The Ganymede Cafe

Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep.

I swung my arm toward the sound and smacked the nightstand. In my hazy, half-asleep state, I couldn’t stop the recoil; my arm bounced back and flopped uselessly at my side. I groaned.

Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep.

I forced myself awake, blinking into the darkness of the room. The only light came from the alarm device, its small screen glowing like an accusation. I slapped the button, and the sound cut off instantly. Then I reached for the switch on the wall just above my head.

A soft glow spilled out overhead. Like a sunrise, golden-orange light crept across the walls, crawling over metal seams and bare corners, filling the room with a warmth that made something in my chest ache, homesickness, sharp and sudden. LED lights. Not the real thing, but close enough, I guess.

I pushed myself onto my feet and shuffled toward the tiny toilet, my steps too light, never quite landing the way they used to. The room wasn’t lavish or grand. It was barely a room at all, just a single box with a few added amenities. More closet than living space. Definitely smaller than the apartment I had back on Earth.

But that was life in Aquarius Crossing, the colony on Ganymede.

After I relieved myself, I started my morning exercises. Every movement felt exaggerated in the low gravity, muscles straining without the familiar pull of weight. Low gravity was murder on the body. I’ve lost a disturbing amount of weight since coming here. It vanished faster than it ever had back on Earth, and as much as that worried me, part of me couldn’t help noticing the upside. Feeling weak, though? That part I could’ve lived without. Same with the other health worries, like the harsh radiation.

Still… in the long term, it was worth it.

I think.

For someone like me, born with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, low gravity felt like a quiet mercy. My heart didn’t have to work as hard. It didn’t feel like it was racing to keep up.

Once I finished, drenched in sweat, I cleaned myself with a wet cloth, dragging the cool micro-fabric over my skin. It really was the only way to clean. Showers were a rich person’s luxury with high-pressure mist jets and powerful vacuums to reclaim every stray droplet. Baths were a complete no-go unless you wanted water ricocheting everywhere. One careless splash and it scattered like shrapnel. Not quite zero gravity, but close enough to make a mess fast.

Next, I pulled on my black skintight suit. It clung like a diver’s suit, but built for space: temperature regulated, mildly radiation-resistant, and heavy enough to fight back when I moved. Resistance for the muscles. A quiet companion I’ve had since my first day here. Four years, three months, and two days in earth time. It had taken me an embarrassingly long time to figure out how to clean it properly to keep it from smelling so bad.

Over it went loose pants, a sweater, and heavy boots. With everything on, my body finally felt anchored. Almost… normal. Or maybe I was just remembering what normal used to feel like.

The door resisted when I tried to open it. I leaned into it until it slid free with a low hiss. The air was stagnant as I stepped into the next room and the door slid back to a close behind me. I flipped the switch, and the same golden-orange glow bloomed overhead, revealing my small kitchen.

There was the lovely convection oven with an induction cooktop, the latest dishwasher - during the time I bought it - empty soup dispensers, a narrow refrigerator and lastly, an air fryer. The prep stations were bolted down and reinforced. Essentially everything was built to survive Ganymede.

These were my beauties. Still running since the day I bought them, though not without effort. I had to repair each one more than once, but that was just part of life here. If you couldn’t fix things yourself, you either had to wait or couldn’t afford it. Most equipment or parts had to be shipped from Earth, and it was a long way away. Roughly three hundred and ninety million miles. Let’s just say, recycling was a big part of life.

I slipped into autopilot, hands moving through a routine etched into muscle memory. Prepping, cooking, and baking. Slowly I began putting together a variety of foods, such as my famous spiced nuts, mini bread loafs, flavor compact but crispy pastries, hash patties, hand pies, and roasted vegetables. All perfect companions to the best coffee on Ganymede.

Well.

If I’m allowed to toot my own horn that is.

Being the first café in Aquarius Crossing had its advantages, at least, until two more cafés opened up in the wealthier parts in the new domes. Better locations. Better ingredients. Faster supply lines.

Didn’t matter though. I still had my regulars and still remained in business. That’s all that mattered.

Once I was done, I slid open the next door. It hissed as it moved, like it didn’t approve of being disturbed, and I locked it into place behind me so it remained open. I fumbled through the dark until my fingers found the switches. One by one, the lights flicked on in the same warm hue, and heavy automatic blinds snapped open and lifted on the three windows on the far wall. A dim, silvery light spilled through them. It carried all the weight of darkness, but it wasn’t. This was what was considered daylight on Ganymede.

There was the counter directly in front me and bolted down chairs and tables scattered in the sitting area. I set about making myself a hot cup of coffee, the kind of ritual that told my body the day had officially started. Now, before you ask - yes, low gravity messes with how caffeine hits the system. A regular Earth-strength cup would have my heart throwing a tantrum, my blood pressure following close behind. That’s why all the coffee here is technically decaf.

And no, it doesn’t feel like decaf. The flavor’s the same, and the kick still finds you. It costs more to process, sure, but people need their coffee.

And I am their gatekeeper.

Of coffee.

Lucky them.

I reached for my favorite mug, the zero-G cup, originally invented by astronaut Donald Pettit back in 2008. Some three hundred years ago. Something about fluid dynamics and clever engineering. I just liked the way it felt in my hand. The sharp-angled channel guided the liquid toward the rim, and the base reminded me of the hull of a strangely shaped boat. Instead of cutting through water, it guided coffee straight to my mouth.

With the warmth seeping into my fingers, I headed toward the front door. Thankfully, this one was automatic. I punched in the code, and it slid open with a loud hiss. A rush of icy cold air brushed past me, filling every inch of my body. Despite wearing my skintight suit, the cold still found its way in. I stepped outside and instinctively looked up.

I never got used to it.

Behind the glass dome, Jupiter hung overhead, massive and impossible, its red storms slowly churning as if the planet itself were alive. Pictures never did it justice. Being in orbital resonance with Europa and Io meant Ganymede completed its path around the gas giant every seven days - three and a half days of daylight, followed by three and a half days of night.

Long days.

Long nights.

But it was home.

My little shop was nestled between rows of other shops. Clothes, food, and fun stuff - if you know what I mean. A wide walkway cut through with a mix of storefronts and residential units on the other side. A prime spot for customers, really.

After I’d had my fill of Jupiter, I turned toward the shop beside mine. I’d been watching it for a while now, especially since I learned the owner had closed up a week ago. I didn’t know why. But if my gut was worth anything, that space would be hitting the market soon.

And if I could buy it… maybe - just maybe - I could finally add a bookshop to my little café.

That was the dream.

I missed the weight of books in my hands. The smell of ink and paper. Shipping them from Earth was outrageously expensive, though. Still, I’d heard a rumor someone, somewhere, had figured out how to print books right here on Ganymede. Rumors were cheap. Proof wasn’t.

Hopefully, I’d get some answers today when Janina stopped by.

I took a sip of my coffee and stretched before heading back inside. I left the door closed but unlocked, then flipped the switch beside the window. The neon sign flickered to life, announcing I was open for business. I moved behind the counter, finishing the last of my setup, when I heard my first whoosh of the day. The door slid open and Dylan stepped in like he always did - fast, purposeful, already rubbing his hands together as if the cold outside had personally offended him. His boots thudded heavier than they should have in the low gravity, and he didn’t even glance at the menu board. He never needed to.

“Morning, Osochor,” he said, voice already halfway awake. “Smells great.”

A heartbeat later, Roch drifted in behind him. He paused just inside, eyes sweeping the café like he was checking in on an old friend - tables, counter, the glowing warm lights - before finally nodding to himself. That was the thing about my café. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t try to compete with the polished places in the richer domes. But it was warm and the air always smelled like coffee and baked spices instead of recycled ozone.

Only then did Roch look at me. “Coffee smells like it’s ready for me to drink it all,” he said, half joking.

I leaned on the counter and smiled. “Morning, you two. The usual?”

“Of course,” they said in unison, handing over their zero-G cups. I poured their coffee, added cream to one, and slid them back. I rang them up separately, each paying with a quick tap of their cards.

“Osochor,” Dylan said, leaning in. “Settle an argument for us. Roch thinks these overhead lights help provide vitamin D. I think he’s full of it.”

“Aren’t you both technicians?” I asked, bemused. “Why are you asking a lonely barista? You think I have all the answers?”

“What do you mean?” Dylan shot back. “You don’t have all the answers in the universe?”

I rolled my eyes, smiling.

“Then explain how we’re getting enough vitamin D,” Roch said, dead serious.

“Maybe start by looking what’s in your food.” They continued bickering all the way to the door, only pausing to call out a distracted “thanks” and “bye” before disappearing down the walkway. I shook my head. Regulars or not, they had an odd rhythm about them, but I’d grown used to it.

The hours ticked on as customers came and went. If I hadn’t checked the clock, I wouldn’t have known what time it was. The overhead lights were on a timer, brightening and dimming to mimic a day, but the constant, unchanging light outside never shifted. It made my body tense. Even after all this time, I never quite got used to it.

Around 1000 hours, the flow of customers thinned. Most were workers anyway, either just starting their shifts or wrapping them up. Tourists rarely wandered to this side of the city anymore, not after the two new domes were built. It had bothered me at first. Felt like the city was quietly pushing me, and the other small shop owners, out.

But blaming expansion got me nowhere. And blaming capitalism didn’t help either, considering I relied on the money it brought through my door.

Things wouldn’t pick up again until after 1600 hours. Until then, I cleaned, cooked, ate, took a little nap, and exercised. Exercise was the single biggest concern for anyone living on Ganymede. Morning. Afternoon. Evening.

So. Much. Exercise.

Still… better than the alternative.

Another whoosh at the door brought me back to the front, and my excitement skyrocketed. Janina stepped inside, brushing a bit of frost from her coat as the door sealed behind her. She looked tired in the specific way that came from too many hours under artificial light - shoulders tight, eyes droopy. She smiled when she saw me.

“1500? You’re a bit late in the game, aren’t you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Didn’t have time this morning to stop by, but don’t get used to it,” she replied, already setting her zero-G cup on the counter. “I’ll take a latte with caramel, please.”

I moved on instinct, steam hissing softly as I set the milk to heat. “I was hoping you’d stop by,” I said casually.

“Oh?” Janina raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been hearing things,” I said, reaching for the syrup. “About someone finding a way to print books.”

She sighed. “They’re not wrong,” she admitted. “But my office would prefer it stay quiet for now.”

I drizzled caramel into the cup, watching it ribbon and vanish beneath the foam. “Why would the Department of Information and Resource Allocation want to keep it quiet?”

Janina shrugged. “Turns out there’s a very upscale market for physical books in the wealthy districts.”

“Great,” I muttered, the word coming out as a low, unhappy groan.

She gave me a sympathetic look. “I know.”

I finished the latte, sliding it across the counter toward her. She wrapped her hands around the mug like she needed the warmth.

“So,” I said, leaning in a little, lowering my voice. “I’ve been thinking about buying the shop next to mine. If there’s even a chance I could sell books here, then it might be worth it. But if they’re going to be priced for collectors and executives…” I shook my head. “More space won’t do me any good if I can’t afford the stock.”

Janina took a slow sip. “I can’t promise anything,” she said carefully. “But there might be a way, maybe through subsidized distribution.”

“Maybe,” I echoed.

“Look,” she added, a sly grin forming as she lifted the cup, “maybe I can do you a favor. I’ll look into what they’re planning and who to talk to, then share it with you. For a few free drinks, of course.”

I smirked. “Alright, you have a deal, but this one you’ve got to pay for.” I held out the card reader, and she tapped her card. A soft ding told me the payment went through.

We said our goodbyes, and she headed back toward the door, latte in hand. The whoosh followed her out, sealing the café once more. Meanwhile, an unsettling feeling sank into my gut. I was never an ambitious person. I hated how the nerves got to me. You’d think moving to one of Jupiter’s moons would have gotten rid of that, but it didn’t. The thought of failing sat heavy inside me.

I busied myself with the shop just enough to distract myself.

The overhead lights dimmed around 1800 hours, simulating a sunset, but I kept the café open. The next shift would start at 2000 hours, and I planned to work until an hour before midnight. One of the few perks of low gravity was that long hours on my feet barely strained my joints. A blessing, for sure, but also a loophole for corporate overlords to push their luck. Being the only employee, I only allowed myself breaks when no customers were around.

What a great boss.

About an hour into the next shift, Janina walked in. It caught me off guard since she never came in this late, but then I remembered our earlier conversation. I quickly handled the five customers who came in before her, then turned to her.

“So?” I asked, hope threading through my voice.

Janina looked around like she was about to spill top-secret information. “I found out that while there’s a buyer in the wealthier district, the person printing the books wants to sell to this side of the city too, and at a lower cost. Your best bet is to get ahead of the line and contact them first.”

She reached into her pocket, and I watched as her fingers slid something across the counter. A business card. I picked it up, eyes glued to the shiny plastic:

Dr. Asa and Goul’chen Sayer, Lead in Production of Paper and Ink on Ganymede

Contact info: sayerproduction@ganymede.com, 3-02-5521

Typical for Ganymede: everyone used the same email system, and the phone numbers followed a pattern - first digit for the moon, second for the dome, last for the line.

I looked up at her. “Seriously?”

She nodded slowly, confidence radiating from every line of her face.

Then she leaned forward. “So… what about my free drink?” Her eyebrow arched in playful insistence.

I chuckled and rolled my eyes, placing the card into my pocket then reached for the milk pitcher.

All the while, the business card burned in the back of my mind. This could be it. My ticket in. I pictured row upon row of books: the weight of them against my skin, the smell of parchment and ink in the air. My best chance was to run it like a library – a borrow and return system - because few would buy the books outright. It could draw in more customers, and maybe even another employee… or two.

My blood felt like it was boiling with excitement. One step closer to my lifelong dream.