Weyland‑Yutani’s Shadow

The docking clamps sang their metallic kiss as the transport capsule eased against the bulkhead of Helios‑3. The hull shivered, a low throbbing that traveled up Mara Patel’s spine and settled in her throat. She stared through the thick polymer viewport, watching the dead moon—Ganymede’s twin, scraped clean of atmosphere and life—roll past like a rusted coin. The surface was a scar of dust dunes and impact craters, each one a silent accusation against the corporations that had mined it for fuel and forgotten it forever.

Mara’s gloves were still slick with the antiseptic smell of the medical bay, but the scent of ozone from the station’s power cores overrode everything else as the airlock cycled. A hiss of expelled air escaped the hatch, and a thin ribbon of solar light slithered across the interior, catching the specks of dust that floated like ancient snowfall. She took a breath, feeling the station’s climate loop recirculate a faint nostalgia of Earth rain. Somewhere down the corridor, a soft mechanical chime announced the opening of the main bay doors.

“Welcome to Helium‑3, Dr. Patel,” a voice called, flat and filtered through the speaker. It belonged to Lieutenant Ramos, the station’s logistics officer, whose face was a familiar patchwork of scars and a cybernetic lanyard that pulsed faintly with each word. He stepped forward, his boots making a soft click on the polymer-tiled floor. “Your pass is activated. Follow me to the decontamination tunnel.”

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