u/weedman236-

We were in open space now, drifting toward Horizon Gate.

For the first time since the countdown, we had some breathing room.

Not much. We were still on duty. Arthur continued monitoring the systems, looking for any abnormality the computers might have missed. The rest of us had real professions, real responsibilities, real reasons to be on the mission.

But for the moment, unless something went seriously wrong, we were mostly on standby.

The craft was so automated that we were basically unstrapped cargo for it.

The journey to Horizon Gate went smoothly.

As we got closer, I felt the craft begin to slow. It was subtle at first, then more noticeable, a gentle shift in motion that made my stomach remember it still had complaints. The ascent craft was not equipped with artificial gravity, so we had been floating for most of the trip. By then, the nausea from launch had mostly disappeared, and I was starting to feel comfortable in zero-g.

Comfortable enough, anyway.

Once Horizon Gate entered docking range, the ship’s voice came through the cabin.

“Initializing MTM-P for optimal docking communication.”

MTM-P.

Machine-to-machine protocol.

Basically, it meant the station AI and our ship AI could talk to each other directly, without dragging slow, confused humans into the middle of it. They could exchange docking instructions, security checks, permissions, pressure data, and flight corrections in seconds. Information that would have taken me two hours to explain, assuming I understood it in the first place.

Most people called it Hyperlink.

It rolled off the tongue better. Also, from what I knew, it was a repurposed term from the old internet era, back when machines talking to each other was still new enough to impress people.

Now it was just how things worked.

Text started scrolling across the console faster than I could read. At the same time, a series of high-pitched sounds clicked and chirped through the system, almost like Morse code if Morse code had been invented by birds made of office equipment.

The station answered in the same strange rhythm.

Compressed bursts of sound.

Two machines having a conversation none of us were invited to.

A few moments later, we docked.

The craft gave a soft shudder as the docking clamps locked around us. Warning lights changed. The cabin dimmed until only a rotating red light remained, washing the walls in slow pulses.

Then came the hiss of pressure equalizing. For a while, nobody said anything. We just floated there, listening. Eventually, the hissing stopped. The hatch opened. And we entered Horizon Gate.

The legendary orbital station.

By then, Horizon Gate had been in space for more than thirty years. Back on Earth, if the conditions were right, you could sometimes see it from the ground. A bright point moving across the sky, bigger and slower than the others.

It looked impressive from down there.

Standing inside it was different.

Inside, it did not feel like a station.

It felt like a city someone had built around the idea of leaving.

We were still taking it in when a new voice called out to us.

“Hello. You must be the astronauts boarding the Janus vessel, right?”

We all answered in some form.

Arthur was the loudest, obviously.

The man nodded like he had already known the answer and was only being polite.

“Well then. You must be hungry by now. I’ll take you to this district’s cafeteria first. After that, we can get you to your legendary mission.”

He said legendary like he was half joking and half tired of hearing the word.

The man looked dirty, but not in a poor-hygiene way. More like the station itself had rubbed off on him. He wore a bright orange LED safety vest over his work uniform, with a protective helmet clipped under one arm. He looked like any other blue-collar worker you could see on Earth.

Except he was in orbit.

We followed him through the long corridors of Horizon Gate.

I could not stop looking out the windows.

Earth sat below us, impossibly huge and impossibly distant at the same time. I thought I could see Ashmere, but I was not sure. From up there, Ashmere and a stack of clouds were surprisingly easy to confuse. When we reached the cafeteria, I stopped walking for half a second. It was enormous. Not big like a factory. Big like a small town pretending to be a room. It could probably hold a thousand people comfortably without even looking busy. And somehow, according to the signs above the entrance, this was only one cafeteria in one district.

I turned to the man leading us.

“Hey, um. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

I had meant to ask about the cafeteria, but apparently manners had ambushed me first.

“Oh. My name’s Ethan.”

I forced myself to move past it. Our Ethan was not the only Ethan ever born on Earth. That would have been statistically impressive, but very unlikely.

“So, Ethan,” I said, pretending the room had not briefly lost half its oxygen. “You said this cafeteria isn’t the only one. How many are there?”

“Including this one? Twenty-eight,” he said. “Twenty-seven active right now. One’s closed off because of an air leak in the service wall.”

“An air leak,” Nicholas repeated.

Ethan shrugged.

“Small one.”

Arthur gave Nicholas a look.

Nicholas stopped helping.

“Twenty-eight cafeterias,” I said. “Wow. How many people was this station designed for?”

“About a hundred thousand at once,” Ethan said. “We rarely reach that, though. Workers rotate constantly. Mars routes, lunar intake, Belt haulers, surface leave, maintenance shifts. Most of the time we sit around forty percent capacity. Busy weeks, maybe closer to eighty.”

I looked around again.

Forty percent capacity.

The place already felt alive enough to swallow us.

I decided not to bother him with more questions, mostly because I was starting to realize every answer would create ten more.

We went to order something to eat.

That was when a new problem hit me.

“Um,” I said, looking at the counter. “Silly question, but we don’t exactly have money on us. How are we supposed to pay?”

Ethan glanced at my wrist.

“Your wristbands issued for the mission. They work like station cards while you’re here. So its on the house. Order anything.”

I ordered nothing of interest, which was probably the safest thing to order in space, and the crew found a table near one of the large windows.

I looked for the next window to space out from.

There were people everywhere, but not in the dramatic way I expected.

A woman in a grease-stained work jacket was arguing with someone over a performing poorly. A few tables away, two workers were playing chess instead of eating. Some people sat alone in complete silence. Others sat in groups and still somehow managed to be silent. A man near the window had fallen asleep with his forehead resting against the glass.

Nobody stared out at Earth like it was impossible.

For them, this was just work. Another lunch break.

Another day as a cog in a machine big enough to have its own time zones.

So, we followed the local etiquette and ate mostly in silence.

Halfway through the meal, a soft announcement chime echoed through the cafeteria speakers.

The voice that followed was robotic, calm, and painfully neutral.

Similar to Ashmere’s public announcement system.

Ashmere’s voice always sounded like it was trying to convince you everything was fine.

This one sounded like it did not care whether you were convinced or not.

“Station time: seventeen forty-five.”

A short pause.

“Cargo notice: Mars transfer corridor closing in thirty-six hours. All outbound freight assigned to Deimos, Phobos, and surface relay stations must clear Docking Spine C before final alignment lock.”

Nobody reacted. The voice continued.

“Unlaunched Mars-bound cargo will be transferred to holding rotation until the next approved corridor in seven hundred and eighty standard days. Lunar ore intake remains active through Docking Spines A and D. Crews assigned to regolith composite unloading are reminded to complete pressure-dust decontamination before entering civilian sectors.”

I looked at Mike.

He looked just as lost as I felt.

“Belt-hauler crews are reminded that radiation screening is mandatory before cafeteria access. Failure to complete screening will result in temporary off station relocation.”

A woman near the counter groaned.

“Again?”

The announcement continued.

“Maintenance notice: Corridor Twelve-C will remain under partial gravity restriction until structural vibration testing is complete. Please secure loose tools, containers, and personal items.”

Another pause.

“Thank you for maintaining Horizon Gate at a good operational flow.”

The chime played again.

And just like that, the cafeteria went back to normal.

People kept eating. The chess game continued. The woman continued scolding the worker. The sleeping man near the window did not move.

I stared at the ceiling speaker for a moment.

Half of what it said meant nothing to me.

Docking spines. Transfer corridors. Holding rotations. Regolith composite unloading. Belt-hauler radiation screening.

It sounded less like a station and more like an entire economy pretending to be a building. For them, it was lunch.

For us, Horizon Gate was a doorway.

Physically, but also metaphorically, the station was the thing standing between us and the actual mission. We were still close enough to Earth to pretend we were connected to it, but far enough away that the connection had started feeling more like an idea than a fact.

I found myself zoning out through the cafeteria windows while the others finished their food.

Outside, long lines of cargo ships drifted near the docking spines. Not heroic ships. Not sleek ships. Not the kind of spacecraft people put on posters with dramatic lighting and patriotic music. Work ships. They moved in slow, organized convoys, carrying materials from across the solar system like this was the most normal thing humanity had ever done.

And I guess, by then, it was.

We had progressed so much as a species that traveling to other planets had become another shift. Another business route. Another industrial schedule written by people who probably cared more about efficiency reports than the fact that we had turned the solar system into a supply chain.

Once, reaching Mars had been a scientific marvel.

Now it was a long commute to a loading site.

Part of me found it amazing. And part of me was not surprised at all, because of course humanity had found a way to monetize the sky. Give us enough time and we would find a long-term profit model for anything, even wonder.

And Earth kept taking whatever it could carry home.

“Was I the only one surprised to hear our guide’s name was Ethan as well?” Arthur asked.

That pulled me out of my thoughts.

He was looking at the rest of us, his expression calm but not casual.

“Was that on purpose, or just a very strange coincidence?”

Viktor leaned back slightly.

“Very strange indeed,” he said. “But I cannot tell if it was on purpose. Why would they do such a thing? It seems counterintuitive. If they wanted to keep pressure on us, there are cleaner ways. If they wanted us calm, keeping that name away from us would be the better long-term play.”

I looked down at the table.

“I still wonder what happened to him,” I said. “It’s been a month since he was dragged away, and we still haven’t heard anything.”

Nobody answered right away.

The cafeteria noise filled the silence between us. Trays sliding. Distant voices. Someone laughing from the far side of the room like nothing in the universe was wrong.

I looked at Arthur.

“Also, can I ask you something?”

He turned toward me.

“During the media conference, why did you say Ethan left for personal reasons?”

Arthur’s face tightened, but not with anger.

More like he had expected the question eventually, and hated that eventually had arrived.

“Because at that moment, playing along was the safest option,” he said. “What was I supposed to say? That one of our colleagues was dragged away by a mysterious guard twice my size, and we have not heard from him since?”

He lowered his voice slightly.

“Say that in front of reporters, and we damage the reputation of the entire program. Worse, we make it clear we are not following the script. And if there is one thing this mission has taught me, it is that the people above us do not respond kindly when the script breaks.”

That was difficult to argue with.

Nicholas looked at him.

“Yeah, thanks for looking out for us.”

Mike looked at Nicholas like he had been planning to say the same thing but got beaten to it.

Arthur gave a small nod.

That was all.

But from Arthur, that was enough.

Viktor placed both hands on the table and stood.

“Well, boys,” he said, “are we ready to truly begin our mission?”

He said it lightly, but the meaning underneath was clear.

We had spent enough time sitting.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We cleared the table and started heading out. Before leaving the cafeteria, I caught one last glimpse of Earth through the windows.

Then we went to find our new Ethan.

The imposter Ethan, as my brain had already started calling him, was waiting outside the cafeteria. The moment he spotted us, he straightened slightly.

“There you are,” he said. “I’ll take you to the Janus vessel now. The lead engineer is waiting near the boarding access. she’s the one responsible for final maintenance and condition checks, since Janus was completed only a few months ago.”

We followed him deeper into the station.

The corridors changed as we walked. The cafeteria noise faded behind us, replaced by lower mechanical sounds, distant pressure doors, and the faint vibration of something massive moving somewhere beyond the walls.

The closer we got to Janus, the less Horizon Gate felt like a public station.

Fewer workers passed us.

The signs became more restricted.

The windows grew larger.

And then we saw it.

Janus.

The vessel waited beyond the glass, docked along a secured spine of the station.

Huge did not feel like the right word. It was more than that

For five people, previously six, it seemed almost absurd. Overkill, even.

Then again, that was exactly what you wanted when your destination was forty days away at point-one celer.

A woman stood near the boarding access door, holding a tablet-like device against her chest. she was the only person nearby not dressed in heavy workwear, which made my highly trained detective brain conclude that she was probably the engineer Ethan had mentioned.

*Text skipped for lore reason*

Still, my attention stayed on the TV.

“Sorry, Elena,” I said, raising a hand slightly. “I have to ask. Why do we have a TV in space? I mean, I don’t mind it, but we don’t exactly have internet out here or anything like that.”

I had asked the most important question of the mission.

Elena turned toward me.

Her face lit up.

“Oh, let me tell you.”

Of course.

The question was stupid, technically. Completely irrelevant to why we were there. But Elena looked thrilled to answer it anyway, which meant I had accidentally stepped on one of her favorite topics.

“The system my team and I came up with is quite clever, honestly,” she said. “It is almost like traveling into the past. The ship has its own separate antenna, completely separate from the main communications array, connected directly to Horizon Gate’s civilian broadcast relay.”

She pointed upward, as if the antenna was somewhere above us.

“So, in simple terms, Horizon Gate keeps transmitting entertainment data, news packets, stored media, archived channels, whatever the crew has access to. The signal travels at light speed, obviously, because it is an electromagnetic transmission. But there is a catch.”

She smiled.

“The farther away you get, the longer the signal takes to reach you.”

I nodded slowly, pretending I had not figured out that part myself.

“At first,” she continued, “the delay will be practically nonexistent. A few seconds. Nothing important. But as you get deeper into space, the delay gets longer and longer. Eventually, you will be watching things one hour late. Then two hours. Then ten.”

She tapped her tablet again.

“I calculated it myself. By the time you reach Voyager’s projected region, the broadcast delay should be around four days, give or take depending on your exact course corrections.”

“Four days?” Mike asked.

Elena nodded.

“Yes. Which means if you watch a live report from Earth, it will not really be live. It will be Earth from four days ago. News from four days ago. Messages from four days ago. Sports results from four days ago, if anyone still cares about sports by then.”

Nicholas looked personally attacked by that.

“The maximum theoretical range was never properly tested, by the way,” she added. “But in theory, the system could keep receiving data from ridiculous distances as long as the signal remains strong enough and properly relayed. Half the observable universe? No. Not realistically. The waiting time alone would be impossible. But technically, if you enjoy watching ancient broadcasts from dead civilizations, the principle works.”

She stopped herself again. She cleared her throat, not because she needed to, but because she looked like she was trying to force her brain back onto the correct track.

“Now,” she said, gesturing around the room, “this is the most convoluted room on the ship.”

That was one way to describe it.

“This front section has most of the daily-use systems packed into it. Lounge, kitchen, recreation, exercise equipment, main control access, observation area, and a few emergency stations. Not because we did not have enough space to give everything its own designated room. We absolutely did.”

She said that last part with visible pain.

“But the corporate requirements team had other ideas.”

Her smile tightened.

“Their main excuses were: keeping the crew mission-ready by placing essential areas close to the main control unit, encouraging team-building, preventing the ship layout from becoming too confusing, and making sure the main room would not feel empty.”

She stared at us for a second.

“The room would not feel empty.”

I blinked.

Even I could tell that one was stupid.

“At that point,” Elena continued, “I knew they were pulling reasons out of their ass.”

She looked around the room again, and for a moment, her excitement dimmed into something more personal. Not sadness exactly. More like irritation that had been polished down by months of having no choice.

“I had a different layout planned originally,” she said. “Cleaner. More efficient. Better separation between living space and operational space. The gym had its own room. Recreation had its own room. The kitchen was smaller, but better placed. The command deck had a stronger visual separation from the lounge.”

I looked up toward the second floor. “But requirements are requirements,” she said. “And when enough people above you decide that team cohesion matters more than your floor plan, your floor plan loses.”

She paused.

Then, despite herself, she smiled again.

“Still, I made it work.”

There it was.

That pride again.

Even annoyed, even forced to compromise, even with the corpos meddling in the shape of her baby, she still looked at Janus like it was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever built.

“Follow me, boys,” Elena said, sounding excited to show us something.

“I’m going to show you your rooms.”

We followed her to the other side of the ship, looping around the back and eventually heading toward the area opposite from where we had come in.

After a short walk, we reached a long corridor with doors along its outer side. I noticed each door had one of our names displayed on it.

“Now, let me show you your rooms.”

She looked at the doors, then picked one at random.

Somehow, it was mine.

“Hm. Let’s go with this one.”

The door opened, and I was expecting a stingy, dorm-like room. Something small, tight, and just comfortable enough to not legally count as torture.

But it definitely was not just a room.

It was a whole apartment.

“Now, I called them rooms earlier,” Elena said, stepping inside first, “but clearly they are not. They are more like suites. Each one has the same layout and furniture, so we only need to tour one of them to get an idea of what we are dealing with here.”

She entered my future room, or apartment, or whatever I was supposed to call it, and we followed her inside.

“At first, there is a corridor,” she said.

It was actually quite spacious. A hallway with doors everywhere.

And even a staircase.

A staircase, inside my room.

“Now, this door over here is your bathroom and shower. Each suite is equipped with a personal shower and toilet. We also have a separate shared one in the back of the ship, for some reason.”

She said for some reason like she still had not forgiven whoever made that decision.

“Now, if you follow me here.”

She opened another door.

“This leads to your own living room.”

It was spacious. It had a couch, an InvisibleTV™ panel, a coffee table, and a big wall window covering almost the whole outer wall. An arch led into the kitchen, which also had its own door at the end of the hallway.

“As you can see, it is quite big,” Elena said. “The living room leads into your own kitchen. The last door on this floor is a large storage and laundry room.”

Of course.

Even in deep space, laundry survived.

“Now, let’s head upstairs.”

Upstairs was the bedroom.

Really big. Pointlessly so.

There was another large window, built-in storage, a bed, and enough empty space to make the room feel like it was waiting for furniture that never arrived.

There was also another bathroom and shower.

Because apparently one bathroom was not enough for the luxury deep-space prison.

“That is about it for the living quarters,” Elena said. “Every suite has the same layout, same furniture, and same basic equipment.”

She looked around the room with pride, but also with that same tiny irritation she had whenever something about the ship had not gone exactly the way she wanted.

“Now,” she said, turning back toward the stairs, “let’s move on to the last thing I have to show you.”

We went to the back of the ship.

There was a wall-sized window there as well, still amazingly big, but small compared to the one at the front. Which was insane.

Elena stopped for a second, then called out two names.

“Astra. Aster.”

At that moment, two robots came to life.

I had completely failed to notice them earlier. Their eyes lit up, and they detached from their docking stations before stepping toward Elena.

They moved surprisingly human.

Not like the corpos, who looked like humans pretending to be machines. These were machines that moved like they had studied humans very carefully and almost got it right.

Their bodies were still clearly mechanical. Average height, polished metal frames, joints, exposed machinery, and layered parts that almost looked like artificial anatomy. They did not look like cheap service bots. They looked like prototypes.

The kind of thing you did not want to accidentally bump into.

“Yes, mistress,” one of them said.

I was shocked.

The other robot turned its head toward the first one.

“Astra,” it said, “Elena has told you fourteen times not to address her formally. Use her name.”

Elena looked entertained by the whole thing.

Somehow, both robots had missed the fact that even as a formality, calling someone mistress was not exactly normal.

Viktor, who had been quiet for most of the tour, finally decided to speak.

“Wonderful,” he said. “We have kinky robot companions on our mission. that's got to be fun.”

Elena covered her mouth slightly, trying not to laugh.

Astra looked at Viktor.

“Your statement was highly suggestive of me having capabilities beyond those I was designed for,” she said.

Aster turned its head toward her.

“The human was clearly attempting humor.”

“I understand it may have carried humorous implications,” Astra replied. “However, the common formula for comedy is tragedy over time equals laughter. His statement was completely misplaced.”

“Humor is subjective, Astra,” Viktor said.

“Yes,” Aster agreed, turning slightly toward her. “There is no universal formula for comedy.”

Elena stepped in before the two of them could continue.

“Sorry,” she said. “They do that.”

“They are as smart as artificial intelligence can get, but Astra still struggles with human logic. She understands the what, but very often not the why.”

Astra looked at Elena.

“A.S.T.R.A. stands for Artificial Support and Tactical Response Automaton. She is in charge of crew support, tactical assistance, emergency response, and the ship’s life-support systems.”

Then Elena turned toward Aster.

“And this is A.S.T.E.R. Artificial Systems and Technical Emergency Responder. Aster is the more socially aware one.”

Aster looked at Astra.

“He understands human logic better, but they can still get it wrong sometimes. Aster handles ship systems, engine diagnostics, performance load, repairs, emergency containment, and exterior maintenance if anything goes wrong outside the hull.”

I looked at the two most intelligent AIs humanity had created.

One had called Elena “mistress.”

The other was apparently the more socially aware one, which mostly meant he was an asshole who did not fully understand what made him an asshole.

“Now, Astra. Aster.”

Both robots turned toward Elena, waiting for input.

“I want you to meet the people who will be aboard this ship for the next year,” she said. “But before that, let’s transfer command privileges to them.”

She tapped something on her tablet.

For a few moments, both robots went still. Their eyes remained lit, but something about them seemed blank, like they had paused somewhere beneath the surface.

Then they came back.

No reaction.

No acknowledgement.

Nothing.

Apparently, being handed over to five strangers was just another system update.

Elena started introducing us normally, pointing to each of us one by one.

“Arthur. Nicholas. Mike. Viktor.”

Then she turned toward me.

“And this is Mark.”

Both bots studied me carefully.

“Are you feeling unwell, Miss Elena?” Astra asked.

Elena froze slightly.

“Wha, what? No. I feel amazing.”

“My scan of your vitals suggests otherwise,” Astra continued. “Your pulse is elevated. Still within safe parameters, but-”

Elena cut her off.

“What? Who allowed you to do that?”

“I am sorry,” Astra said. “I cannot help it. My system is designed to regularly scan nearby humans. Does Miss Elena suggest I ignore the sole function I was built to perform?”

Aster turned toward Astra.

“Astra, the elevated pulse is most likely connected to what humans describe as attraction.”

The room went very quiet.

Elena looked like her soul had attempted to leave her body.

Aster continued.

“Possible alternative explanations include stress, embarrassment, mild panic, or cardiovascular irregularity.”

That was when Elena had enough.

“Aster. Astra. To your stations. Now.”

Both robots looked at her.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Aster spoke.

“Request denied. Command issued by unauthorized entity.”

Elena stared at him.

Then she remembered.

She had just transferred command privileges to us.

I had seen enough.

“Aster. Astra. Your stations.”

This time, it worked.

Aster turned immediately and started heading back to his docking station.

Astra, however, was still looking at me.

“Orders unclear,” she said. “Our stations are-”

Before she could finish, Aster reached back, grabbed the docking hook on her back, and started dragging her toward her station.

Astra did not physically resist much.

Verbally, however, she absolutely did.

“Unexpected external force detected. Balance correction delayed. Gyroscope systems temporarily unresponsive. Aster, release my frame. Diagnostic scan initiated. Motor response nominal. Aster, release my frame. Balance restored.”

At that moment, Astra managed to remove his hand from her back and regained her posture.

“All systems are back online,” she said.

Then, with as much dignity as a robot could have after being dragged across the floor by its sibling, she walked to her docking station herself.

Nicholas watched them for a moment.

“They remind me of me and my twin,” he said. “That rough sibling love.”

I looked at Astra and Aster again.

At first, I had been skeptical. Two highly advanced AI robots joining us on the most important mission in human history sounded like one more way for the people above us to control the situation. But now I am starting to find them amusing.

I swapped my transmission since old one was bust i am not certain my rear differential and transmission drive ratios are matching.

Here is a snippet of the fourth chapter of my sci-fi deep space exploration story I would love to hear your feedback and opinions.

Here is a snippet of the fourth chapter of my sci-fi deep space exploration story I would love to hear your feedback and opinions.

I accidentally ran-over a cat on my way back home yesterday