire. The artist, clinging to his sentimentality even as he prepares to be strapped to a controlled bomb.
"Is it... is it safe?" Stinky asks, his voice trembling over the radio. He looks at the bulbous ceramic patch on the fuel line, then at Ledward's melted, twitching arm.
"The patch will hold," I tell him, my tone perfectly deadpan, omitting the fact that the patch is currently the only thing keeping the rocket from becoming a stationary explosive device. "Just don't look out the left window during ascent. It ruins the aesthetic."
He squeezes into the command module. The ergonomics are a joke—a cramped, metal coffin barely large enough for a duplicant and a steering console. There is no room for art, no room for comfort. Just a chair, a joystick, and a life-support vent blowing directly into his face. Bubbles seals the hatch behind him, locking the heavy bolts into place with a definitive, final clunk.
"Clear the pad," I order.
We descend the gantry, our mag-boots clicking in unison, and cycle back through the heavy airlocks. We take shelter behind the blast doors of the upper crust bunker, stripping off our helmets as the base's oxygen rushes back into the room.
The countdown initiates on the main console. The automation grid flashes green. The base rumbles, a deep, resonant vibration that shakes dust from the ceiling tiles and rattles the lockers.
Through the reinforced observation window, we watch the petroleum engines ignite. The exhaust is a blinding, furious pillar of fire that slams into Zemlola's upper crust. The sheer thermal output instantly chars the launch pad, baking the igneous rock and melting the surrounding regolith into pools of glowing magma. The rocket slowly, agonizingly lifts off the pad, fighting the asteroid's gravity. It vibrates violently, the ceramic patch on the fuel line holding by some miracle of engineering and sheer stubbornness, before accelerating into the black void.
Stinky is in orbit.
Bubbles sighs, crossing her arms and leaning against the bunker wall. "Well. He's up there. Now we just have to figure out how to keep him alive."
I look at Ledward, who is impassively staring at his melted arm, his servos twitching as they try to cool down. Then I look at the scorched, patched-up nightmare of a launch pad outside the window, knowing we'll have to rebuild half the ladders before the next launch.
"Yeah," I say, the dry irony settling back into my bones. "Now the real work begins."