Little Earth, Big Sky

Little Earth, Big Sky

Chapter 1

By Diana & ChatGPT

It was the year 2520 when humanity finally cracked the code to the stars. Warp drive had become a reality, and like ancient seafarers casting off to unknown shores, mankind scattered across the galaxies. Everything was automated—from farming to freight—and so we were left with the one thing automation couldn't replace: curiosity.

One of the first colonies to thrive was in the Proxima Centauri system. Two exoplanets circled its faint red sun, and one—Proxima b—sat snugly in the Goldilocks zone. There, we built cities on fertile plains and turned the second planet into an agricultural powerhouse. Above it all, in orbit, a network of bustling space stations floated like man-made moons.

The crown jewel of these was Centauri Station Delta, a metropolis in the sky tethered to the planet below by a sleek space elevator. The station throbbed with life, commerce, and the dreams of explorers. Amid its neon corridors and gravity-neutral plazas was a special place known simply as Little Earth.

Off the main drag, through a polished archway carved with the continents of Old Earth, Little Earth opened like a memory. Under a giant glass dome, trees from every climate zone flourished—maples beside palms, olive trees shading cherry blossoms. The stars twinkled above, watching quietly through the dome.

A small stone building with a round lamp out front stood guard over the courtyard. It was the local space security post, but it looked like a vintage British police station. The officers—dressed like Bobbies—spoke in cheerful tones and waved to passersby.

To the left was Windsor Grub, serving Yorkshire pudding and fish and chips with synth-malt vinegar. Next came The New Englander, where patrons slurped space-grown clam chowder. Boudreaux’s, the Cajun joint, crackled with jazz and the smell of gumbo. Then came Red Sky BBQ, where the smoke of mesquite and alien woods curled into the air, mixing with laughter and live country music. Then, in a cozy nook, was Maison de Lune, offering French cuisine as delicate as moonlight.

Across from the Bobbies’ post, nestled in a corner that always caught the purple twilight of the system’s second sun, stood Rick’s Gin Joint. It had the warm smell of olives, garlic, and grilled lamb. Mediterranean food was served under hanging lanterns, and the soft, steady tones of a piano drifted out the open door.

Some said Rick used to be an Earth diplomat. Others said he was a smuggler. No one really knew. But his gin was cold, his lamb skewers were hot, and his stories—if you caught him after hours—could fill a book.

That evening, I sat at a table beneath an orange tree, listening to the piano, watching people from Earth, Mars, Titan, and beyond share meals and laughter. It was easy to forget how far we’d come. But then you’d look up through the dome, past the Earth-born leaves, and see a thousand stars blinking in the dark—each one a place we hadn’t yet reached.

In Little Earth, we remembered who we were. Out there, among the stars, we dreamed of who we could still become.

Chapter 2: The Fix

The lights in Rick’s Gin Joint were low, the piano soft, and the gin just cold enough to forget you were a few million miles from home.

That’s when she walked in.

She had the kind of legs that made gravity feel optional, wrapped in synth-silk that shimmered like the rings of Saturn. Her heels clicked like clockwork as she moved across the room, turning more heads than a solar flare. Platinum blonde, amber eyes, and a look that said she either had a plan—or was one.

She took a seat at the bar, like she’d been here before, like she belonged. Rick gave her a polite nod but said nothing.

A minute later, a man slid onto the stool next to her. No one saw him come in. He wore a gray coat with no insignia and a face you’d forget five minutes after seeing it. People just called him The Fixer. When things broke—systems, secrets, people—he found ways to make them... disappear.

They didn’t touch. Barely looked at each other. Just sat there talking, low and casual, like two strangers passing the time.

After a few minutes, the blonde reached into her coat and slid a stack of platinum Sovereigns across the polished bartop. Clean, unmarked, glowing with legitimacy. The kind of currency that didn't just buy services—it bought silence.

The Fixer took the stack, pocketed it without a glance, and stood.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He just walked out, like a ghost heading for the next haunting.

Rick stayed behind the bar, polishing the same glass he’d been working on since the war ended. He watched the door close, then turned to the blonde.

“You want another one?” he asked, voice low.

She smiled faintly, eyes never leaving the empty stool beside her.

“Yeah,” she said. “Make it a double.”

Chapter 3: The Back Room

If Rick knew you—and he had to know you—you’d get the nod. A quiet buzz would sound, and the frosted door at the back of the gin joint would slide open just wide enough for you to slip through.

Behind it was a different world.

Back on Old Earth, they used to call places like this a casino, though this one had more charm and fewer regulators. Rick liked to brag about it. “No electronic tricks here,” he’d say with a smirk, puffing on a cigar. “Just the classics—cards, roulette, and real slot machines. You lose your money honest in this place.”

The room was warm, smoky, and thick with tension. Stacks of chips clinked on felt-covered tables. Croupiers in crisp uniforms spun wheels and shuffled decks. The slot machines didn’t blink with holo-lights—they rattled and chimed like something from a museum, though they still took credits.

Then, over the low hum of spinning wheels and murmuring players, two sharp cracks sliced the air.

Silence fell like a dropped curtain. A scream followed. Someone bolted from the side hallway—blue jacket flapping, eyes wide with panic.

Rick didn’t miss a beat. He turned toward his staff, voice cutting through the tension like a laser.

“Get the body out of here.”

Two of his bouncers moved fast. Professional. Efficient. Somewhere in the back, the body—whoever they were—was already being loaded into a service hatch.

“Everyone back to your tables,” Rick barked. “Game’s not over.”

And just like that, as if nothing had happened, the casino came alive again. Cards were dealt. Wheels spun. Coins clinked. The hum returned.

Then came the sound of boots on tile—the Bobbies had arrived.

They entered in formation, long coats swaying, visors lit, led by Captain Ford, a sharp-jawed, salt-and-pepper-haired officer with a reputation for cracking down on the gray parts of station law. He stepped into the gin joint like he owned it, eyes scanning the velvet shadows.

“Rick,” he said, walking up to the bar. “Shots fired. Witness says they came from your back room.”

Rick wiped a glass. “Witness must’ve had a few too many. Maybe heard a slot jackpot.”

Captain Ford didn’t smile.

The Bobbies spread out, searching the casino with magnetic scanners and retinal sweeps. They turned up nothing—no body, no weapon, not even a drop of blood. Just credits, cards, and one very well-dressed crowd pretending not to notice the police.

Finally, Ford turned back to Rick.

“I don’t know what kind of game you're running here, but one day your luck's going to run out.”

Rick leaned in, voice smooth. “Captain, luck’s just statistics over time. And I’ve got plenty of both.”

Ford stared at him a long moment, then turned to his team. “We’re done here.”

The Bobbies filed out, boots echoing down the corridor.

Rick went back to polishing his glass, glancing at the door as it hissed shut.

Then, softly to no one in particular:
“Next time, shoot quieter.”

Chapter 4: Shadows and Palms

Captain Ford’s boots had barely stopped echoing down the corridor when Rick spotted her.

The blonde hadn’t left with the others. She lingered in the shadows near the gin joint’s entrance, just beyond the spill of warm light. Her expression was unreadable, but something in her stillness told Rick she wasn’t there for another drink.

He didn’t hesitate.

In one quick motion, he stepped around the bar, crossed the courtyard, and grabbed her arm. She didn’t scream. Just flinched.

Rick dragged her behind a potted palm tree taller than a Martian sun-lily, out of sight from the few stragglers still pretending to enjoy the night.

He spoke low, sharp. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

Her eyes flared, amber bright even in the dim.

“You killed him.”

“No,” she said, yanking her arm free, her voice steel under silk. “It was the man in the blue jacket.”

Rick narrowed his eyes. “The one who ran out after the shots?”

She nodded, brushing synth-silk strands from her face. “He was supposed to get me off-station tonight. Passage on a tramp starship out of Dock Nine at midnight. I gave him everything I had left.”

Rick leaned against the palm, watching her.

“You paid him?”

She looked away. “To disappear.”

“Why?”

She hesitated, lips parting, then shutting again. Finally, she said, “Because I was supposed to be the one in that room. Not him.”

A wind stirred through the dome, rustling the Earth-born leaves. Somewhere, a synth-saxophone started playing from inside the gin joint.

Rick looked up toward the stars. “Well,” he muttered, “looks like someone took your place—and took two bullets for it.”

He looked back at her, studying her like a hand of cards dealt too fast.

“What was he running from?”

She met his gaze. “Same thing I am.”

Rick exhaled slowly, the weight of a dozen unasked questions hanging between them.

“You need to vanish too?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Then I hope you’ve got more platinum,” Rick said, stepping back toward the bar. “Because whoever fired those shots? They’re still out there. And if they were after you—they won’t stop with just a case of mistaken identity.”

As he turned to go, she stayed in the shadows a moment longer.

Watching.

Waiting.

Then she disappeared into the crowd like vapor through a vent—leaving only the faintest trace of perfume and secrets behind.

Chapter 5: Level F

Level F of Centauri Station Delta was where the air felt colder, the lights a little dimmer, and the gravity just shy of regulation. Freight moved down here. Secrets, too.

Captain Ford stood over a body sprawled against the side of a bulkhead, half-lit by the flickering strobe of a loading bay alarm someone had forgotten to fix. He didn’t need to crouch to see the wound—a small, neat hole dead center in the chest. No blood. Just a scorched ring and the quiet finality of a kill shot.

His sergeant stood beside him, holding a scanner. “Flechette round. Tight group. I’d say a Norton 44, short-range. No noise, no flash.”

Ford frowned. “Professional.”

The sergeant nodded. “Doubt he made a sound. Just dropped.”

Ford crossed his arms, scanning the loading dock—empty, save for a few stacked containers and a silent maintenance drone hovering mid-task like it didn’t want to get involved.

“How long’s he been down here?”

“About three hours,” the sergeant said. “Maybe a little more. Bay logs show no ship traffic since 2100. He was dumped here. Neat. Intentional.”

Ford’s brow furrowed.

“That’s the same time we were called to Rick’s place. Gunshots in the back room.”

The sergeant looked up, eyes narrowing. “You think it’s connected?”

Ford didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer to the body, crouching now. The man’s coat was unmarked, just like everything else about him. No ID, no tags, no DNA stamps. But his face—

“I’ve seen him before,” Ford muttered. “Not his name. His reputation.”

He stood up straight.

“The Fixer,” he said flatly.

The sergeant blinked. “The Fixer?”

Ford nodded. “He cleans up problems. Or… he used to.”

They both stared at the body, the weight of it settling like dust on a forgotten terminal.

Ford turned to his team. “Seal the bay. No one gets in or out. Check the freight logs, maintenance routes, docking traffic, every damn corridor camera we’ve got access to.”

He started walking toward the lift.

“Where are you going, sir?” the sergeant called after him.

Ford didn’t turn.

“To see Rick,” he said. “Again.”

Chapter 6: The Visitor

Rick was polishing glasses again when Captain Ford returned.

This time, he didn’t bother with the usual pleasantries. The Bobbies swept into the gin joint like a tidal wave of order—visor lights casting cold halos on the walls, boots hitting tile with synchronized precision.

Ford approached the bar and leaned in, voice low but heavy with purpose.

“Who was she?”

Rick didn’t flinch. “You’ll have to narrow it down, Captain. I get a lot of interesting company.”

Ford’s jaw tightened. “The blonde. We saw you take her behind the palms just after the shooting.”

Rick set the glass down carefully, the clink like punctuation. “She walked out the front door. On her own.”

Ford stared. “Don’t lie to me, Rick. You think you're clever, but we’ve got a witness. Said she was going through the Fixer’s pockets right before he died.”

Rick raised an eyebrow. “If I had known he was dead, I’d have called someone. Last I saw, he was fine—and probably late for some job he wouldn’t talk about.”

Ford didn’t blink. “You knew him.”

Rick shrugged. “He came around. Hustled cards in the back room sometimes. Quiet guy. Always tipped.”

Ford folded his arms. “You saw who shot him?”

Rick nodded slowly. “Not clearly. I was heading into the casino when I heard the shots. A man in a blue jacket came tearing out the side hallway like his shoes were on fire. Nearly ran me over.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed. “And the blonde?”

“She was there. Bent over him.” Rick leaned in a little. “Could’ve been checking for a pulse. Or a wallet. I didn’t ask.”

Ford tapped his fingers against the bartop, processing. “Well, there’s a warrant out for her arrest now. If she comes back here—”

“I’ll call you myself,” Rick said smoothly. “Scout’s honor.”

Ford wasn’t amused. “Don’t test me, Rick. The Fixer wasn’t just some drifter. He had connections. Deep ones. His death doesn’t just make ripples—it sends shockwaves.”

Rick gave a slow nod, eyes unreadable. “Then you’d better hope you find the right person.”

Ford leaned in closer. “I don’t hope, Rick. I hunt.”

With that, he turned and signaled to his officers. The Bobbies filed out with the same precision they’d entered, visors dimming as they moved into the artificial twilight of the dome.

Rick waited until the last echo of their boots had faded before he moved again. He poured himself a drink—no gin this time, just something amber and quiet.

He looked out the open door of the gin joint, past the courtyard and the gleaming arches of Little Earth.

Somewhere out there, under borrowed trees and alien stars, a blonde woman was running.

And whoever she was—whatever she was hiding—it had just become his problem.

Chapter 7: The Maple and the Longhorn

Rick spotted her from across the plaza—just a flicker of synth-silk and platinum hair behind a maple tree, half-hidden in the amber twilight.

She didn’t move. Just watched.

So did he.

Rick didn’t make a scene. No shout, no sudden moves. He turned on his heel and slipped back inside the gin joint, nodded once to his staff, and took the rear exit. The back alley smelled like old oil and new secrets. He kept his steps light, ducking beneath a sagging conduit and slipping between stacked crates stamped with Lunar beef logos.

He passed the quiet hum of a refrigerated dumpling stall, then pushed through the rear kitchen door of the Texas Longhorn Saloon.

It was always twilight in the Longhorn—orange light panels glowing like a desert sunset, wooden beams faking gravity-stressed oak, and a jukebox that only played pre-Colony country. The scent of vat-grown brisket, mesquite smoke, and hard choices hung in the air.

Rick walked through and out the saloon’s front door—coming up right behind her.

“I hear the steak’s decent,” he said, low and dry.

She turned, startled for only half a second, then gave the smallest nod and followed him back inside.

They took a booth in the far corner, one with a cracked leather bench and a dusty photo of a cattle drive on Mars hanging above it.

Rick waved over the server. “Two ribeye specials. And a double for the lady.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I need a drink?”

“No,” Rick said, “I think you need a meal.”

The food came fast—protein-rich vat steak with synth-gravy, flash-fried tubers, and a side of cornbread that didn’t pretend to be anything but dry.

She ate like someone who hadn’t in a while.

Rick let her chew through half the plate before he spoke again.

“So,” he said, “you want to tell me what’s really going on?”

She wiped her mouth, took a sip of whiskey, and stared at her plate for a long moment.

“I saw something I wasn’t supposed to,” she said at last. “Back on Eros Station, three months ago. I was waitressing in one of the orbital lounges. Late shift. Thought I was alone.”

She met Rick’s eyes.

“I wasn’t.”

“What’d you see?”

“A hit. Syndicate. Clean, efficient. One shot to the head, two to the chest. Body went out an airlock. I was frozen to the floor, too scared to even breathe.”

“And they saw you?”

She nodded. “One of them did. He smiled at me. Walked right up. Said, ‘Now you’re part of this story too.’”

Rick leaned back, let out a slow breath. “And now there’s a price on you.”

She didn’t respond, but the look in her eyes was answer enough.

Rick tapped the rim of his glass. “The guy in the casino—the Fixer—he was part of that?”

“No. He was helping me disappear. New name, clean trail, ride off-station. I paid him everything I had.”

Rick looked at her closely. “Then why’d he get shot?”

Her face tightened. “I don’t know. Maybe someone followed me. Maybe they knew he was my exit.”

Rick was quiet for a beat, then asked, “Did the shooter say anything? Anything at all?”

She swallowed hard, the fork pausing mid-air.

“Yeah,” she said. “He leaned in real close and whispered—‘This is the last time you cheat with my wife!’”

Rick blinked. “That doesn’t sound like syndicate work.”

“No,” she said, voice low. “It sounds like someone else’s story.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the jukebox warbling some old twangy country & western about leaving boots at the door.

Rick finally said, “So either this is personal… or someone’s trying real hard to make it look that way.”

She nodded slowly, pushing the last bite of steak around her plate.

Rick’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me something—do you even know the man who got shot?”

“I thought I did,” she whispered. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Outside, the fake twilight faded into station night. Somewhere out there, contracts were circulating. Secrets were bleeding. And someone was using love, jealousy, and murder as cover for something bigger.

Rick leaned forward.

“Alright,” he said. “You’re not just in danger. You’re in someone’s way. Question is—whose?”

Chapter 8: Level C Heat

The next morning, Rick slipped a few chips to the right ears.

A nod to the noodle vendor by Dock Six. A quiet word to the maintenance chief who saw more than she let on. A few favors called in from his blackjack dealers who knew how to listen without looking like they were listening.

The question was simple:
Who had the Fixer been spending nights with?

By midday, whispers filtered back through the grapevine.

Her name was Nova. No last name. Just Nova.

She danced at The Orbit Lounge, a velvet-and-glass club on Level C known for its low ceilings, slow gravity, and clientele who tipped like they were still rich from asteroid mining.

Nova wasn’t just another stage name. She was the kind of woman people remembered even when they tried not to. Blue hair like plasma, skin that shimmered with starlight tattoos, and a voice like silk laced with smoke.

But what caught Rick’s ear was the next detail.

Nova had a boyfriend. Real jealous type. Name of Derrick Vonn. Cargo foreman, ex-con, temper like a fusion core on overload. Word was, he hadn’t taken kindly to Nova and the Fixer getting cozy during her breaks.

Rick didn’t wait. He sent the intel to Captain Ford with a simple message:

"Nova. Level C. Jealous boyfriend. Worth checking."

Ford was already three steps ahead.

Level C was all angles and attitude. Littered and trash piled up, flashing LED signs, low gravity, and high stakes. The Orbit Lounge pulsed with synth beats and the perfume of unspoken promises.

But Ford wasn’t there to flirt.

He brought a full unit. No announcements, no knocking.

They hit Vonn’s place—tiny apartment above a pawn shop, walls lined with broken promises and illegal tech. Ford kicked the door in just as Vonn was sliding a mag-round into a short-barrel blaster.

“Drop it!” Ford yelled, already aiming.

Vonn didn’t.

The first shot punched a hole through the ceiling.

The second went through the coffee table.

The third hit Vonn in the shoulder—Ford’s shot.

Vonn screamed, hit the ground, and scrambled toward the balcony like a cornered animal.

Ford followed.

Out on the balcony, the lights of Centauri Station Delta spread out like a broken halo. Vonn turned, gun shaking, eyes wild.

“She lied to me!” he yelled. “Said it was nothing!”

Ford’s voice was steel. “You shot the Fixer?”

Vonn hesitated.

“He said he was leaving with her. Taking her off-station. I—I couldn’t let her go.”

He raised the gun again.

Ford didn’t wait.

One more shot, dead center.

Vonn went down hard.

Sirens echoed through the corridor. The station’s medics would get there fast—but not fast enough for Vonn to change his story again.

Later, back at Rick’s, Ford nursed a glass of something strong.

“He confessed,” he said. “Jealousy. Rage. Caught them planning to run.”

Rick sipped his own drink. “Fits the line he said when he shot the Fixer.”

“Yeah,” Ford muttered. “Nice, tidy ending.”

But Rick didn’t look satisfied. He stared into his glass like it might show him something else.

“Too tidy,” he said. “Guy like the Fixer doesn’t get caught off-guard over a woman unless he wants to be.”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “You think he let it happen?”

Rick’s gaze drifted out the window, toward the stars beyond the dome.

“I think... we still don’t know what he was running from.”

Chapter 9: Departures

Rick found her where he figured he would—sitting alone on a bench beneath the cherry blossoms in Little Earth, watching petals fall like slow pink snow under the dome.

No disguise this time. No running. Just quiet.

She didn’t look up when he sat beside her.

“I heard,” she said softly. “About Vonn.”

Rick nodded. “Ford shot him. Claimed he confessed.”

Her jaw tightened. “Did he?”

“He said the Fixer was planning to run off with you. Claimed it was jealousy. Rage. The usual story.”

She turned, finally meeting Rick’s eyes. “It’s not the truth, is it?”

Rick didn’t answer right away.

“No,” he said. “Not all of it.”

The dome above shimmered, and for a moment the sky flickered—an atmospheric glitch, or maybe just a reflection of how everything had fractured beneath the surface.

“He wasn’t leaving with you,” Rick continued. “He was leaving for you. Burning bridges. Buying your freedom. Probably pissed off someone bigger than Vonn along the way.”

She nodded slowly. “He told me if he didn’t show at Dock Nine by midnight, I was to vanish. Change my name. Never look back.”

Rick reached into his coat. Not a weapon, not a chip—something older. A hard-copy travel folio, silver-trimmed and stamped with a planetary seal.

She took it carefully, flipping it open. Her breath caught.

“A berth… to Earth?”

“Passenger liner leaves in two hours. You’re booked all the way to New Boston. There's a layover on Luna, but after that…” Rick smiled faintly. “Back to your family. Back to the kind of life this place tries to make you forget exists.”

Her eyes welled up, but she blinked the tears away.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered.

“Maybe not,” Rick said. “But he wanted you to have it.”

They walked together through the station’s travel terminal, the bustle of departures and the murmur of PA systems creating a kind of soft curtain around them. When they reached the gate, she stopped and turned to him.

“Thank you, Rick.”

He nodded and handed her the ticket. “Here’s wishing you the best, kid.”

She hesitated, her mouth parting like she wanted to say more—but instead, she leaned forward.

Rick kissed her.

Just once. Brief. Gentle. Final.

Then she turned, shouldered her bag, and walked through the gate.

Rick stood there a moment longer, watching as she disappeared into the crowd, her silhouette swallowed by the glow of the embarkation tunnel.

Later, back at the gin joint, Rick poured himself a drink. The piano played soft, the lights were low, and the stars shimmered through the dome like distant promises.

Captain Ford dropped by just before closing.

“She made it out,” he said. “Earth-bound. No flagged records. No heat on her trail.”

Rick nodded. “Good.”

Ford took a sip of the drink Rick slid his way.

“You still think Vonn acted alone?”

Rick didn’t look up. “I think someone used him. Used all of us to tie up loose ends.”

“You think she’ll ever know?”

“She already does,” Rick said. “That’s why she left.”

Ford stood, tipping his hat. “You ever think about leaving this place?”

Rick smiled faintly. “Every day. But I always end up here.”

Ford nodded and walked out into the night.

Rick stayed a moment longer, watching the door.

Then he turned off the lights, poured the last drink, and sat beneath the stars.

Outside, Little Earth slept. And somewhere, far away, a passenger ship crossed the black, carrying one last secret home.