“SEC-Interlude crew please report for stasis prep in bay twelve,” a warm but automated voice barked through the station-wide comms, interrupting the promenade’s overhead music.

“Time’s up,” she muttered, throwing back the remainder of her synthetic mojito and spending one last moment admiring the vibrant colors crackling through the electrical storm just outside the exterior port view window. The burn of synthetic alcohol tugged at the back of her throat. Her next view would be generations later, she thought, and just as far away.