We began taking Gas Measurements in the Pyrrhic Reach as soon as our Starcraft outjumped from Owen Space.
The navigator A.I. held the Starcraft and by extension the commander and me at station keeping a quarter of a light year due south of a cute, but yet-to-be-explored, binary star system that reminds me of lovers tangled caduceus-like in bed on a warm weekend morning when the sun slowly passes over their bare bodies and a kiss becomes more than that while all the time you constantly look ardently at her accordion propped against the wall near her bed.
“Stop goofing off,” the commander says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I leave my thoughts and resume my mission. And before too much longer I’ve got more gas than I need.
“All finished, commander,” I say.
And through the viewport, I take one last look at those two stars locked in each other’s embrace, and tell myself I’ve gotta get back Tosche Station.
And soon.
She always did have the best power converters in the biz.
“Standby for outjump,” the A.I. drones.
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