charon or phobos, 8.2.2026
it’s like opening an airlock. there is no surface here, it’s just hard rocky ground and no horizon past the movie lighting blasting the landing pad. there is a murder of crows howling somewhere out of sight. this is the surface of cassini, phobos or charon. the sun doesn’t reach here, lightyears away and you could only see me now waving if you had a telescope. there is only one point of interest, the gold light pouring from an ungraspable shape of a building. something has rained down here, the black stone underfoot is reflecting back cinema’s shine and moves when you move. a few other cars are on the landing pad. it’s hardly rush hour, out here. you only have the choice to approach the golden shine from whatever market remains at this time. you’ve been to a place like this but bathed in sunlight and surrounded by nature, no euphemistic shadows to fill with your fatigue.
The market turns to look at you, and that needle under your ear rears its ugly head again. black oil and quiet turns to more of a crackly hum, bright simulacra of things made of earth. the needle knocks free your priorities. in this order: relief, a power source, tobacco. first of all; the stall doesn’t lock properly, the floors are slimy, he rowdiest seem to be here, there are juvenile giggles and stall doors rattling, but but it’s all brief. now for the power source. a browse round the market hall is futile. it’s all thermal here this far from the sun, drinks cups and scarves and whisky. you ask the glacially powered staff: what you’re looking for is at the other outpost in the dark. no problem, this is still a quick stop. the crows are holding the note, and the sound of passing cars is somewhere out there. inside the fuel station now there is a robotic refrain at the front of the store.
Do you have a points card? Okay sir, no problem. Cash or card? Okay sir, whenever you are ready.you, now in true uncanny, the lack of the gold light suddenly shattering the simulacrum, began to feel the needle again. you spot quickly exactly what you’re looking for. The automaton repeats himself. No fuel. No problem, sir. you decline a receipt almost tripping over yourself as you spin for the door. back out to the landing pad with that damn flood of silver light. The proverbial pace has no choice but to do what it does, and you’re back in your own air. Tobacco, but you’re not hanging around to savour it. you switch on the power source. your phone says unable to charge. back into the vacuum then, just your instincts and whatever signals you can pick up. Tebay could be cassini, phobos or charon.