Mnemosyne hated showering in space. It wasn’t as simple as turning on the faucet and standing under a showerhead spewing all but scalding water onto her sepia skin. No. Due to the small size of her K-Kite ship, Mnemosyne’s ship had to ration water. Most of it went into maintaining the green house and feeding herself; the remainder went to basic hygiene such as washing herself and brushing her teeth.

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The day the instructors at Astraea Cosmonaut Academy mentioned that regular showers would be a luxury, she nearly resigned from the program. She gazed out into the auditorium from her seat high up in the back rows, searching frantically for other students that were also bothered by the revelation. They explained that smoke baths were an easy way to kill harmful bacteria lingering on the clothes and skin, while maintaining that natural oils will help protect pilots from the unknown elements they will encounter.

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Every other morning she would stumble down from her loft bed and into the cramped bathroom in her shared studio living cabin. It was more of a closet with a sink built into an electronic toilet, that for some reason needed a seat warmer and bidet, and a three square foot shower.

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Every other morning she would gaze longingly at the showerhead that peered back vacantly, and drop her gaze to the holes punched into the floor of the shower. It bothered her to look too long; early on into her voyage, with the ship’s android pilot, Moss, she would have nightmares of the cavernous pockmarks shifting underfoot, growing and shrinking in size, writhing against her skin. Dead plant matter served as the fuel for her smoke baths; it was dry against her skin, and borderline suffocating within her lungs for the twenty second duration. 

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Every other morning she’d stand in an empty test tube, nude, with her arms raised above her head as plumes of compressed smoke prodded at her grimy skin. She was tired of “tannic acid” soap and mouthwash made from tree bark. Tired of deodorant made of charcoal, turning her underarms black until her next wet shower.

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Every night she would go to sleep, wishing Moss would announce an asteroid in the distance. It had been months since they had made use of the Optical Mining system to gather water and store it in the ship’s inflatable Solar Sails. Thick lashes flutter against her pillow in delight at the prospect of enjoying a nice, long soak after scrubbing down with a brand new loofah and bar of soap.

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In the darkness of space, ever expanding around her, and in the darkness of her ship’s cabin, the cybernetic lilt of her companion’s voice chimed.

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“Mnemosyne, there is an asteroid approximately six thousand five hundred miles away. It’s trajectory appears to align with our flight path. Would you like to begin mining preparation?”