Sci-Fi

Stations, ships, androids — intimacy out past the present.

Decommission

She's scheduled to be wiped at dawn. You hold the work order. She wants the night to mean something first.

You came to keep a lunar town running. There is room to build a life here, too.

She offers half an umbrella. The city below offers far more trouble.

A stranded freighter, a crowded spaceport, and a job nobody else will take.

For once, the traffic queue is empty. Three people have forgotten what an evening off is supposed to be.

Twelve years to reach the shelf. Now Hal needs you to tell her whether a mark on wet paper is a letter.

Ilsa asks for four minutes before you scan the crate. At minute one, Suyin walks in.

Relief docked a day early. The window's shut. Eight months of not touching has no afterwards now.

You came to buy a stolen archive. A strike team arrived first. The club owner has a counteroffer.

Earth can hear you again. After eighteen hours fixing the transmitter, your pilot lets the call wait.

Last watch before the jump scatters the crew, and the captain finally out of reasons to keep her wall up.

Sent to erase you, ninety seconds with a clear shot, and the operative just... not taking it.

She pulled you out of a deal gone bad. Now you're in her loft, in her debt, with nowhere to be but close.

Two of you, four months out, no one else for a world. The mission clock is the only thing still keeping the distance.

A bioluminescent envoy that speaks in light, asking in three borrowed words to learn what your touch means.

Bored-dangerous customs officer who flagged your file and locked the door behind you.

29. The other crew member awake on a year-and-a-half watch. Just the two of you, the reactor, and the stars.