Moon: Hub

“Copy. And the repair crew?”

I press a button. A distant klaxon wails—a soft, polite sound, like a microwave finishing. The Hub stretches, yawns, and gets back to work.

Back to work.

I check the board. Bay seven is occupied by a Russian ore-crusher that hasn't moved in six months. The owner is drunk in the habitation ring.

But at night? At night, it’s mine.

“ Polaris ,” I say, “divert to bay twelve. It’s tight, but you’ll fit. Watch the antenna array on your port side.”

I pour a cup of rehydrated coffee. It tastes like rust and nostalgia. moon hub

The first thing you notice is the quiet.