We’re sitting on a motherlode, out here at the edge of the solar system. Eighteen thousand coffee plants across sixty hydroponic bays, all reaching maturity. On earth, coffee is dead. No climate for it anymore and even in totally isolated grows, there’s a high likelihood that the root rot virus will get to the crop. So for some rich folk who can’t go without their morning Joe, this was the solution.
But we’re not here to produce for the sake of bumping up that supply, not really. This is artificial scarcity. The longer we’re up here, the less coffee there is back on earth, the more our employers can extort higher and higher prices for hot bean juice.
We are forbidden to touch the stuff, naturally. Which is why this morning complicates things. Here I am, the captain of four crew members, standing in the kitchen before all of them, each with a cup of coffee in hand, and a fifth on the table in front of me, all looking very expectant. And I can only think about how far from anyone else we are. How far from help.
Paddy Dobson
2nd May 2023