Tariq adjusted his mask, peering through the amber haze of Titan’s Sulfur Flats. As a scent architect, his job was to design synthetic aromas for off-world colonies, but today’s sample retrieval had gone wrong. His drone, laden with rare olfactory compounds, had sunk into a tar pit.
He knelt, extending a retrieval line, but the drone’s thrusters sputtered, resisting. He hesitated—protocol forbade personal risk—but without the compounds, years of research were lost. He exhaled sharply and plunged his gloved hand into the gelatinous mire.
His suit’s temperature warnings flared, yet he grasped the drone’s limb. With a final wrench, it burst free, splattering him with acidic sludge. His filters clogged. Gasping, he activated his beacon.
Hours later, he awoke in a sterilization chamber. The mission coordinator studied him. “You risked everything for artificial scents?”
Tariq managed a weak grin. “They aren’t just scents. They make people feel at home.”
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