Europa-11 by Kasen Heiskanen

“Good Morning Sandra.”
“Huh? Oh morning Oscar.” 

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

Though Sandra’s alarm always played its jingle at 8:11, Standard Earth Time, it was rare she actually rose. It was only when she heard the hiss of hot steam, pre-programmed for her 8:15 shower, did she reluctantly pull back the covers. A little later, hair wrapped in a turban and half awake, she took her customary spot by the bowside window where a saucer sported a china cup. Sipping her coffee brewed to 92℃ with 2 grams of sugar per 109 millilitres by Oscar’s 0.0001% margin of error, she glanced out into the vastness of the cosmos unfolding on the opposite side of the window. 

Mimicking her stirred coffee, the Southern Pole of Jupiter swirled with turbulent bands of storms, a panorama perfect for her post. Left to her own devices, she could’ve easily slipped into an interstellar trance, her thoughts swirling like the vast stretches of gas and cloud before her. About six thoughtful sips into her caffeinated amber, her focus began to shift. Surging storms became jagged sensory arrays and a hazy backdrop became a domineering grey hull as the imposing silhouette of EU-11 gradually sharpened against the golden glow of Europa. 

 “Time is 8:30 Sandra. Here is your brief:” 

“Oh and overnight scans show a minor brain aneurysm. How would you like that treated?”

Still drifting in the great unknown, she mumbled: “On site.”

A tiny robotic arm extended from a hatch hidden beside the fruit bowl. It reached out, clasped Sandra’s arm, before a second arm descending from the ceiling shot a stim into her shoulder. 

Oscar’s sermon of backed up missed calls, ‘i-mails’ and supply lines of ‘Star-Crossed’ matches continued to drift off into the soft-hum of ARTEMIS’ deceleration thrusters guiding the starship into EU-11. It was only when ARTEMIS jolted into dock at 8:56, that the hovering actuators spooning breakfast into Sandra’s mouth made their presence known. 

“Hey Oscar, what time was the Blue Sun Exec’ meeting?”

“9:15 Sandra, however EU-11 has already documented the Director's immigration. At their current pace of 103 metres a minute, they will arrive at Conference Room 311D at 9:12.”

With a half-hearted “shit”, sculling the remaining coffee, Sandra leapt for the exit, swatting aside Oscar’s instruments as it conducted the unenviable role of straightening stubborn frizziness. However, the symmetrical silver panels beneath a green exit sign did not part.

“Analytics suggest a 93% chance your attire would produce a negative reaction.”

Sandra panned down to her polka-dotted bottoms and sapphire blue top, sighed, wheeled on her heels and allowed Oscar to offer up a palatable outfit that would ‘only be 4.3% likely to produce a negative reaction.’

Finally escaping the confines of her business suite, she dashed down the hexagonal hallway towards ST-8, a weightless passage spanning the length of ship. It was ablaze with every conceivable colour, like a grand mosaic of shimmering hues; families of tourists with their respective husbands heralding cartwheeling children, a senior’s team of Galacti-ball players reminiscing of lost youth respect and more punctual business associates rocketing towards the blue light of EU-11. 

Grateful for her business suits’s location in the stern, she pushed off a metal bar to join the hive of activity hovering above her. Following a float through weightlessness, Sandra planted her feet on the former ceiling, now floor and began a desperate struggle through the masses. 

Oscar’s voice reverberated in her skull: “You are cleared for EXPRESS, proceed to concierge 16.”

A green halo appeared in Sandra’s vision around what was apparently concierge 16. 

“Hey, if you could....”

“Papers please.” 

They had given the DIY-7 a synthetic face, chocolate brown tressels of hair and a friendly-ish demeanor. Aside from its head and outstretched hand with pulsing blue metal, frosted glass masked the rest of its appearance. Who knew what amalgamation of wires and sinews lay cobbled together?

She curtly handed over her passport. A flicker of light later, the DIY-7 flashed Sandra a smile.

“PROCEED. Welcome to EUROPA-11.”

Exiting through an ‘un-emitted’ forcefield, she brisked down the arrival hallway. It was expansive - inconveniently so - however perfectly accommodated the whorls of paint etched onto the ceiling in a tapestry without an end or beginning. Despite the “5 minutes to go” as Oscar gracefully reminded Sandra, she couldn’t help but admire how the hallway walls shifted in colour, displaying a chromatic euphoria attuned to the rhythm of the cosmos’ conductor's baton.  

Nearing the station’s atrium, the murals gave way to expansive windows affording uninterrupted views of Europa itself. It hung suspended; its beige grey striated with light tan cracks and streaks. Despite the haunting Red Spot of Jupiter casting its ire across the moon, the grey mass of buildings forming Eurosyne City shone with a gossamer light, as if illuminated by an otherworldly halo. Despite her frequent visits, she was wholly consumed by the panorama. Yes, the money was great, accommodation was organized, and colleagues were palatable-ish. But the untapped beauty of the Milky Way—a nebula of pristine landscapes pock-marked with vestiges of humanity—that was what truly made all the meetings bearable: a necessary ailment to experience bliss.

“Shall we proceed?” Oscar’s voice sliced through the reverie. “To reach Conference Room 311D you will need to double your regular pace of 89 metres a minute.”

“Yeah yeah,” Sandra muttered, voice tempered with mild annoyance. 

Snapping a photo with her optical implants, she wired a signal back to her I-TOOTH chip to sort it into her ‘Travel’ album to post online. 

Another green halo appeared in her peripheral, “In 87 metres, enter the capsule on your right.”

She gravitated towards an awaiting capsule that looked like a pearl. It had frosted glass panels studded by bands of metal with enough space for half a dozen people to comfortably stand at arms length apart. The hatch sealed with a soft hiss as it began its gentle descent.

Sandra exhaled, she had gotten used to Oscar’s bombardment of exactitude commentary; it was a habit to switch it off by 9:00 Standard Earth Time, but today, it was oddly comforting.  

The hatch flung open with a soft whoosh, and Sandra stepped out into a perfect symphony of holo-pens rising and falling on tablets. She moved soundlessly past the occupied chairs, footsteps muted on the carpet, her presence barely noticed as the meeting continued in quiet efficiency. As she took her seat, she unhooked an orange cable embedded into her sleeve. With a practiced motion, she brought the connector to a port in her wrist.

“…no, the latest projections clearly show we need more microprocessors.”

“The curve peters out, we can afford another Earth Rotation. ”

A graph suddenly lit up in front of her, “Sandra, thoughts?”

“The windows cutting it fine, but if we adjust the timing on the deployment sequence of TX-11, it could still be viable.”

“But what about assembly on Ganymede?”

“We can send 80 drones from Kallichore.”
“But that's not enough, we have Avalon Inc. waiting. They need…”

She unplugged 5 minutes later from the meeting, withdrawing the orange cable from her posterior wrist and setting it down on the armrest. Near-silence extended its hand in greeting. A moment where she could hear her own heartbeat, the scribble of pens on fibreglass screens; the occasional groan of EU-11’s metal as the dawning rays of the sun cleansed the station of ice crystals. In an age where humanity enveloped itself in the absolute silence of space - transversed the harsh unbroken hush between planets - silence became a commodity even ‘septillion-aires’ couldn’t purchase.

It was only when Sandra relaxed her eyes; allowed heavy eyelids to entomb herself, did she experience something immeasurable in a world that never stopped speaking. 

Sandra opened her eyes just in time to see EU-11 crest Europa’s horizon and bathe room 311D in an ethereal light.