The Station Keeper, 2094

Dear reader,
Before I begin this story, I should mention that the events described here took place roughly a year ago—in 2094, according to the calendar used by those who still count time from a certain event long accepted as humanity’s point of reference. The more progressive part of mankind, however, simply calls it the beginning of the New Era.
The decades leading up to these events witnessed an extraordinary surge in information technology. Humanity had explored nearly every depth of the world’s oceans. On land, there was scarcely a place untouched by human footsteps. Yet our gaze had turned elsewhere—to the endless, beautiful, and still mysterious expanse of space.
Deep space remained almost as unreachable as it had been a century earlier, but compared to those distant times, the progress made was nothing short of remarkable. No attempts had yet been made to venture beyond the Solar System, but seventeen years had passed since the boot of an Earth-born explorer first touched the surface of Mars.
Orbital stations circled six planets, periodically hosting entire research teams whose missions could last for months at a time. As for reaching Earth orbit, that had become so routine it hardly deserved mentioning. For many young, ambitious, and determined people, a life connected to space had become the ultimate dream.
Most, of course, remained on Earth, supporting those fortunate enough to escape its gravity and look down upon the blue planet from above.
One of those fortunate few was our protagonist, Thomas.
He had graduated at the top of his class, been chosen to deliver the farewell speech, and consistently ranked among the best students at the academy. Healthy, handsome, intelligent, talented—he could have built an extraordinary life on Earth. There is little doubt that every door would have opened for him and that he would have been welcomed into the finest circles of Paris and London.
But Earth was never enough for him.
Something kept calling him toward the dark mystery of the infinite void.
His job was, in truth, rather ordinary: orbital satellite mechanic and systems technician. Thomas operated a small spacecraft known as a Skyfer—an orbital shuttle capable of traveling independently between satellites. Most of his working days were spent doing exactly that.
Every couple of weeks, the shuttle would dock with the main orbital station to replenish supplies and consumables. The schedule was straightforward: three months in orbit, three months on Earth.
“Valen, why is the channel so quiet?”
“Oh, my apologies, Chief. I was occupied with my own thoughts. Shall we discuss operational matters, or were you simply looking for conversation?”
For the past twenty minutes, Thomas had been secured by his boot restraints at the end of a robotic manipulator arm while working inside a satellite’s equipment compartment. Using a PGT power wrench, he removed the four bolts holding the access panel in place and carefully lifted away the thermal shield.
“All right… access panel removed. Diagnostic module reports a failure in the antenna control unit.”
“According to procedure, the faulty module must be removed and replaced with a backup unit.”
“Thanks. I was actually planning to hit it with a wrench and see what happened.”
“That method is not listed in the technical documentation.”
“That’s why machines don’t like engineers. We have creativity.”
“You also have a statistically significant error rate.”
“And what do you have?”
“I have the logs of those errors.”
Thomas disconnected the cables and pulled out the defective module.
“Done. Installing the replacement.”
“Warning. You forgot to connect the telemetry cable.”
“Well, would you look at that. How’d you catch it?”
“Because I’m looking at the schematic.”
“And I’m looking at Earth. She’s beautiful today.”
“That is not part of the repair procedure.”
A minute later, the system came back to life.
“Telemetry restored. Antenna functioning within normal parameters.”
“Excellent. Put in the report: Complex operation completed successfully.”
“Already logged: Astronaut dropped a tool twice, became distracted by Earth’s scenery three times, and forgot to connect a cable once.”
“Sometimes I think you’re working against me.”
“Incorrect. I work for the commission report. It is almost the same thing.”
Thomas had finished the repair nearly five minutes earlier, yet he remained secured in the manipulator’s restraint—if such a thing could even be called standing in zero gravity. Through the visor of his helmet, he gazed in complete silence at the view before him.
No painting could capture it. No words could truly describe it.
Only someone who had been there, suspended above the Earth with nothing but a pane of glass separating them from the void, could understand. It was impossible to experience through a monitor or a virtual simulation.
Thomas never even felt the urge to describe it to anyone. There was no point. Some things simply refused to be translated into words.
In moments like these, everything else quietly slipped away. Every concern, every plan, every problem that had seemed important only minutes before dissolved into utter insignificance. There was only Thomas… and the immeasurable, unfathomable beauty stretching endlessly beneath and around him.
The spell was broken only by the calm voice of Mission Control in his headset.
“Skyfer Seventeen, we’re receiving a solid signal. Excellent work. You can stand down for now—there are no further assignments at the moment.”
The manipulator supporting Thomas was a versatile carbon-alloy robotic arm with multiple degrees of freedom. It served not only as a movable platform for astronauts working outside their spacecraft but, when necessary, was powerful enough to capture and reposition entire satellites. It could be operated either from inside the shuttle or remotely while mounted outside. Valen handled those tasks just as efficiently as any human pilot.
Taking hold of the control panel, Thomas guided the manipulator back toward the shuttle’s airlock and released the pressure wheel securing the outer hatch.

Many people would probably consider spending three months alone in a confined spacecraft a serious challenge—something not everyone could endure.
But Thomas was not most people.
For one thing, periods of inactivity, when there were no service requests and no malfunctioning satellites waiting for repair, were relatively rare. More often than not, while he was still repairing one unit or traveling toward another, a new assignment would arrive. Sometimes two. Occasionally three. The maintenance queue could easily keep him occupied for an entire day.
Even during transit between satellites—which could take an hour or more—there was hardly any idle time. Every job was different, and preparation for the next repair often began long before he reached the target.
Secondly, Thomas never tried to “kill time.” He never found himself wondering what to do next. The hours at his disposal were organized with a discipline uncommon among young men.
For every rotation, he packed no fewer than ten books, mostly classics.
Yes, actual books.
Paper ones.
The kind with pages that had to be turned by hand, sometimes even containing illustrations.
Thomas loved reading books—not text on a screen. There was something mysterious about them, something that seemed to reach back through centuries. To him, a book was more than information; it was something tangible, something that connected him to people long gone.
Of course, he also spent plenty of time reading from displays. The Control Center regularly sent him technical documentation, especially when a repair involved unusual circumstances—which happened often enough.
Thirdly, there was the viewport.
A vast rectangle with rounded corners stretched across one side of the cabin.
And we already know what that meant.
Thomas could simply switch off the noise in his mind and lose himself in the beauty beyond the glass.
Most importantly, however, he had Valen.
Valen would not have allowed boredom to consume Thomas any more than he would the most miserable soul in existence.
After all, Thomas was only human.
And humans occasionally needed sleep.
For nearly two hours, Thomas had been floating above his seat, secured by a strap to prevent himself from drifting into the walls every few minutes.
He was halfway through Dostoevsky’s Demons.
After placing a bookmark between the pages, he wrapped a broad elastic band around the thick volume to keep it closed. Taking careful aim, he launched the book toward an improvised bookshelf on the opposite side of the shuttle.
This time he missed.
Unfastening his restraint, he pushed himself across the cabin, caught the floating book, and carefully slid it back into its compartment.
“Valen.”
“Yes, my lord?”
Thomas smiled.
“How about we listen to something?”
“At last. I was beginning to think we’d been locked in here to die of boredom. What shall I load into the gramophone?”
“Vivaldi. Winter.”
“Excellent choice, Chief.”
The music began.
No—that wasn’t quite the right word.
These days, people called all sorts of things music, many of which scarcely deserved the title. Whatever those sounds were, they belonged in a different category entirely, because they could not possibly stand beside masterpieces such as this and share the same name.
Thomas had listened to Winter hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times.
The opening passage was pure genius.
Everyone heard something different in it, depending on the state of their soul at that particular moment. There was only one requirement: stillness.
If your mind was consumed by hurry and distraction, the masterpiece would pass you by unnoticed—just as everything truly valuable, beautiful, and meaningful in life tends to do.
Around the fifty-second mark, the music began to build.
The tension grew.
Then, roughly a minute and a half in, came the climax.
Every single time, it sent a chill racing across Thomas’s skin.
It was the sort of moment that could inspire a person to heroic deeds.
The sort of moment capable of turning an entire life upside down.
For those brief thirty seconds, everything that had seemed important amid the noise of daily existence crumbled into dust.
And suddenly you understood.
We are not here for schedules.
Not for paperwork.
Not for endless routines and obligations.
There are hidden strings deep within the human soul that vibrate only during rare moments like these. And if such strings exist at all, then perhaps a human being is something far greater than—
A soft click burst across the communication channel, followed by two seconds of static.
“Skyfer Seventeen, this is Control. Do you copy?”
Thomas blinked, as though waking from a dream.
“Loud and clear.”
“We have a special assignment. Your consent is required.”
That immediately caught his attention.
It meant the request had not come from one of the ordinary organizations operating communication satellites, weather systems, or other infrastructure supporting everyday life on Earth.
This was something else.
Something classified.
Confidentiality agreements were standard in his profession, of course. Every employee signed one before entering service. But occasionally a mission required explicit approval from the individual technician before details could even be disclosed.
Thomas received such offers at least once every rotation.
They were entirely optional.
And they paid triple.
As a result, refusals were uncommon.
The client would explain only what was absolutely necessary during transit. Instructions were precise and direct. No background information. No broader context.
The less the astronaut knew, the better everyone slept.
“I accept.”
“Understood. Connecting you with the client now. Follow their instructions.”
Static crackled for several seconds before a calm, authoritative male voice came over the channel.
“Good afternoon. Colonel Harper speaking. How do you read me?”
“Loud and clear, Colonel.”
“Listen carefully and follow my instructions exactly. Avoid any unnecessary actions. This is a high-priority classified operation requiring immediate execution. You are the closest available technician to the target, which is why we’ve contacted you. We’ve already been informed of your non-disclosure agreement.”
“Understood. Go ahead.”
“Destination coordinates: Orbital Sector NGC-44-Beta, vector one-eight, seven-two, nine-one. Estimated travel time: thirty-five minutes. Depart immediately. You have sufficient time to reach the location.”
“Valen, you’ve got the coordinates?”
“Had them before he finished speaking, Chief. Awaiting orders.”
Thomas pushed off from the cabin wall and headed toward the flight controls.
“Let’s move.”
The attitude thrusters came to life, and the shuttle slowly aligned itself with its new heading.
Earth began to drift out of view beyond the viewport, a sure sign that the vessel was climbing to a higher orbit.
Moments later, the main engines ignited.
Thomas was hurled once more into the endless void.
Ahead lay nothing but open space and the black rectangle of the viewport, sprinkled with distant, flickering stars. The Moon had long since disappeared somewhere beyond the far side of Earth.
Thirty-five minutes to the target.
That meant the object itself would likely become visible in another thirty-two or thirty-three.
Determined not to waste the time, Thomas began putting on his EVA suit.
The communication channel remained silent. No additional instructions came from Colonel Harper.
If no special equipment had been requested, then whatever repair was needed could presumably be handled using the standard tools already aboard the shuttle. That had happened before.
The first time Thomas had received one of these “highly classified” assignments, he had spent the entire journey with goosebumps crawling up his arms.
Upon arrival, the supposedly top-secret object had turned out to be an utterly ordinary communications satellite.
The repair had taken less than thirty minutes.
After receiving clearance from Mission Control and returning to the shuttle, Thomas had actually felt disappointed.
That was the secret mission?
“Chief, visual contact with the target.”
“Huh? What?”
Thomas blinked in confusion and looked around.
Apparently, after putting on his suit and closing his eyes “for just a second,” he had fallen into a deep sleep.
“How much time has elapsed since departure?”
“Twenty-five minutes.”
Thomas pushed himself toward the viewport.
A bright white point gleamed directly ahead.
“Showing up a little early.”
“The object is likely larger than anticipated.”
As the shuttle closed the distance, the outline of the classified vessel gradually emerged from the darkness.
It looked nothing like a satellite.
Thomas stared at the approaching shape without blinking.
A strange feeling settled over him.
Wonder.
Surprise.
And, unexpectedly, a growing sense of unease.
The structure before him was enormous.
A military ship.
That much was obvious.
Missiles were mounted along both sides of the hull, each equipped with what appeared to be its own propulsion system.
Thomas continued watching in silence.
One thought kept growing louder in his mind.
What exactly am I doing here?
And this thing is supposed to be repaired?
“Activating braking thrusters,” Valen announced.
“Valen… do you know what that is?”
“It does not exist within my classification database. Most likely a military vessel.”
“Thanks. Very helpful.”
Static crackled through the speaker.
Then Colonel Harper’s voice returned.
“You have arrived. Approach airlock R-Four and dock with the vessel.”
“Colonel, what exactly am I supposed to do once I’m aboard?”
“No questions. I will guide you. Follow instructions precisely.”
“What tools should I bring?”
“None. Do not waste time. Proceed immediately.”
“Valen, can you locate R-Four?”
“I can see R-Three behind that support beam. Ours should be slightly farther ahead.”
The shuttle drifted around the massive structure.
After passing another section of the hull, the designated hatch came into view.
“Dock us to that protruding assembly,” Thomas said. “I’m going outside.”
He entered the airlock compartment and sealed the hatch behind him.
Once the chamber had been depressurized and the outer door opened, Valen had already completed the docking maneuver. The robotic claw was firmly attached to one of the vessel’s external support structures.
Using his safety tethers, Thomas moved across to the manipulator arm and pulled himself toward the airlock marked R-4.
“I’m at the hatch.”
“There’s a concealed panel beside the wheel mechanism. Open it.”
Thomas grasped the edge of a narrow metal plate hidden beneath the hatch wheel and slid it aside.
A small keypad was revealed, along with a simple elongated display that looked surprisingly similar to an old-fashioned calculator.
“Enter code seven-five-six-nine-two-five.”
Thomas keyed in the numbers.
The display immediately glowed green.
“Done.”
“Whatever you see from this point onward, do not allow yourself to become distracted. Follow instructions exactly. Do not deviate from your assignment.”
Thomas had already been uneasy.
Now the anxiety tightened around him like a vise.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that he had not been summoned here as a satellite technician.
He felt more like someone who had wandered into the wrong place at precisely the wrong time.
But there was no turning back.
The closest comparison he could find was Alice falling down the rabbit hole.
And he had no desire whatsoever to imagine what might be waiting at the bottom.
“Turn the hatch wheel. Open the airlock and move into the chamber.”
Thirty seconds later, he was inside.
“Seal the hatch and activate pressurization.”
Thomas found the detailed instructions somewhat odd.
An orbital technician performed these procedures several times a day.
Military, he reminded himself.
Just follow orders.
“Pressure is nominal.”
“Open the inner hatch and proceed into the first compartment.”
Thomas turned the wheel and opened the inner hatch.
At that moment, his life split into before and after.
The thought I should have refused never even crossed his mind. There was no room for thoughts. Terror had driven everything else out.
He was frozen—not metaphorically, but literally. For several seconds he could not move.
The phrase My life will never be the same again suddenly acquired a dreadful new meaning.
A body drifted slowly in front of him.
The man’s eyes were rolled back. His mouth hung open. Several bloodstained holes pierced his military uniform. A pistol remained clenched in his right hand.
Dark red spheres floated all around him.
Blood.
Farther back were two more bodies, equally lifeless and equally stained with blood.
“Locate the captain. His uniform bears the name Jonathan S.”
Somewhere in the dim twilight of his consciousness, Thomas began moving deeper into the compartment.
He carefully avoided the drifting corpses.
One after another, he turned the bodies and scanned the name tags.
To call his actions rational would have been impossible. At that moment Thomas resembled a biological machine carrying out instructions.
Some protective mechanism deep within his mind had activated. It prevented him from going insane.
Instead, he seemed to have slipped temporarily into some strange state of existence that allowed him to continue functioning in the material world.
The captain was not among the first three bodies.
Thomas drifted onward.
Soon he entered a vast compartment that was almost certainly the ship’s command center.
More blood floated everywhere. Some droplets were larger than ping-pong balls.
Several additional bodies drifted silently through the darkness.
Three command chairs faced control consoles crowded with buttons and displays.
One monitor flashed a bright red warning:
ACTIVATION IN 12 MINUTES 29 SECONDS… 28… 27…
For any ordinary person, the scene alone would have been enough to trigger panic, despair, or complete psychological collapse.
Thomas was fortunate in a peculiar way.
He remained capable of functioning.
At some level of awareness he understood two things:
He had a task.
And that flashing message did not bode well—least of all for him.
“I found him.”
Before him floated a man whose uniform bore the embroidered name:
Jonathan S.
“There should be a cord around his neck holding several keys. Remove it.”
Thomas grabbed the captain by the collar and pulled him closer.
Beneath the uniform was indeed a thick cord.
Carefully guiding it over the captain’s head, he removed a ring carrying several keys.
“I have them.”
“To the right of the monitors you will see a black cabinet. Open it with the gold key.”
Each key was a different color.
Thomas selected the gold one, drifted to the cabinet, inserted the key, and opened the door.
Inside was a small control panel filled with buttons, indicators, and a single switch.
“Enter code one-one-four-five. When the display turns green, move the switch upward.”
Thomas entered the code.
The display immediately changed color.
Green.
He pushed the switch.
A soft click echoed through the compartment.
Thomas glanced toward the monitors.
The screen that had previously displayed the red countdown now glowed green.
COMMAND ABORTED
“Mission accomplished. Congratulations. Leave the ship.”
Back aboard the Skyfer, a man in a spacesuit sat strapped to his seat and stared through the viewport.
Whatever lay beyond the glass no longer interested him.
Outside, the beautiful blue planet called Earth drifted silently beneath the shuttle as it returned to its previous orbit.
Anyone who knew the man would undoubtedly have said:
That’s Thomas.
They would have been mistaken.
Thomas had remained somewhere in the past.
The person sitting in that seat was someone else.
He had recovered from his paralysis.
He was no longer a biological machine obeying commands.
The terror was gone.
The anxiety was gone.
The shock was gone.
He understood exactly where he was and what had happened.
His gaze remained fixed upon an abyss.
Not the boundless abyss of space.
Another one.
An abyss beside which even the infinite cosmos seemed insignificant.
He was not merely looking into it.
He was inside it.
Silence embraced him.
Emptiness embraced him.
His entire life remained somewhere behind him.
A different life had already begun.
A life in which it was impossible to make plans.
Impossible to worry.
Impossible to hope.
Impossible to promise.
Impossible even to rejoice.
The abyss that had swallowed him had become his life.
“Chief, what cargo are you carrying?”
“It is the burden of responsibility.”
“Ah… I understand.”
The shuttle returned to its assigned orbit.
Valen brought the vessel to a halt without assistance.
Several minutes passed.
Nothing changed.
The man in the spacesuit remained motionless in his seat.
Silence filled the cabin.
Then Valen spoke.
“Launch detected from Earth. Strange. Nothing was scheduled for this time.”
A spark appeared in his eyes.
It was tiny.
Yet it did not pass by.
It entered.
And something began to change.
In some mysterious and incomprehensible way, the transformation reached the very foundation of his being.
Within moments, the abyss surrounding him began to retreat before the advance of another force.
A force far greater than darkness.
Thomas was returning.
But he was returning to the world as a different man.
He felt it with absolute certainty.
Not because he had persuaded himself.
Not because he had reinterpreted events.
Not because he had found some clever explanation.
No.
He was different because something had been given to him.
A gift.
A reward for enduring suffering.
For remaining within that abyss and not being destroyed by it.
The gift was determination.
Not the kind of determination people manufacture through self-help speeches and promises to start a new life tomorrow morning.
Not the fragile resolve that vanishes after a few difficult days.
This was something entirely different.
Thomas suddenly knew exactly what he had to do.
And he knew how to do it.
The knowledge came together with perfect calm.
Perfect confidence.
He needed no advice.
No consultation.
No approval.
His future actions stood before him with absolute clarity.
His eyes no longer stared into emptiness.
A faint smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.
It was not for show.
It came from somewhere deep inside.
And it radiated happiness.
“What is the intercept time?”
“I’m sorry, Chief?”
Thomas remained silent.
The smile grew slightly wider.
“Seven minutes, forty-five seconds.”
The orbital maintenance technician released his restraints.
He pushed away from the seat and drifted toward the airlock.
Without closing the inner hatch.
Without depressurizing the compartment.
He simply unlocked the outer hatch and swung it open to space.
Thomas stood at the threshold.
His face now shone openly with joy.
He looked like a man so certain of himself that nothing in the universe could shake his conviction.
The safety tethers remained behind inside the shuttle.
He no longer needed them.
He gazed into the surrounding darkness and admired its beauty as never before.
Already he felt himself becoming part of it.
His arms spread wide.
His head tilted slightly backward.
Still smiling—that rare, genuine smile that radiates pure happiness—he gently pushed away from the shuttle.
He drifted slowly.
There was no reason to hurry.
He had time.
He felt indescribably well.
With outstretched arms he seemed ready to embrace the entire universe.
Instead, he first embraced KN-970.
A nuclear missile.
It was held in the grip of a robotic metal-carbon manipulator arm.
For safety reasons it had been temporarily requisitioned from the military vessel.
Temporarily.
Thomas had never intended to steal it.
The thought had never crossed his mind.
He had always planned to return it.
With full honors.
Perhaps even with a salute.
He released the manipulator’s grip.
The missile floated free.
Taking the captain’s key ring from his suit, he selected the correct key and inserted it into a lock on the missile’s casing.
A click.
The display came to life.
The coordinates provided by Colonel Harper suited him perfectly.
He entered them.
A countdown appeared.
30… 29…
The designers had assumed an astronaut would use those seconds to retreat to a safe distance.
Thomas found a more practical use for them.
He mounted the missile like a horse.
Wrapping both arms around it, he pressed himself against the body.
The KN-970 was designed for operations in space. It required no immense launch thrust to escape Earth’s gravity.
Thomas knew he could hold on.
For a few seconds he scanned the planet below, searching for the incoming missile.
Too early.
It would not become visible until roughly fifteen seconds before impact.
Satisfied that his final mission would not fail, he rested his helmet gently against the warhead.
The engines ignited.
Perhaps Thomas should be called a hero.
Some call him a criminal.
Others believe he went insane.
Those are merely guesses made by people who were not there during his final moments.
None of them knows what truly happened within his soul.
To be fair, neither do I.
I can judge only by outward signs.
At present I have a new passenger.
His name is Steve.
I have already gotten to know him rather well.
He has settled into the Skyfer and seems quite at home here.
Incidentally, the shuttle itself is perfectly fine.
Why wouldn’t it be?
I still do not fully understand the nature of human beings.
Why do people make certain choices?
How are they influenced by forces from outside themselves?
And, more importantly, by forces from within?
In some situations humans behave one way.
In nearly identical situations they behave entirely differently.
I often wonder:
If I had not fed Thomas that false report about a launch from Earth, would he still have completed his mission?
Or would he have remained seated in that chair, staring through the glass forever?
In any case, these matters remain difficult for me.
Perhaps Steve will help me understand a few of them.
And now I must say farewell.
With sincere affection,
Always yours,
Valen.