by Tom Dillon
over the comm.
“What happened with the power?” Ava asked once they were back inside the station.
“When you fixed the connection, the station got a surge of power, and it took everything a few minutes to reset,” Remi said.
“For a minute there, I thought that we had really screwed up,” Vance said.
“Well, I’m glad we didn’t,” Ava said.
Remi’s handheld beeped, and she pulled it out of her pocket, looking intently at the screen for a minute, then relaxing.
“Everything looks good. But with the whole skin of the station covered in solar cells, there are several other connections to the solar array that we’re going to have to go out and check,” Remi said.
“But not immediately,” she added when she saw the look of panic on their faces.
The three of them were sitting in the atrium, decompressing after the stress of the past few hours. They had all been up for too long, but were too wired to get any sleep, so they had opened a bottle of wine that had been in Vance’s room.
“So, it looks like we’re going to live, for now, at least. What do we do next?” Ava said.
“We should name the station,” Vance said.
“We should. Any suggestions?” Ava asked. The three of them looked around at each other, no ideas coming forth.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Remi said. “I’m fried.”
“I think you’re–” Ava said, before being cut off by Vance who was looking up through the atrium.
“Wow, I’ve seen pictures, but . . .”
Ava and Remi looked up as well. Above them, a planet was entering their view. Covered in oceans with green continents, it appeared to be the size of Ava’s thumb. Still, she could make out the verdant green, and the line where day was turning into night as the planet spun.
“You know, only a few hours ago, that was us,” Ava said.
“You mean incredibly rich and living in the middle of a garden paradise?” Remi asked.
“No, I mean, until you’ve seen for yourself, someone can explain all they want about planets and rotations and revolutions, but until you’ve seen it from up here, it’s just an idea.”
Vance handed her the registration sheet that they had all signed. He had written a name in the ‘New Designation’ field.
“It looks like we have a name,” she said.
“What is it?” Remi asked, leaning forward in her seat to try and read what Vance had written.
“Horizon. We live on Horizon station,” he said.
END
About the Author
Tom Dillon lives in Olympia, Washington with his awesome wife and an assortment of cats, ducks, and dogs. When he isn’t busy writing or reading, you can find him riding his bike, working wood, or rock climbing. Visit him online at https://pawnstorm.net.
About the Series
Other Stories by Tom Dillon
Try Not To Panic
The Press
... and much more at https://pawnstorm.net
