The guide lights blinked in rapid succession—Red. Red. Amber. Green.
| Sense | Detail | Emotional Effect | | :--- | :--- | :--- | | Sight | Liquid helium venting from a busted seal, freezing into glittering snow that drifts in zero-G | Beautiful, then dangerous | | Sound | The click-click-whir of a docking collar ratcheting home | Relief, finality | | Touch | The shock of cold metal through a spacesuit glove | Vulnerability | | Smell | Hot circuitry and recycled farts (no joke—real space stations smell like that) | Disgusting, human, real | | Taste | Recycled water from the station's condenser, slightly metallic | Survival, cheapness | interstellar dock scene
Docking fees are astronomical. Every second the ship is connected to the station, a computer deducts credits for: The guide lights blinked in rapid succession—Red
They were docked. They were safe. The interstellar void was outside, but in here, it was just metal, rubber, and the weary business of moving cargo. They were safe