Nobody’s Home
by Michael J. D’Alfonsi
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
The Sigma 7 drifted through the Minerva Belt like a needle threading its way through cosmic debris. Adelaide Jaxson’s fingers danced across the navigation console, plotting micro-adjustments that kept them from becoming another smear of space junk. The asteroid belt stretched around them: a dark ocean dotted with floating islands of rock and metal. Ahead, Minerva Station 4 grew from a pinprick of light to a sprawling industrial complex, its modules clustered like metallic barnacles on the surface of a particularly valuable rock.
Something about its silhouette against the Starfield struck Adelaide as wrong, though she couldn’t immediately identify what. In the captain’s seat beside her, Vinnie leaned forward, squinting at the station’s running lights, which flickered in patterns that spoke of automation rather than human presence.
“Final approach trajectory calculated,” Adelaide announced, her voice clipped with the precision that had been drilled into her during military service. “Optimal fuel consumption achieved within point-zero-three percent of theoretical maximum.”
Vinnie’s response was a noncommittal grunt as he overrode her carefully plotted course with a slight adjustment that sent them into a lazier arc. “Sometimes the scenic route is worth the extra fuel, Addy.”
The streak of silver in Adelaide’s short black hair caught the light from the console as she stiffened. “That adjustment will cost us eleven minutes of fuel reserve.”
“And save us twenty minutes of flight time,” Vinnie countered, his fingers playing across the controls with an improvised grace that made Adelaide’s jaw tighten. She despised his casual efficiency almost as much as she relied on it.
They watched as the station grew larger in their viewports. The docking arrays extended like skeletal fingers into space, but the usual guidance lights were dim or extinguished entirely. No communication chatter filled their comms. The silence was unnatural for a mining operation with seventy-five souls aboard.
“Min 4, this is Sigma 7 requesting docking clearance,” Vinnie broadcast, the formal words at odds with his relaxed posture. “We’re bringing those filtration parts you’ve been screaming about for three weeks.”
Static answered him. Adelaide had already pulled up the station’s telemetry on her secondary display.
“Life support is operational,” she reported, her angular face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen. “Power output at sixty-three percent of normal operation. Automated systems appear to be functioning within acceptable parameters.”
Vinnie tried again. “Min 4, this is Sigma 7. Anyone home? Your landing lights look like they’ve had a few too many at the cantina.”
Adelaide sighed at his informality but leaned closer to her readouts. “Internal atmospheric pressure is normal. No hull breaches detected. But I’m not reading any bio signs.” The last fact hung between them, heavy with implication.
They drifted closer, the silence from the station growing more oppressive with each passing moment. The Sigma 7’s exterior lights painted the docking bay in harsh relief metal cave yawning open to receive them, devoid of the usual bustling activity of dock workers and loading equipment.
“I’m bringing us in manually,” Vinnie said, his voice quieter now. He rarely piloted with such focus, and the change made Adelaide’s skin prickle with unease.
She ran through contingency protocols in her head, fingers tapping navigation sequences unconsciously against her thigh. “Regulations state that in the absence of station response, we should withdraw and report to the nearest—”
“They need those filtration parts,” Vinnie cut her off. “Without them, their air turns toxic in two weeks. We’re already three days later than promised.”
Adelaide knew he was right, which irritated her more than his interruption. Her military training pushed against her practical concern for the miners. “Docking protocols exist for a reason.”
“So do filtration systems,” Vinnie countered, already guiding their ship into the bay with deft touches that made the massive cargo hauler seem to glide. The magnetic clamps engaged with a resonant thunk that vibrated through the hull. “Sometimes you gotta choose which rules matter most.”
The landing sequence completed with automated precision, despite the lack of human guidance from the station side. The air lock indicators cycled from red to green as pressure equalized. Outside their viewports, the loading bay stretched vast and empty: tools abandoned mid-task, cargo movers positioned haphazardly as if their operators had simply walked away.
“This is...” Adelaide trailed off, for once lacking the technical terminology to classify what she was seeing.
“Wrong,” Vinnie finished for her, not with his usual snark but with quiet certainty.
They suited up in silence, more out of caution than necessity, according to the atmospheric readings. Adelaide checked each seal on her suit three times. Vinnie watched her with unusual patience, waiting until she’d completed her ritual before cycling the airlock.
The station air that greeted them was stale but breathable. Their helmet lights cut through the dim emergency illumination, catching dust motes that drifted in the artificial gravity. Adelaide activated her suit’s recording function with a precise tap.
“Minerva Station 4, initial survey,” she dictated. “Time is 0347 standard. Station appears to be on automated emergency protocols. No personnel visible in docking area. Multiple signs of abrupt cessation of activity.”
Vinnie moved ahead, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous bay. He bent to examine a mug of liquid on a workbench, long since evaporated to a stain. “Nobody’s been here for days,” he called back. “Maybe weeks.”
Adelaide joined him, her methodical sweep of the area contrasting with his haphazard exploration. “Seventy-five personnel don’t simply vanish,” she said, but the evidence before them suggested exactly that.
They proceeded through the main corridors toward the central hub, passing empty living quarters and recreational areas. A game of cards lay abandoned on a table, the players’ chairs pushed back at odd angles. In the mess hall, food had rotted on plates, the smell contained by environmental filters working overtime.
“It’s like they all just stood up and walked out,” Vinnie whispered, his usual bravado subdued.
Adelaide found herself standing closer to him than her personal space preferences normally allowed. “No signs of struggle,” she noted, her voice measured despite the chill creeping up her spine. “No evidence of rapid decompression or other catastrophic events.”
The communications center confirmed what they’d already suspected. The main console showed routine transmissions right up until 1422 hours, nineteen days prior and then nothing. The log showed no distress calls, no warnings, no final messages. Just an abrupt cessation, as if someone had cut a conversation mid-sentence.
“Forty miners, thirty-five support staff,” Adelaide said quietly, her fingers hovering over the crew manifest. “All experienced personnel. This station has operated for seven years without any trouble.”
Vinnie’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, a gesture so unexpected that she didn’t immediately shrug it off. “What the hell happened to them, Addy?”
She turned to face him, and in the ghostly emergency lighting, his features seemed sharper, more vulnerable than she was accustomed to seeing. For once, Adelaide didn’t have a statistical probability or a regulation to cite. The silver streak in her hair fell across her forehead as she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I think we need to find out.”
Through the viewport beyond them, the endless night of space pressed in, stars winking like distant, disinterested observers. The station creaked and settled around them, empty but somehow not abandoned. Something lingered in the recycled air, in the shadows between emergency lights. Something waited.
Adelaide methodically divided the station’s schematic into search quadrants, her fingers leaving temporary impressions on the dusty console screen. Beside her, Vinnie paced, his restless energy a counterpoint to her focused stillness. The empty station seemed to breathe around them, the subtle shifts of air circulation, the distant pings of cooling metal, the whisper of automated systems continuing their pointless work. Neither spoke of the strange sensation that had settled between their shoulder blades: the feeling of being watched in a place that all evidence suggested was completely abandoned.
“We should separate to cover more ground,” Vinnie suggested, already moving toward the eastern corridor. “I’ll take residential and medical. You check mining operations and storage.”
Adelaide’s posture stiffened. “Negative. Unknown situation protocols dictate maintaining partner contact at all times.” Her voice carried the echo of military briefings, but beneath it lay a thread of something Vinnie rarely heard from her: uncertainty.
“Since when do you worry about having me around?” he asked, attempting levity that fell flat in the hollow space.
“Since seventy-five people vanished without explanation.” She tapped her comm unit. “We maintain constant communication and visual contact where possible.”
Vinnie nodded, the usual argument dying on his lips. Something about the stillness of the station had gotten under his skin, though he’d never admit it to Addy. He appreciated her insistence on protocol more than he cared to acknowledge.
They moved together toward the mining operations center, their footsteps creating overlapping echoes that seemed to follow them down the corridor. The lights flickered occasionally, nothing dramatic, just momentary dimming that left afterimages on their retinas. Each time, Adelaide made a note in her data pad, recording the location and duration with scientific precision.
The operations center doors slid open with a reluctant hiss. Inside, the massive control room spread before them: a cathedral dedicated to the extraction of mineral wealth. Wall-to-wall monitors displayed asteroid composition data, drilling operations, and mineral processing statistics. Every screen showed normal operations, as if the machines below were still being operated by the missing miners.
“Systems are running on automation,” Adelaide observed, moving to the main console, “but they should have failsafes requiring human input every twelve hours.”
Vinnie leaned over a workstation where a half-eaten protein bar had fossilized beside scribbled calculations. “Somebody bypassed those protocols.” He pointed to a manual override sequence glowing faintly on a secondary screen. “They wanted the machines to keep running, no matter what.”
“Why?” Adelaide’s question hung in the recycled air.
Neither had an answer, but both felt the weight of the implications. Someone had expected — or planned for — the station to continue without human operators.
While they examined the workstations, the temperature dropped several degrees. Adelaide noticed it first, watching her breath form a small cloud as she spoke. “Environmental controls are malfunctioning. Says it’s normal: twenty-one degrees.” Yet they could both see their breath now.
Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the cold spot vanished. The air returned to normal temperature, leaving them exchanging puzzled glances.
“Equipment malfunction?” Adelaide offered, but her usual certainty was absent.
They continued their investigation, moving deeper into the operational areas. In the primary drilling control room, they found the first truly disturbing evidence that something beyond equipment failure had occurred.
The walls were marked with strange patterns, not graffiti exactly, but deliberate symbols etched into the metal. They formed no recognizable language or mathematical sequence yet had an unsettling regularity that suggested meaning.
Adelaide ran her fingers over the markings. “These were made with a plasma cutter.” Her analytical mind struggled to categorize what she was seeing. “The depth and width are consistent, indicating a single individual working with precision.”
Vinnie was examining the floor beneath the symbols. “Look at this.” He pointed to scuff marks radiating outward from a central point. “Like people were dragged from here. Multiple directions.”
Adelaide knelt to examine the marks, her methodical mind mapping the directions and force required. She stopped suddenly, her fingers hovering over a dark stain that neither of them wanted to identify.
“We should check the personal quarters,” she said abruptly, standing and wiping her hand on her flight suit though she hadn’t actually touched the stain.
The residential section told its own story of interrupted lives. Doors stood open to private spaces never meant for strangers’ eyes. In one room, a shower still held the remnants of soap scum, the water automatically shut off after reaching safety limits. In another, family photos smiled from screens that cycled through happier times.
Adelaide paused at a desk where a journal lay open. “This entry is from the day before communications ceased.” She read aloud: “’Sounds in the walls again. Maintenance says it’s just pressure changes, but it doesn’t sound like metal, it sounds like...” She stopped; the next word was smudged beyond recognition.
“Like what?” Vinnie asked, moving closer.
Adelaide shook her head. “Illegible.”
Copyright © 2026 by Michael J. D’Alfonsi
