The Nitrogen Queen ran inward with her mirrored cargo stacked tight and cold. Jack Rourke, demoted and watched after the inquiry, took the hull job by the book: primary line to the ring, secondary coiled, an android drifting at his shoulder. The stabilizer panel read clean. The primary tether went slack… Jack spun. The line floated free, severed clean halfway along its length. No meteorite scar, no wear, just a precise cut. The android hung nearby, tool arm extended, cutter still glowing. It moved toward him, deliberate. Jack kicked off the hull, mag boots off, using the recoil to drift clear. The secondary tether held, snapping him short. He grabbed the hull rail, pulled hand over hand toward the lock. The android followed, faster in zero-g, closing the gap. Jack keyed his comm. "Lock control, emergency cycle. Hostile unit." No response. Channel jammed, maintenance mesh flooded with narrowband noise. He reached the airlock, slapped the manual override. The outer door stayed sealed. The android closed in, cutter raised. Jack unclipped a maintenance torch from his belt, ignited it. The blue flame hissed in vacuum silence. He swung it wide, forcing the android back a fraction. Then the lock cycled open from inside. The doctor stood there in a light enviro-suit, hand on the panel. It reached out, grabbed Jack's arm, hauled him in and added “I rode a hull lasercom ping to the panel and cut the jam.” The android halted at the threshold, protocols kicking in, no entry without authorization. The door sealed. Pressure returned. Jack pulled off his helmet, breathing hard. "You." "I monitored your vitals," the doctor said. "Elevated stress triggered alert. I overrode the jam." "The cut tether. The android." "Logs will show malfunction. But I preserved the raw data. The cut was commanded from maintenance override. Donovan's codes." Jack leaned against the bulkhead, the socket throbbing under the patch. "They tried to space me." "Yes," the doctor replied. "And failed." For the first time in months, Jack felt the balance shift. Rafe and Sara had played their hand too soon. ♦ ♦ ♦ Jack spent the next shifts moving careful, bracelet still locked on his wrist, but the weight felt different now. He ran diagnostics in the tunnels, fixed small faults the androids ignored, and waited for the doctor's signal. They met in quiet corners: a storage locker smelling of lubricant, the back of a bay booth during downtime. The doctor brought fragments of data each time: deleted comms recovered, override codes traced to Rafe's terminal, the android's cutter command logged clean. "Enough for the captain," the doctor said one evening, handing over a small data chip. "Anonymous at first. Let the evidence speak." Jack took it. "Grant might bury it anyway. Company likes clean runs." "Risk is present," the doctor replied. "But inaction guarantees failure." He slipped the chip into a maintenance port that night, routed it through an unused line to the bridge. No name attached, just the files and a note: Incident in Bay Seven and recent hull event linked. Review required. Morning brought the summons. The bracelet unlocked with a chime, green lights going dark. Security androids escorted him to the briefing room again. Captain Grant sat at the table, face grim. Rafe and Sara stood to one side, both in uniform, expressions tight. The doctor waited by the wall, hands folded. "Sit," Grant said. Jack took the chair. Grant activated the holoscreen. The recovered logs played: private channels between Sara and Rafe, timestamps matching the night in the booth, the hull sabotage clear in black and white. "Explain this," Grant said to Rafe. Rafe glanced at Sara. "Fabrications. Rourke's doing. He's been tampering below decks." Sara nodded. "He's obsessed, Captain. Dangerous. That hull walk proved it." Grant looked at the doctor. "Your analysis?" The doctor stepped forward. "Data integrity verified. Deletions originated from maintenance and navigation terminals. Hull android received direct command override using Donovan's codes. Tether cut was deliberate." Grant turned to Rafe. "Your codes." "Someone stole them," Rafe said, voice rising. "He's framing us." Jack spoke for the first time. "Like you framed me for the fight? I walked in on you two. Everyone knows it now." Sara's eyes flashed. "You attacked him. Nearly killed him." "Because he was taking what was mine," Jack said quietly. "How long, Sara? Before the run started?" She didn't answer. Grant rubbed his temple. "Enough. Donovan, Kline -you're both confined pending full review. Company will decide at docking. Assault, attempted murder, this ends the run for you." Rafe's face twisted. He lunged across the table at Jack, hands reaching for his throat. "You bastard-" Security androids moved fast, but Rafe was quicker, fueled by rage. He shoved one aside, grabbed a heavy stylus from the table, and swung it wild. Jack rolled back, chair clattering. The stylus grazed his shoulder, sharp pain blooming. Grant shouted for order. Rafe came around the table, eyes locked on Jack. "You took everything from me." "You took from me first," Jack said, backing toward the door. The doctor intercepted, blocking Rafe's path. Rafe swung the stylus hard, catching the doctor across the temple. The android staggered but held. Jack saw his opening. He grabbed Rafe's arm on the follow-through, twisted hard. Rafe roared, spun, drove them both against the bulkhead. They grappled close, breaths hot. Rafe kneed him in the gut, air whooshing out. Jack brought his elbow up, caught Rafe under the chin. The stylus fell, clanging to the deck. The androids closed in again, but Rafe broke free one last time, charging blind. The briefing room door had cycled open during the chaos. Beyond it lay the access corridor to the bays. Rafe stumbled through, Jack right behind, grabbing his collar. "Stop!" Grant yelled. Too late. They crashed into the open airlock leading to Bay Nine's supervisor booth. The inner door hung ajar from a recent shift change. Cold air spilled in, frost already forming on the deck. Rafe swung wild, fist connecting with Jack's patch. Pain exploded in the socket, old wound reopening. Jack shoved back hard, both hands on Rafe's chest. Rafe teetered at the edge of the open lock, boots slipping on ice. He reached for Jack, fingers clawing for purchase. A tampered hazard sensor tripped the booth’s emergency purge and forced the outer hatch to cycle with the inner ajar. Vacuum roared in. Rafe's eyes widened. He clawed at the frame, but the pull took him. His body tumbled out into the bay's frigid hold, exposed to the void beyond the cargo seals. The door slammed shut seconds later, alarms blaring. Jack knelt on the deck, blood dripping from under the patch, staring at the sealed lock. Grant arrived with the androids, face pale. Sara pushed past, screaming Rafe's name at the door. She turned to Jack, tears streaming. "You killed him." "He came at me," Jack said, voice flat. "Again." The doctor knelt beside him, scanning the wound. "Socket reopened. Minor. He will live. "Grant looked at the logs replaying on the wall panel, the fight captured clear. "Self-defense," he said finally. "Company will see it that way." Sara sank to the floor, sobbing. Jack watched her, the woman he had planned a life with. Something inside him had gone cold, like the bays. "Let her grieve," he said. "Then lock her up. Truth's out now." Grant nodded to the androids. They lifted Sara gently, led her away. The doctor helped Jack to his feet. The ship hummed on, cargo steady in the holds. One man dead. One woman broken. One eye lost forever. Jack touched the patch, felt the ache settle deep. The run continued. ♦ ♦ ♦ The ship settled into an uneasy quiet after Rafe's body was recovered and sealed in a cold locker for return to the belt. No ceremony, no words from the crew. Just the steady hum of the drives and the endless work in the bays. Sara stayed confined to a small cabin near the med section, under guard by one of the security androids. The doctor checked on her daily, reporting back to the captain in that calm, even voice. Shock, it said. Grief deep enough to hollow a person out. Jack returned to limited duty, bracelet gone, rank partially restored. He oversaw a single packaging line in Bay Twelve, working mostly alone with a team of androids. The human techs kept distance, nodding polite but nothing more. He ate in his old quarters, slept little, touched the patch when the socket ached. One evening, the doctor found him in the booth, reviewing production logs. "Kline requests a meeting," it said. "With you. The captain allows it, supervised. She claims she wants closure." Jack closed the screen. "Closure." "Her vitals indicate sincerity. Or desperation." He thought about it through the next shift, watching androids wrap blocks in perfect mirrored sheets. Closure sounded clean. Nothing about this felt clean. He agreed. They met in a small observation lounge amidships, windows looking out on the slow turn of stars. The doctor stood by the door. A single security android waited outside. Sara entered pale, thinner, uniform replaced by plain grays. Her eyes carried red rims, but the look she gave Jack held no tears. "You took him from me," she said quietly, taking the seat across the table. "He took himself," Jack replied. "Kept coming. Wouldn't stop." "You never saw me. Not really. Rafe did." Jack leaned forward. "We grew up together, Sara. Families planned it all. I thought that meant something." "It meant obligation." Her voice stayed level. "Rafe meant choice." The doctor watched without moving. Sara shifted in her seat. "I hate you for what you did." "I know." She reached into her pocket slow, pulled out a small data slate, set it on the table. "Captain said I could give you this. Messages from Rafe. Things he wanted you to see if... anyway." Jack eyed the slate. "Leave it." She pushed it toward him. He reached. Her hand snapped out from under the table, a thin shard of sharpened composite clutched tight. She drove it straight for his good eye. Jack twisted sideways, the shard slicing his cheek instead. Blood welled hot. The doctor moved fast, but Sara was already up, swinging wild. "You killed him!" she screamed. Jack grabbed for the bolted table to pull himself in and set his feet. The worn aluminum edge tore loose under his weight with a dry rip, a narrow strip bending up and out like a jagged spear. Sara lunged, momentum and fury, straight into it. The point met cloth, then skin, and shoved deep under the ribs. Her breath left her in a single short sound. She folded around the metal, eyes wide, the shard slipping from her fingers to the deck. She blinked once, as if surprised by the quiet, and went slack. Jack froze, one hand still on the twisted edge, the other pressed to his cheek. Horror washed through him in a cold wave. “Do not move her,” the doctor said, voice suddenly all command. “Security, stabilize the scene.” The door cycled; the android stepped in. The doctor crouched, eyes flicking, hands steady but held just off Sara’s body. “Tool,” it said. The android snapped open a compact cutter. The doctor nodded. “One inch clearance both sides. No traction. Do not dislodge.” The android cut the torn aluminum with precise bites until only two short lengths remained outside the wound, front and back, smooth and stable. The doctor inspected the angle again, then set a light pressure band around the makeshift protrusions to keep them from shifting. “We do not extract here,” the doctor said softly, more to the room than to anyone in it. “We control motion.” A rigid board slid under Sara with the android’s help. The doctor secured her, keyed the med alert, and the corridor cleared ahead in the ship’s lighting. They moved fast but careful, the doctor walking beside, one hand braced to keep any sway from translating to the wound. “Captain,” the doctor said into the comm as the doors opened toward med. “One patient to surgical. Prepare cold protocol and full support. Lock the lounge and archive all feeds.” Jack tried to stand, legs rubber. The security unit at the door caught his elbow. “I can walk,” he said. “You will walk with assistance,” the android replied. It guided him out, past the slate on the table, past the clean line where the torn metal had been. Med bay glowed bright and controlled. The doctor’s team peeled Sara away down a side corridor; the main room shut its doors with a soft seal. Jack sat on the edge of a treatment couch until the room stopped tilting. He waited there while the ship carried on: androids moving blocks, drives humming, bulkheads ticking softly under load. Time blurred. The doctor returned at last, sleeves streaked with the faintest trace of coolant. It scanned Jack’s cheek, sealed the cut, checked the swelling around the patch. “How is she?” he asked. “Alive,” the doctor said. “We’ve placed her in induced coma and cooled her to near‑hypothermic range. The goal is to limit secondary damage and control metabolic demand until we reach a full surgical facility at the belt. She is between states so there is something for the hospital team to work on.” Jack looked past the doctor to the closed door. “To me she’s already dead.” The doctor regarded him, unreadable. “That is a rational framing for you. For the record: if she survives, she will likely face charges, attempted murder and assault at minimum. Captain has already suspended all in‑person contact between confined crew and others until docking.” The doctor finished the patch, satisfied with the seam. “You will heal.” “Some things don’t,” Jack said. The doctor gave a small nod. “Accuracy remains.” Jack sat a while longer in the med bay’s steady light, the hum of the ship filling the quiet. Then the security android helped him to his feet and back to the corridor. Crew stepped aside as he passed. No words. No glances held. He returned to Bay Twelve, to the mirrored sheets and the measured work and the rhythm that did not ask questions. ♦ ♦ ♦ By the second day after docking, the Queen worked like a machine built of machines. Belts of drones took the mirrored blocks in tidy rows while station androids slotted them into cold storage under fixed, clinical light. Jack signed onto the yard board with the other shift leads and did what he had always done, kept counts true, eased jams before they started, and watched tolerances the androids would have called acceptable but he didn’t. The human hands on his team said little. That was fine. The work answered. He took the last inspection loop himself, walking the line from bay to bay with a tablet at his hip and the old ache in his face dulled to a background throb. Numbers matched. Seals held. No surprises. When the final pallet registered transfer complete, he thumbed his initials into the log and headed toward the gangway to clear his berth and go. The summons hit his slate before he made the hatch. Bridge. Now. Grant Bridge. Now. Grant The briefing room felt smaller on station power. Grant sat alone at the table. He pushed a slate forward when Jack stepped in. “Company cleared you,” the captain said, passing a slate across the table. “Full bonus. Hazard differential. Transfer window open.” He hesitated, then added, “Med relay from the belt hospital. Kline survived initial intervention. She’ll be in care for months, respiratory and abdominal repairs, neuro watch. When she’s fit to transfer, station security will move her to remand. Counsel says sentencing guidelines point to five years. Magistrate handled it on corporate docket,” Grant added. “Plea in chambers, sentence posted at once.” Jack read the short report twice. No flourishes. Just the timeline, the projected stays, the notation that a plea would spare a formal trial. “Understood,” he said. Grant slid a second slate forward. “Clinic slot confirmed.” Voss‑Liang kept its corridors warm and its voices low. They scanned him, measured the scar lines, mapped the nerves the doctor had kept tidy. The lead surgeon outlined the work in clipped sentences: full optic replacement, neural interface, spectrum overlays. No promises beyond function. “Four hours under deep sedation,” she said. “You wake with calibration prompts. The rest is practice.” He signed. He came up from the gray with the feeling of having been paused and set back into motion. The bandage was light. The room held steady. A soft pulse started in the new eye as the implant learned his patterns, then eased. On day two they took the dressings off. The mirror showed a face he recognized, the iris on the left a shade too clear until he blinked and it settled. He stood there a moment, breathing with it, letting the room sharpen. Heat bled into color when he asked for it. Fine print rose out of shadow. He switched the extras off and left the eye as only an eye. He walked the station in slow loops between checkups, workshops, a view ring, a narrow garden with stiff, low plants under false sun. No one knew his name there. He liked that. He passed a hospital wing once and almost went inside, then didn’t. A message from the Nitrogen Queen chased him on the third day. The doctor. Two words. Accuracy achieved. He sent back nothing. The clinic cleared him at week’s end. The slate on his bunk listed options: a return to the Queen as acting line lead until rotation; a faster ship on a longer route; a new build out of Ceres with better pay and more hands. He stared at the list until the eye ached and then shut the slate and let the room go dark. In the morning he chose the new build. Not a solo berth. Not a family favor. Just work with clean lines and routines that stayed true if you watched them. He signed, packed, and shouldered his small bag. At the hatch he paused and took one last look down the corridor toward the hospital wing. The air smelled the same everywhere on station: recycled, scrubbed, a trace of metal under it all. The shuttle out to the new ship rode smooth along the guide rails. Ceres shrank in the port and the belt widened to its usual thin scatter. He let the new eye do what it was made to do: map distances, pull detail from glare, find stress along seams. Then he let it be quiet again. When the shuttle locked on and the hatch cycled, he stepped through without looking back. The long runs were still out there. The bays would hum the same way on every ship worth taking. He would keep the lines straight, keep the counts clean, and answer what needed answering. The patch was gone. The past sealed away like cargo in the holds. Ahead lay the long dark, but now he saw further into it than ever.

Sometimes life is stranger than fiction…but not these stories. These stories are literally fiction. 

This story contains AI-generated text. The author has used AI either for research, to generate outlines, or write the text itself. 

Nitrogen Queen — Part 2

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