It's Monday, and Mahaha—for all its orbital rotation speed—is not turning in my favor. My forehead finds its final resting place on our station's postage-stamp-sized dining table as Liu and Krüger across from me devolve into a spirited debate over whether or not an omelette is a single-celled organism. If anyone ever asks me what you get when you cross a bored astrophysicist and a world-class astrobiologist with a fondness for the hypothetical, I'm giving them this.

Krüger has his trusty whiteboard marker out. From what I can tell of their conversation, he's scribbling something about mitochondria, and bacon being the body's finest source of fuel. The marker squeaks over the table's surgical-white surface like a gerbil with small-dog syndrome. I make a mental note to add the whole dining room to Krüger's cleaning list for the week. It won't be the first addition—it's hard on the heels of all the other walls and surfaces that fell prey to yesterday's rant about interstellar taxonomic classification. I don't think the original designers of this place meant to turn their walls into whiteboards, but smooth-'n-pasty seems to be the aesthetic of choice for semipermanent planetary and moon bases nowadays.

Liu bangs her fist on the table. The argument has reached a head: whether or not the fry skin around the eggy envelope constitutes a cell membrane.

"It's too thin," says Krüger in frustration. His glasses are shoved up into his curly black mop, vibing with the silver streaks at his temples. He wears the grey as a proud mark of worldliness, at the ripe young age of thirty-five. With his scruffy chin and the perpetual half-mug of imitation coffee beside him, he looks like a PhD lifer who's spent one too many hours poring over something inane under a microscope.

"If it's too thin, you're not oiling the pan enough," snorts Liu. "Butter, Tobias. If you're already adding bacon, you can't do these things in half measures."

I'd pay in blood to have either butter or bacon right now, but Kwon is saving our last package of the latter for some yet-unspecified "special occasion." I think she's just trying to keep it out of these two's hands. As for butter, that's just about the only thing that could tempt me back to earth right now.

I don't think my attempted discussion on food supplies is going to regain what little purchase it once had here, so I unglue my head from the table and push myself up.

"Hey Chief, do bubbles count as vesicles, or do you think that's pushing it?" says Liu with a grin.

"I am not going to be part of this argument."

"Told you they wouldn't help," says Krüger under his breath.

I add the bathroom to his cleaning list.

I'm spared further involvement in the conversation by Kwon, who pokes her head in the door, receiver in hand. "Gallegos? A call for you from the Hub."

"Thank you."

Bless her soul. Kwon is the rock without which this whole place would have burned down two months ago, probably by my doing. She's an engineer and mechanic by trade, but also our cook, medic, and a hundred other hats that she pulls out of her many overalls pockets like that pen cap you lost two months ago, or the paperclip you saw everywhere until you actually needed it. We've worked together on and off for years, and I fought tooth and nail to get her on this mission. My sanity thanks me for it daily.

As for the call, it's about time. It was supposed to come through two days ago, and I've been stressing ever since.

Kwon hands me the receiver and a headset as we pass each other in opposite directions. Whoever designed this place thought it would be cute to shape all the technology like last century's defunct innovations. The station phone in my hand looks like an antique telephone, about as sleek and efficient as a banana with suction cups at either end.

I hit the transfer button and take the call on the headset instead. "Captain Gallegos speaking."

It's an intern; I can already tell. "Good afternoon, Captain. My name is Mbali, and I'm calling from the Interstellar Coordination and Communications Administration." I pity anyone who has to use the Hub's full name on a regular basis. "The purpose of this call is to check up on the state of your mission, to provide an update on your next resource delivery, and to inquire if you feel you have everything you need before Zeta A-63, also known as Qalupalik, moves out of orbital range of our relay satellites. It is my understanding that you're currently housed on the moon Mahaha. Is that still the case?"

"It is." As if they left us the technology to go moon-hopping in their absence.

There's a soft pattering of fingers on a digital keyboard. "Can you confirm the names of everyone on your team?"

"Lingmei Liu, Tobias Krüger, and Dea Kwon."

More typing. "Thank you. And yourself?"

"Alex Gallegos."

The typing abruptly stops. What did they tell this one?

Mbali stammers. "Alex—Alex Gallegos? Like, the Alex Gallegos?"

"I don't know another one, so I suppose so."

There's a squeak and a flurry of papers as something slips off her desk. Paper notes: a classic intern thing. She fumbles for them. "Shit—" More rustling. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. When they put me on comms, they said it was small missions—I didn't expect to be talking to someone like—"

"It's a small mission, don't worry." That's a lie. Well, it's true if you only look at our team size, but the Hub has also been keen to pretend we don't exist, so they're not responsible if this mission goes the same way as the one that landed here. I heave a sigh. "I'm on break from the big stuff for a bit."

More like emotionally blackmailed into taking leadership of a team that makes me want to run the entire breadth of the United Inhabited Solar Systems and hurl myself into space, but Mbali doesn't need to know that.

"I can answer the rest of the questions," I say. "No medical issues, all our supply categories are at a level of least concern, and the last viral scan of the station came back negative, two days ago. And you said there was an update on the delivery?"

"Y—yes. One second, please." There's a pause as she pulls up some file for reference. Oh, goody, a formal letter. "The Interstellar... the ICCA would like to inform you that your final resource delivery before moving out of communication range has been delayed due to the adverse weather conditions currently present around your base. They also regret to inform you that the portable atmospheric filtration oxygen mask you requested is currently in short supply, and so cannot be provided. If this is an emergency request, you can contact—"

"It's not." I cut her off, pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to keep the strain out of my voice. I almost wish it was, just so I could expedite the delivery. "But thank you."

With the recent dust-storm catastrophe on Jenu, I can't say I'm surprised the masks are running low. They're needed elsewhere, and we still have enough for our team. I've made sure of that. But the tendrils of anxiety already snaking through my gut don't care.

As for the delivery delay, that's some bureaucratic crap if I ever heard it. The Hub's only issue with this weather is their unwillingness to send a good resource shuttle to a small moon on a fringe planet for a mission that everyone has their eye on, but nobody expects to see succeed. Even if two of the world's top up-and-coming scientists are along for the ride.

I am also not looking forward to dealing with Krüger sans imitation coffee if he runs out before the delivery. "Mbali?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Can I ask you a favour?"

There's more stammering. "I—I'll note it down and see if there's anything I can do."

"Thank you. If you get a chance, could you ask the Resource team to add the latest print publication of Interstellar Biology to our resource list? There should still be room under the weight limit."

"Interstellar Biology as in the scientific journal, or the book?"

"The journal."

"Print?" I can hear her frown. "I can relay you a digital copy if you like. It would be faster..."

"I hear you, but it's a gift for someone who prefers the weight of paper."

His words, not mine. Though I can't say I disagree with him.

"Alright." She notes it down. "I'll let them know. Anything else you'd like the Hub to be aware of, Captain?"

I have many things, but none that I would subject an intern to relaying. "I don't believe so."

She types my answer into the standard form. "And any more questions?"

"None."

"Perfect. Then it's been an honour talking to you, Captain Gallegos. And a pleasure."

"The same. And Mbali?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Don't worry what team your bosses put you on. You're doing just fine."

I end the call before she has a chance to panic over how to reply to that. Then I lean back against the wall with a groan that makes Kwon poke her head from her workshop down the hall.

"Is everything okay?"

"Just more organizational snobbery that Central Command couldn't be bothered to deliver themselves. Can you keep Liu and Krüger out of my hair for a bit? I'm hitting the gym."

She nods, the furrow on her normally cheery brow unrelenting. I dump the tacky phone back at our comms desk, then change clothes and walk the familiar six paces to the one-room gym stashed at the back of the Pod—this fifteen-meter-long excuse for a habitable moon base.

I am met with a full array of equipment adjusted for someone a head and a half taller than I am. I swear Krüger does this just to annoy me. The treadmill beeps at my fingerprint swipe and lowers itself obligingly to my level. I check my distance goal. At closest pass, we're nine hundred million kilometers from the nearest planet.

Eight hundred and ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-eight thousand, eight hundred and seventy-six kilometers to go. 

A/N: The main character of this book, Alex, is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns. Please keep that in mind as you read and comment! If you have any questions, you're welcome to ask them anytime; I'm not non-binary myself, but I'll answer if I can and point you to other resources if I can't  :)

Cheers, and happy reading!

- August