“It’s… a cargo crate, ma’am,” said Jameson. “One of the kind that RSI uses on their long-haul freighters. Moving at 78 meters per second.”

Beatrice frowned in confusion. She’d been in charge of Eris-1, the newest and furthest of the trans-Neptunian stations, since it was founded almost ten years ago. But there was just something downright off-putting about seeing a lone cargo crate lazily approach them on a perfect collision course.

The screens in front of her showed the crate’s heading, bearing, and anticipated time before interception. Given the crate's speed and distance, it was still weeks away from colliding with the station, of course.

“And there are no ships nearby that could have dropped it off?” asked Winslow, the station’s executive officer.

“Nada,” said Jameson. “Absolutely nothing for several million klicks around the path of the crate.”

“Any idea what’s inside?” asked Beatrice to the overworked technician.

“We’ve done a couple of high-penetration scans with radar and x-rays," said Jameson. He wiped his perpetually-fogging glasses with a sleeve. “They suggest an uneven distribution of mass. A little air, some intermediate-density solids, but mostly there’s liquid with the density of water.”

“Could it [i]be[/i] water?” said Winslow.

“Possible. The crate’s still got power, so temperature's being modulated.” Jameson lazily stretched his hairy, chubby, arms out. “We’re getting zip on the spectrometer for radioactives or volatile residues, so it’s almost certainly not explosive."

That was good enough for Beatrice.

“We’ll wait until it gets within twenty thousand klicks,” she said. “Then we’ll send out a shuttle to pick it up. Send RSI an inquiry for now, but no need to divert any other resources.”

Winslow nodded at her words as he tapped his datapad, sending messages to the station’s various departments. Jameson, on the other hand, shrugged and already seemed to be losing interest.

Beatrice rubbed at her temples.

Eris-1 was a busy place, where 70-plus hour work weeks were the norm. Having to worry about yet another thing—even one that wouldn’t matter for almost a month—was a hassle that she didn't want.

[hr]

They received a response from Roberts Space Industries late the next day, due to the light-lag. It simply read, “It’s a surprise!”

Beatrice did not like this response at all.

When the time came to pick the crate up, she made sure that Winslow included a hazmat technician on the shuttle’s crew.

The pickup team worked quickly, securing the minivan-sized container and bringing it into the station’s primary airlock in less than six hours. Beatrice was present as the hazmat tech, wearing a yellow contamination suit, began the process of unsealing the crate.

“This is some kind of practical joke from RSI, isn’t it?” asked Winslow.

Beatrice shrugged.

“If it is, it’s a damn expensive one,” she said. “Send an invoice to RSI for the rush-order docking services.”

Winslow chuckled. That’s what Beatrice liked about him. He understood her sense of humor.

The hazmat tech finally had the container’s hatch open, and he stepped inside. A minute later he came back out, helmet off and smiling. He carried a dark-glassed bottle in one hand, and a paper note in the other.

“Hey, Ms. Weintraub, check this out,” he said, offering the plain white card to Beatrice.

It read:

[quote]From the Crew of the Aurora, To those of you on the edge of all things, a gift.

It should be perfectly aged by the time it arrives. Happy tenth anniversary![/quote]

The date listed on the card was six years prior.

Beatrice felt the tips of her lips push up into her cheeks. She glanced at the label on the bottle that the hazmat tech still held and briefly caught the words, “Bordeaux, France”.

“Winslow,” she said, “did we happen to be resupplied by an RSI ship called the [i]Aurora[/i] sometime in 2238?”

Winslow keyed his datapad.

“Yes,” he said. “April 17th of that year. Occurred with no incidents to note, other than the ship briefly slowing when they were about a tenth-AU away. That's when they probably kicked this off at us.”

Of course.

“I’m guessing”, said Beatrice to the hazmat tech, “that there’s a lot more bottles in there?”

The man nodded, dopily. Beatrice thanked and dismissed him.

“Winslow,” said Beatrice. “Please send out an announcement that officially, all station crew may consume no more than one glass with dinner each day.”

“Unofficially, ma’am?”

“Unofficially, please privately inform all department leaders to expect operational delays in our morning shift tomorrow.”

Winslow grinned back at Beatrice.

“Aye, ma’am.”