Space Stations

Hoshi'd made a very good living at salvaging, and she certainly didn't need to keep at it, didn't need to be here when she was feeling every one of her years. Her grandson frequently begged her to “act her age,” to retire and come live inland with him in Yashiro. But she was acting her age, she told him. She so enjoyed piloting and staying busy, finding technological treasures amid things people had unthinkingly left behind.

More so, she enjoyed the solitude—of being away from the crowded, noisy, light-plagued Earth. And above all of that, she cherished being out where she could see the stars.

Hoshi—the name meant “star.”

Slipping into her enviro-suit, she fastened her helmet and flicked on its beam. A few deep breaths and she floated from her skimmer, through the docking hatch, and into the empty Streetcar. The beam cast a ghost-light down a narrow corridor with walls as gray as the station's exterior. It was all so still, the only sound her breathing and the soft clicking her helmet made as it bumped against the ceiling. She started humming, faintly, a tune from her youth, as her gloved fingers guided her like a bobbing balloon—past an empty locker, then to a storage room.

A look inside: grav-boots all held neatly on shelves—she made a note to check later if there were any small enough to fit her; cartons of lens cleaners; panels of circuitry. The latter, and the thin layer of film that covered everything, nudged Hoshi's lips into a slight smile. It was obvious no one had been here since the last astronomer left, all the scavengers taking the university's word for it that there was nothing worthwhile remaining. It was all hers. There were other odds and ends in this storage room and the next two, most fastened tight onto shelves, only a few things floated free. Nothing of any particular value or interest, so Hoshi moved on, pausing only when she heard the groan of metal and sensed the station shudder. Perhaps the Streetcar didn't have that handful of days.

She passed what served as either a conference room or a cafeteria—wherein hung the only bit of color she'd seen so far—paintings of Earth scenes arranged without any real sense of art. The Golden Gate Bridge highlighted by a fiery sunset, the Sydney Harbor filled with sailing boats, London at night, a wide-eyed child looking up at a seated statue of Abraham Lincoln, China's Great Wall. None of the pictures were worth taking.

There were crew quarters, these far more spacious than on the other stations Hoshi had explored. There were no bunk beds or wall-nets. There were real beds with thick mattresses, comfortable-looking chairs, and desks—all bolted to a gray floor. She fumbled at a panel on the wall, and a heartbeat later a section on the ceiling glowed bright enough to light the room. She felt a gradual heaviness, and realized artificial gravity was kicking in. Earth norm from the feel of it. The University of Chicago astronomers had been patricians as far as scientists went—hence the fine room that served as their escape from work and zero-g. Likely, they had taken all of their meager personal possessions with them, save the snugly fitted sheets and blankets and quilts, the plush pillows tied down with ribbons. Hoshi didn't bother to check the cabinets and closets. Her interests were elsewhere.

It took her nearly an hour to reach the main observatory, which occupied the entire upper level of the Streetcar. She had dallied here and there along the way. Incessantly curious, Hoshi inspected everything she passed. And she knew it could take her quite some time to properly inspect this room.

There were banks upon banks of instrumentation, and Hoshi began working controls she recognized—lighting the room so she could turn off her helmet beam, coaxing a livable temperature, bringing a little gravity to the place, though certainly not Earth norm. She felt more comfortable in a near-weightless environment. A slight thrumming indicated she'd found the oxygen system. It would take many long minutes, she guessed, for it to flood this room so she could remove her helmet. The station groaned again and shook.

Hoshi ignored the threat and glided toward an exterior wall, eyes as wide as the child's at Lincoln's feet. Spaced every three meters were telescopes, and she had but to nudge the controls to extend them through the Streetcar's shell and really look at the stars. She nearly did just that, stopping herself halfway there when she spotted the large telescope at the far end of the room. The true prize of Auriga's Streetcar—what she had journeyed here for. She felt her heart hammer in her small chest, and she hurried toward the telescope, the chill and ache washing from her body to be replaced with a youthful giddiness.

“How could men of science leave this behind?” she breathed—at once thankful they had so she could claim it, and sad that it meant nothing to them. “So old.”