People told us Station Chicago was a hub. A crossroads. They forgot what happens when too many paths intersect. We built a city in the stars and brought the alleyways with us.
I run the transit grid. The mag-lev trains circle the station twenty-four seven. The system says we have forty active cars.
"Car 41 just blew past Sector South."
"Check the board. We don't have a Car 41."
"I am looking right at it."
It only shows up on the graveyard shift. The windows are blacked out. If you stand on the platform when it passes, the temperature drops ten degrees. One time a rookie got on it when the doors glitched open. We never saw him again.
This is a sealed orbital. Every cubic foot of air is monitored, scrubbed, and recirculated. There is no weather.
"Do you feel that?"
"Feel what?"
"The wind."
It creeps down the corridors of the industrial sector. It smells like ozone and old smoke. It pushes you hard. If you turn around to face it, the wind stops. A few guys swear they hear a whisper right before it hits their back.
Thirty years ago Sector West burned. A plasma conduit ruptured and took out three decks. They rebuilt it, but the new bulkheads are stained.
"I am not going down to Sub-Deck 9 alone."
"Stop being a coward."
"You go look at the walls then."
Shadows are burned into the plating. Every so often those shadows move. They detach from the walls and wander the halls. They leave a trail of soot that the cleaning drones can't scrub away.