We caught up with her during a 36-hour layover at Arcturus Station, between a cargo haul to Titan and a passenger liner bound for the outer colonies. Andersen doesn’t look like a legacy pilot. She doesn’t wear a captain’s cap unless regulations require it, and her uniform jacket is often draped over her chair. She prefers a worn leather bomber jacket—her father’s, she notes.
That quote is now stenciled on the wall of the Vanguard Dawn’s mess hall. What makes Andersen a favorite among passengers (the ones who aren't terrified of space, anyway) is her dry, grounding wit. During turbulence, she doesn’t recite sterile safety protocols. She gets on the intercom and says things like: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re hitting a patch of gravitational chop that feels like a giant toddler shaking a snow globe. Please return to your seats. No, we are not dying. I have a bottle of very expensive scotch waiting for me in my quarters, and I refuse to let the universe waste it.” Her first officer, Julian Voss, tells me she keeps a small garden of cherry tomatoes in the hydroponic bay. She talks to them during red alerts.
If you’ve flown the notoriously treacherous Jovian Run or navigated the solar flares off the shoulder of Proxima Centauri, you’ve probably heard her voice over the comms—calm, low, with a slight Pacific Northwest drawl that sounds like a warm blanket over a screaming engine. But until last week, she’d never sat still long enough for an interview. captain zoe andersen
— Mira Solis, Deep Space Weekly
As she walks toward the airlock, I ask her one last question: What advice do you have for the next Zoe Andersen? We caught up with her during a 36-hour
She hasn’t decided yet.
She laughs, but it’s true. Zoe Andersen started as a mechanic. She learned the smell of burning hydraulics before she learned how to trim a flight yoke. Her rise through the ranks of TransStellar Dynamics was less a meteoric rise and more a stubborn crawl through engine rooms and midnight cargo inspections. You cannot write about Captain Andersen without mentioning The Themis Incident . She prefers a worn leather bomber jacket—her father’s,
“People think I walked into this,” she says, nursing a black coffee that has long gone cold. “My dad flew these same routes forty years ago, yeah. But he flew boxy haulers with no AI assist and a navigation system that ran on literal tape. I didn’t inherit the rank. I inherited the migraines.”
We caught up with her during a 36-hour layover at Arcturus Station, between a cargo haul to Titan and a passenger liner bound for the outer colonies. Andersen doesn’t look like a legacy pilot. She doesn’t wear a captain’s cap unless regulations require it, and her uniform jacket is often draped over her chair. She prefers a worn leather bomber jacket—her father’s, she notes.
That quote is now stenciled on the wall of the Vanguard Dawn’s mess hall. What makes Andersen a favorite among passengers (the ones who aren't terrified of space, anyway) is her dry, grounding wit. During turbulence, she doesn’t recite sterile safety protocols. She gets on the intercom and says things like: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re hitting a patch of gravitational chop that feels like a giant toddler shaking a snow globe. Please return to your seats. No, we are not dying. I have a bottle of very expensive scotch waiting for me in my quarters, and I refuse to let the universe waste it.” Her first officer, Julian Voss, tells me she keeps a small garden of cherry tomatoes in the hydroponic bay. She talks to them during red alerts.
If you’ve flown the notoriously treacherous Jovian Run or navigated the solar flares off the shoulder of Proxima Centauri, you’ve probably heard her voice over the comms—calm, low, with a slight Pacific Northwest drawl that sounds like a warm blanket over a screaming engine. But until last week, she’d never sat still long enough for an interview.
— Mira Solis, Deep Space Weekly
As she walks toward the airlock, I ask her one last question: What advice do you have for the next Zoe Andersen?
She hasn’t decided yet.
She laughs, but it’s true. Zoe Andersen started as a mechanic. She learned the smell of burning hydraulics before she learned how to trim a flight yoke. Her rise through the ranks of TransStellar Dynamics was less a meteoric rise and more a stubborn crawl through engine rooms and midnight cargo inspections. You cannot write about Captain Andersen without mentioning The Themis Incident .
“People think I walked into this,” she says, nursing a black coffee that has long gone cold. “My dad flew these same routes forty years ago, yeah. But he flew boxy haulers with no AI assist and a navigation system that ran on literal tape. I didn’t inherit the rank. I inherited the migraines.”