Sol Survivors Chapter 10: They’re With Me

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The Solvo’s engines settle into a steady thrum, the kind that rattles your teeth just enough to remind you the ship is still alive. Jupiter hangs huge and banded in the forward viewport, a slow-turning storm of color that makes everything else feel small. The scattered rocks of the Trojans thin out as they close on their target coordinates. Lila stays glued to the nav console, chewing her lower lip, eyes flicking between readouts and the black beyond. Toku sits at comms with his arms folded, silent as stone. Rand leans against the bulkhead behind the captain’s chair, ribs still complaining every time he breathes too deep.

The chatter hits first. Chatter floods the speakers first. Fragments at the edge of range, then a steady stream that builds fast. Traders snapping about ore hauls and docking fees, haggling over ore prices. A gravelly voice warning about “belt rats” skimming the outer approaches. Independent haulers warning about pirate patrols near the Trojans. A drunk voice singing off-key about lost loves on Ceres. Then the big ones: corporate bulk freighters announcing arrivals, station traffic control barking vectors. The noise builds like a city coming awake until it feels like they’re flying into the middle of a crowded city street.

Lila lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Holy shit. Look at that.”

Then the station itself slides into view.

Galt Station isn’t elegant. It isn’t even symmetrical. It’s a brutal, hammered-together thing sprawling across the void like someone took a dozen wrecked ships, a mining rig, and half a city block, welded them end-to-end, and kept adding until it stopped growing. The core is a massive, slowly rotating cylindrical spine that runs through the heart of the patchwork habitat like the keel of an ancient sailing ship, it stands out as the one section that looks deliberately engineered rather than scavenged, with clean lines, reinforced bulkheads, and a subtle symmetry that contrasts with the asymmetrical sprawl of the other wings bolted onto it over decades. Thick radial arms jut out in uneven lengths, each one a lattice of girders, docking cradles, hab modules, and open frameworks where smaller craft swarm like flies. Tethered platforms spin lazily at the ends of long cables, giving sections artificial gravity. Lights blaze everywhere: white work floods, red hazard strobes, green approach beacons pulsing in sequence. Ships of every size dart in and out, rusted freighters, sleek gunboats, salvage tugs patched with mismatched plating, even a couple of corporate yachts that look absurdly clean against the chaos.

Rand stares. “That’s not a station. That’s what happens when necessity gives the mother of invention way too many fertility drugs.”

Lila’s voice is hushed. “It’s… alive. Look at it move.”

Toku tilts his head, studying the layout. “Layered. Good fields of fire. Hard to approach clean.”

The comms crackle, cutting through the background roar.

“Solvo, this is Heemeyer Shipyard control. We have your transponder. You’re way off the standard approach. Want us to take over?”

Rand glances at Toku. Toku just happens to be sitting at the coms panel. He looks at the panel with a finger over the transmit key. He presses it.

“Yes.”

One word. Flat. No frills.

A short pause on the other end. Then the voice returns, warmer, almost relieved.

“We were starting to worry you weren’t coming back, Solvo. The stories from the other ships were ugly.”

Another beat.

“Uh… Solvo, everything all right up there? We can’t slave your helm unless you green-light the link.”

Lila jolts. “Shit, that’s me.” She scrambles across to the nav station, hands moving fast over switches and toggles after quickly scanning the flight manual in her Tee. A soft chime sounds as the remote override request locks in.

Toku keys the mic again, sounding faintly pained. “Yes. We have stories too.”

Rand gives him a sideways look. Toku kills transmit, turns just enough to meet Rand’s eyes. “I should not be the one on coms.”

The deck lurches. The Solvo yaws hard, then smooths into a clean arc. Thrusters fire in precise, unfamiliar rhythm.

“Got you, Solvo. Bringing you in now. Welcome back.”

Rand straightens, voice low. “If I ran security on a place like this, a ship acting this twitchy gets met with rifles and a full boarding party. No chances. So nobody freak out. We step out unarmed. Hands where they can see them. Let them see we’re not the bad guys.”

They watch in silence as the Solvo glides toward one of the outer arms. A wall of shimmering blue light parts like a curtain, an energy field holding atmosphere on the other side. The landing platform opens to hard vacuum, yet workers move freely below: coveralls, tool belts, hard hats, some with rifles slung casual. No vac-suits. Just people walking around like it’s a warehouse floor.

Lila blinks hard. “They don’t need pressure gear out there?”

Toku nods once. “Localized containment field. Advanced. Very efficient.”

Rand grunts. “Well, that’s good, cause this tin can didn’t have a single vac-suit aboard.”

The Solvo settles into the cradle with heavy thunks. Clamps lock. The ramp chime sounds.

They head down to the cargo deck. Rand first, Toku behind, Lila last. She touches her Neuro-T once, quick, reflexive, then drops her hand.

The ramp lowers. Bright lights flood in. Boots ring on metal. A squad fans out, eight soldiers, rifles trained on the Solvo’s occupants. Their Uniforms mixed: plain gray Galt Station Security, some with Sol Libertatis patches prominent, some without. No hostility, just procedure.

Rand steps forward slow, palms open. “Smile and show your hands,” he mutters through a tight grin.

Toku stands calm. Lila tries to match him, but her shoulders are rigid, eyes darting, her teeth in an alarmingly exaggerated grin.

A tall man shoulders through the line. Broad. Graying hair cropped military short. Square jaw, steady eyes that take in everything without hurry. He carries authority the way some men carry scars, quiet, earned, no need to flash it. Rand reads the man’s name badge.

Colonel Theo Rourke stops a few paces off. He scans them, their stripped uniforms with no insignia, the exhaustion written in their postures.

“You three all that’s left aboard?” He says, looking to each one in turn, sizing them up.

Rand nods. “The rest of the Sol Libertatis detail didn’t make it.” He reaches slow into his pocket, pulls out a few sets of dog tags he collected from the fallen on Ares Alcatraz. “Grabbed what I could.”

Rourke takes them. His expression shifts, just a flicker. The look of someone who’s held too many tags like these. He closes his fist around them for a second.

“You must be Major Andersen.”

“I was. I’d salute, but I’m pretty sure they gave me a dishonorable when they iced me.”

Rourke lets out a low, solemn laugh. Not mocking. Just recognition.

“Well, Marvin wants a word with you about that.” He glances at Toku and Lila. “These two, they don’t look like the others Marcus’s crew was supposed to bring back.?”

One of the escort soldiers, a stocky sergeant with a fresh scar across his cheek, shifts his weight. His voice is low, careful.

“Colonel. Marcus and his team had a retrieval list of three names. Andersen, Bowers, and Dekkar. Bowers and Dekkar made it out earlier; different crew got them to Harris Station. They said Marcus and Morris went back for Andersen.”

“Ah,” Rourke replies still looking between Toku and Lila, “Do I remember greeting Bowers and Dekkar? Which ones were they,  Sergeant?”

“They came in with Klein, sir, with a couple other unlisted souls. Bowers was the one you had me give a… recording to, and Dekkar was…um, in your words, sir.,.” the Sergeant hesitates “’…that commie bastard’”

“Right!” Colonel Roark iterates, the memory snapping clearly in his head. He looks at Rand, “So, who are these two?”

The question hangs. Lila’s breath catches; her fingers twitch toward her Neuro-T before she forces her hand down. Toku doesn’t flinch, but his stance settles, balanced, watchful.

Rand doesn’t hesitate.

“They’re with me.”

The sergeant starts to speak again. Rand cuts him off, not loud, not angry, just final.

“I woke up in the ice with them. Fought through Ares Station with them. Every corridor, every airlock, every goddamn bot that tried to turn us into ground beef. They didn’t have to stick. They could’ve left me bleeding out on deck twelve. They didn’t. They hauled me up ladders, patched what they could, kept me moving, gave me a reason to keep moving. Marcus didn’t make it because that place became a slaughterhouse. These two did. And they did it as a team, keeping each other alive when the smart play was to cut losses. That’s who they are. If Sol Libertatis wants me, you can take them too. They’re not going anywhere without me.”

The words land like a dropped wrench in the sudden quiet. No posturing, no blustering. Just the plain truth of a man who’s already decided these two are his people, his responsibility, and he’ll burn whatever bridges he has to in order to keep them that way.

Rourke studies Rand for a long beat. Then he looks at Toku, really looks, and finally at Lila. Something shifts in his expression. Not softness, exactly. Recognition.

“Major Andersen’s vouch carries,” he says quietly. “Stand down.”

The sergeant exhales, steps back. The escort eases off, rifles dipping.

Rourke’s mouth quirks into a half-smile as he glances over the trio again. “Not a piece on any of you. Most folks here carry at least a sidearm, even the welders and dockhands. An armed society is a polite society.” He shrugs. “Once you’re cleared medically and Marvin gives the nod, feel free to arm up. We’re not worried you’ll try to take the station. That would just earn you a Darwin Award.”

Lila feels the knot in her chest unravel all at once. No one has ever claimed her like that, publicly, without hesitation, without asking for anything in return. Not her parents, not the boyfriend who used her Neuro-T like a leash, not anyone. She glances at Rand’s back, broad, scarred, unyielding, and then at Toku. Toku meets her eyes for half a second. No words. Just a small dip of his chin. Inside, something locks into place. This man just staked his name, his honor, on two strangers in front of armed men who could have made it ugly. Honor is not abstract to Toku. It is steel. He will repay that debt. Not with words. With action.

Rourke clears his throat, breaking the moment. “Quick check to make sure you’re not carrying the next plague. Won’t take long. Full medical after you see the boss.”

Two medics in light blue coveralls step forward with scanners and vitals kits. They work fast. Beeps. Readings. A nod to Rourke.

Clean.

Rand keeps his tone even. “The boss. John Marvin’s running the show here?”

“Yes and no.” Rourke taps the Sol Libertatis patch on his shoulder. “He’s got the shipyard and our… movement. But the station answers to Voss. I’m sure you have a lot of questions; a lot has changed since your incarceration. Marvin’ll be straight with you, no bullshit. He’ll fill in the blanks.”

He turns, motioning them to follow and changes his tone to be less formal, “So. It was bad out there?”

Rand falls in beside him. Toku and Lila close behind. The soldiers form a loose escort.

“About as bad as it gets,” Rand says.

They walk through the shipyard walkway, wide, industrial, voices echo off steel. A main artery through Heemeyer Shipyard. Overhead conduits hiss softly with coolant. Welding arcs flicker in side bays where skeletal frames of half-built ships hang suspended. The air smells of ozone, hot metal, and the faint chemical bite of sealants. Workers move with purpose, some in grease-stained coveralls, others in Sol Libertatis patches, all armed lightly, rifles slung like tools.

Rourke walks at an easy pace, hands loose at his sides. Rand keeps step beside him. Toku and Lila trail close, eyes taking in everything.

“Station’s grown since the early days,” Rourke says, voice carrying just enough to cut through the background clang. “Started as a couple of tethered platforms and a mining claim nobody else wanted. Now it’s the biggest free port this side of Mars. No central government breathing down your neck. You want to trade, you trade. You want to build, you build. You want to be left alone, most folks respect that.”

Rand nods toward a bay where a gutted freighter is being stripped for parts. “Looks like it grew by accretion. Everything bolted on as it came.”

“Pretty much.” Rourke chuckles. “The Spine, that big rotating core you must have seen coming in, is the only part that was ever planned for it’s purpose. Everything else? Opportunistic engineering. Keeps it adaptable. When something breaks, you patch it. When something better shows up, you graft it on.”

They pass an open deck where a sleek gunboat is having new plating welded over old scorch marks. A woman in a welding mask gives them a quick nod before lowering her visor again.

Rand rubs his beard. “Took us four days from Mars orbit to here. Old charts said three weeks minimum, even pushing hard. What changed?”

Rourke glances at him sideways. “The Maalivahti happened.”

Rand’s eyebrows lift. Toku’s head tilts slightly. Lila’s hand rubs her Neuro-T, wishing she had data on all of this.

“Not like they handed us the keys to the kingdom,” Rourke continues. “They showed up, tall and quiet, parked that big diplomatic barge, Makuuhu One, out here near Jupiter for a while. After some obligatory diplomacy and red tape they shared a few things. Better drive tech that cuts transit times across the system to days instead of months. Atmospheric containment fields that let us work open bays without suits. Radiation shielding that makes living and working in Jupiter’s magnetosphere actually survivable. And they pushed our He-3 fusion tech forward by decades, cleaner, hotter, more efficient. Suddenly the whole outer system opened up. Ganymede, Callisto, Titan, even out to the Kuiper Belt. One crazy hermit’s got a shack on Makemake now, beaming back data nobody asked for.”

Lila speaks for the first time since they left the Solvo. “They just… gave it to you?”

“Not exactly,” Rourke says. “It was billed as compensation for the Squggs invasion. A way to keep us primitive yokels happy while they take decades to deliberate inter galactic law with a promise we wouldn’t turn the tech against each other in ways that destabilize the whole neighborhood. They headed out toward Titan Gate last week. You just missed them.”

Rand grunts. “Sounds convenient.”

“Was for us.” Rourke shrugs. “We took the gifts and ran with them. Built outposts. Mined helium-three. Started moving people who didn’t want to live under Earth’s thumb anymore. Pirates still try their luck out here. Other crazies too. We deal with them. Privatized security bids on contracts. Merc pilots fly CAP when things get hot. Works better than any standing army ever did.”

They climb a wide metal stairwell, boots ringing on grated steps. Above them, a heavy cargo lift groans as it hauls engine components between levels. The noise of the yard fades slightly as they move deeper into the station’s inhabited zones.

Toku speaks quietly. “The Spine. It doesn’t rotate for gravity?”

“Partial,” Rourke answers. “Enough to keep your feet down without making you sick. Outer arms and tethers handle the rest with old school grav-pads like in the ships. We’re trying to get a deal from the Maalivahti for better tech for the larger scale of the station, but what we have keeps the place from flying apart when somebody fires up a big torch.”

They reach a catwalk overlooking a cavernous bay. A partially assembled dropship hangs in the center, surrounded by scaffolding. Sparks rain down like slow fireworks.

Rand watches the work for a moment. “Feels like freedom. Messy, messy freedom.”

Rourke nods. “That’s the idea.”

The catwalk ends at a heavy blast door marked with a faded Sol Libertatis stencil. Rourke keys the panel. The door grinds open on well-oiled tracks.

Inside is a large workshop lit by hanging work lights and the blue-white glare of plasma cutters. Tools hang on every wall. Engine blocks, filter housings, and salvaged avionics crowd benches and overhead racks. In the center, bent over a partially disassembled air filtration unit the size of a small car, stands John Marvin.

He’s older than Rand expected, late fifties, maybe sixty. Broad shoulders gone a little soft, but the arms still corded from years of wrench work. Short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. A grease streak across one cheek. He straightens when they enter, wiping his hands on a rag.

Marvin’s eyes land on Rand first. A slow smile spreads.

“Ah,” he says, voice rough but warm. “Just the soldier I was looking for.”

The door hisses shut behind them.

Link to all the chapters  – click here