Inner Space
Author: Jakub Szamalek
Date: 2025-07-15 00:00:00+00:00
Description: "A wonderfully crafted space thriller. It has everything we loved about The Martian or Gravity, but more psychological depth. It's also a chilling picture of the Russian mentality and its workings, written by someone who truly understands it. With the resurgent conflict between the East and the West and the return of the threat of totalitarianism, this blockbuster book couldn't be more timely."—Zygmunt Miloszewski, bestselling author of Rage and Priceless American and Russian astronauts are trapped together in the International Space Station as war breaks out in Ukraine and life support functi
Publisher: HarperCollins

Dedication

For Matylda, matchless in the entire universe.

Contents

1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. Dedication
4. Contents
5. 1
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7. 3
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10. 6
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12. 8
13. 9
14. 10
15. 11
16. A Note from the Author
17. A Note from the Translator
18. Acknowledgments
19. Bibliography
20. About the Author
21. About the Translator
22. Copyright
23. About the Publisher

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Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. 1

1

December 8, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: Do you require a Bible?

HUNT: No, thank you.

LAMAR: Please raise your right hand. Do you solemnly affirm that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

HUNT: I do.

LAMAR: I understand you have information that is relevant to the work of this commission. Is that correct?

HUNT: It is.

LAMAR: Please present your testimony.

HUNT: Where should I start? From the day of the accident?

LAMAR: No, from the beginning.

Baikonur—August 4, 2021, 16:43 GMT +5

Nate Hunt was waiting for his wife. Lucy was running late.

“Dad, I’m bored,” whined their daughter, Eliza. Nate was holding her in his lap. The girl’s hair had been rubbing against his sweater, creating a static charge. It tickled Nate’s nose.

“Yes, I know.” He sighed. “You’ve already told me.”

Nate was bored too. The ceremonies, the excursions, and the press conferences—all of it seemed never-ending. Nate was also terrified. These two emotional states might seem incompatible, but they definitely weren’t. He was last here eight years ago and the same thing had happened. But that time, he had been on his own. He hadn’t needed to mentally rehearse what he would tell their child if something went wrong. Now he couldn’t find the right words. Perhaps there simply weren’t any.

“When will Mom come?” asked the little girl.

“Soon,” he replied.

“How long is soon?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“Do you want a candy, little girl?” asked the woman sitting next to them, speaking Russian. She smiled invitingly at Eliza and rustled a bag of hard candies. But Eliza didn’t feel like talking to strangers. She turned away from the woman and buried herself into her father.

“Sorry, she’s sleepy,” said Nate, smiling apologetically. He had picked up his Russian incidentally. He had helped Lucy revise for her Russian exams so many times that various phrases had stuck in his mind. His favorite Russian word was pochemuchka—a person who asks too many questions. It fitted Eliza to a tee.

The woman nodded understandingly. Most likely, she’d also been up since dawn. Nate wondered how many times she’d been through this. Was it her third or fourth time? She wasn’t showing any sign of nerves—quite the opposite; her broad smile never flagged. Maybe it was because, besides the candies, her handbag contained a packet of tranquilizers.

“Let’s play a game then,” suggested Eliza.

“Good idea,” said Nate. “How about I spy?”

“OK. You go first.”

Nate scanned the room. It looked like a classroom or a dentist’s waiting room: harsh fluorescent lights, beige walls with faded posters, rows of plastic chairs, and sickly-looking plants on the windowsill. What differed was the thick plexiglass barrier that divided the room into two. On the other side of it stood a long table with three microphones, each labeled with a name written in the Russian alphabet at the top, then repeated in the Latin alphabet underneath. Anton Kovalyov. Lev Zaytsev. Lucy Poplaski.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with m,” whispered Nate.

“Is it map?” asked Eliza.

“No.”

“Mat?”

He shook his head.

“Microphone?”

“Yes. Your turn.”

The little girl twisted and turned, totally oblivious that she was digging, first with her elbow, then her knee, into her father’s stomach. The people gathered in the room—other families, dignitaries, and journalists—waved and smiled at her. But Eliza ignored them completely. She was focused on the game. Eliza approached all competitive activities extremely seriously. Once, when she came second in a sack race at a school event, she spent the rest of the day in tears. “Eliza is a very ambitious little girl,” the teacher had said to them at pickup time. Her tone of voice suggested that perhaps Eliza was too ambitious. “She gets it from her mom,” Nate had replied, without thinking twice.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with r,” said Eliza.

“Ribbon?”

“No.”

“Hmm . . .” Nate rubbed his chin. “A ring?”

“No.”

“Rack?”

“Nope,” said Eliza, shaking her head with evident satisfaction.

“I give up then.”

“A rocket!” said Eliza triumphantly.

Nate looked out the window. The rocket pointed skyward amidst an expanse of sun-scorched grass. Surrounded by a halo of milky white vapor, it peered out from behind a crisscrossed scaffolding framework. It was an anomaly in this scenery: the faded pale steppes of Kazakhstan, the crumbling dilapidated buildings, and the howling of stray dogs. It looked like a relic of an extinct alien civilization. In a way, it really was—the Baikonur Cosmodrome was built by the Soviet Union. The decision to locate the cosmodrome at this site had been influenced by two key factors. First, its position in the southernmost part of the Soviet Union, closer to the equator, facilitated reaching the required orbit. Second, if anything went wrong—for example, if a rocket exploded shortly after liftoff—the risk of flaming plates of metal falling on someone’s head was relatively low. All around, as far as the eye could see, there was only grass.

Nate had witnessed an explosion like that once. He was six years old at the time and on a visit to family in Florida. By chance, NASA’s repeatedly postponed space shuttle Challenger flight was imminent. His parents took him to the Kennedy Space Center to watch the launch live; they wanted Nate to see it because the crew included a schoolteacher, Christa McAuliffe, who would give a lesson from space. Nate remembered it the way a child does, as if he had taken some random snapshots with a camera—badly framed, blurred images, overexposed by emotion. He was given a paper cap with the NASA logo on it, but it kept slipping down over his eyes, which made him very sad. In the stands, they took their seats just behind a man in a cowboy hat. The hat completely blocked his view, so little Nate was frustrated and at odds with the world. His father lifted Nate onto his shoulders to give him a better view, ignoring the protests of the people in the row behind. Then came a blinding flash and a roar; Nate felt the blast of hot air blow his hair back. Vibrations spread throughout his body, making his teeth chatter and his skin tingle. The rocket sped upward, drowning the cheers, spurting out flames, faster and faster until it turned into a tiny dot in the sky. Then, the dot flared up and changed into several smaller specks. Some of them started to fall, while others traced fancy swirls and flourishes in the air. For a fraction of a second, Nate thought that that was how it was supposed to be, that these were cosmic fireworks like the Fourth of July, and he was delighted. His glee didn’t last long; the sobbing, screaming, and chaos that followed would haunt his sleeping hours for years to come. Despite this, he still chose space for his path in life. Boundless space fascinated him, terrified him, and sucked him in.

A murmur rippled through the room; camera shutters whirred as they were released over and over again. At last, thought Nate with relief. On the other side of the plexiglass barrier, a door opened and the crew of the Soyuz entered the room—Lev, Anton, and Lucy. The cameras were all pointing at Nate’s wife—she was undoubtedly more photogenic than the Russians. With her dark curly hair tied up in a ponytail, broad smile, and upturned freckled nose, she looked like the friendly girl next door, someone you’d be pals with in no time at all. Plus, she was going to be one of the last Americans to take off for space from Kazakhstan. At last, after over a decade, the United States once more possessed their own means of transport to take them into orbit: Dragon space capsules built, in true American tradition, by an eccentric billionaire. The first flights had been successful. NASA was already negotiating a new, more extensive contract that would put an end to the United States’ involuntary reliance on Russian assistance. Soon, joint flights out of Baikonur would be a thing of the past.

Yuri Rybkin, the director of Roscosmos, a gray-haired, well-built man wearing a cream-colored blazer, took the stage and gave a speech in Russian.

“What’s that man saying?” asked Eliza.

“Nothing interesting.”

“Tell me.”

“We’re approaching the end of a beautiful chapter in the history of the friendship between our nations; however, a new chapter is beginning.”

“What does that mean?” asked Eliza.

It means that, soon, the Russians will no longer be able to cash in ninety million dollars for a place in a Soyuz, thought Nate. That, without these regular cash injections, Roscosmos will teeter on the brink of bankruptcy. That these declarations of readiness to continue working together mask envy, grudges, and resentment. Instead, Nate told his daughter, “It means that we will travel into space together, but separately.”

The Russian bigwig finished his speech and Steve Ayers, the NASA representative, took the mic. Ayers was the deputy director for crewed space flights—a stocky, balding man with Coke-bottle glasses. Yet more bombastic platitudes, good wishes for a successful mission, and government-agency newspeak. Finally, it was time for Anton, Lev, and Lucy to say goodbye to their families. Nate and Eliza sat down opposite Lucy; they were separated by the plexiglass, surrounded by strangers yet coerced into intimacy in front of the cameras. Nate wanted to tell Lucy a whole stack of things: he was damn proud of her, he would miss her, he was happy for her, he was worried for her . . . But he couldn’t overcome his reticence, not in the midst of this crowd.

“Hi! How’s your morning been?” It was Lucy who spoke up first.

So, it was to be platitudes, empty words. But even empty words can be infused with significance, conveying things beyond their literal meaning. The timbre of their voices, the pauses, the looks passing between them. In this way, they told each other the things they couldn’t say in words.

“Fine,” answered Nate. “Isn’t that right, Eliza? All fine?”

“When will you come back?” asked Eliza. It was an accusation as well as a question.

“You know the answer to that! In six months’ time.”

“You’ll miss my birthday.”

“I’ll be there, sweetheart,” answered Lucy, smiling sadly. “I’ll be there more than once.”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember? The space station orbits the Earth once every ninety minutes. If your party lasts three hours, I’ll fly over our home twice during the party, and I’ll think of you then. OK?”

“That’s not the same.”

Lucy put her hand up against the plexiglass. It was a poor substitute for real contact, but the astronauts were in quarantine.

“I know, darling.”

“So why are you going there?”

Lucy didn’t get the chance to reply. The allocated time for farewells had ended. They would see each other next in half a year’s time. If all went well.

Baikonur—August 4, 2021, 18:52 GMT +5

The decorative golden threads in the Orthodox priest’s vestments had glittered in the light of the camera flashes. The aspergillum had traced a wide arc through the air and holy water ran down Lucy’s cheeks like tears. Yet another tradition, yet another superstition. For the Russians, every stage of the flight preparations—and there were many stages—had to be accompanied by a ritual, and after each expedition new rituals were added. There was more folklore than at a village wedding. Every person on the flight had to lay flowers at the memorial to Yuri Gagarin, hoist their country’s flag up the pole, plant a sapling along Cosmonauts Alley, put their signature on their Baikonur hotel room door, and, the day before the launch, watch a Soviet movie from the seventies called White Sun of the Desert. On top of all this, it went without saying that there was no choice but to accept the clergyman’s blessing regardless of their personal preferences or faith, and not just once, but twice over. It was as if the Russians believed the success of the flight depended on the will of capricious heavens, which had to be won over with ceremonies that lasted for weeks, rather than on the laws of nature and mathematical equations.

Lucy boarded the bus taking the crew to the launch pad. She was already wearing her made-to-measure Sokol spacesuit with its numerous ties, zips, and fasteners—a real cosmic corset! It took almost two hours and required the assistance of several technicians to put it on and, since it was hermetically sealed, each crew member was also equipped with a portable ventilator—a small blue case—to stop them being boiled alive.

Once the bus moved off and Lucy was at last, at least temporarily, beyond the reach of the cameras and microphones, she rested her forehead against the window and closed her eyes. She had risen at four o’clock in the morning, and it was now approaching seven in the evening. Ahead of her, she still had a several-hours-long flight to the International Space Station in a capsule the size of an elevator, so she needed to take any opportunity she could to rest. The Russians were already asleep.

However, Lucy couldn’t get to sleep. Her thoughts kept wandering back to Eliza’s question. Why? What for? Naturally, she had answered this question hundreds of times: first, during the never-ending interviews for the role; later, in media interviews, public appearances, and private conversations. But in those situations, she had said what was expected of her, the things one ought to say, the things other astronauts had been repeating for decades: it was her contribution to the development of science, the exploration of space was a critically important mission for the human race, she wanted to inspire young girls all around the world, and so on and so forth. But they were all lies. Had somebody administered a truth serum to her (if one really existed), her reply would have been less lofty. Why? Because nothing gave her such a kick and such a thrill as flying at a speed of thirteen thousand kilometers an hour. Because it was an incredible adventure. Because others weren’t able to, but she could. Because it confirmed that she was the best.

All this meant that the resentment and reproach in her daughter’s voice hurt Lucy all the more. It wasn’t just about Eliza’s birthday. Lucy was hardly ever at home. She had lived out of a suitcase for the last four years, flying between Washington, Houston, Toulouse, Moscow, and Cologne to attend endless training courses, practical sessions, preparations, and examinations. Every hour—no! every minute—of the mission had to be planned and rehearsed in multiple practice runs at least a year in advance. Lucy had to know every safety procedure by heart; study and assimilate all the lists of instructions and technical diagrams; know the names of every single screw, switch, and cable—in Russian, as well as in English. If she had really been doing all of this for the good of humanity, she might have been able to justify it to herself and to appease her guilty conscience. But she wasn’t. Lucy wondered whether her male colleagues also had such thoughts and regretted missing their children’s first steps and words, or whether only the women were doomed to suffer these pangs of conscience for the sake of their ambition.

Another thing was bothering her as well. The previous day, she had attended a meeting with Deputy Director Ayers. It hadn’t been planned, it didn’t appear in any timetable, and the phrases she’d heard in the meeting . . . well, you could comb all the press reports without finding a single one. Rising tensions. Clashes at the highest levels. Fears it might escalate. Hard to believe something like that could happen in the twenty-first century, and in blood-soaked Europe too. Deputy Director Ayers had meant every word. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon.

The International Space Station was born of the optimism of the nineties. Freed of Cold War tactics, the Russians and the Americans no longer had to race each other among the stars; they joined forces for the good of humanity. They pooled their resources and, with the help of Europe and Japan, constructed a laboratory that orbited around the Earth—for a mere hundred and twenty billion dollars. It was a symbol of a new age of shared aspirations and putting the past behind them. Naturally, the high-flown pronouncements masked pragmatic calculations. The Americans wanted access to Soviet technology; the Russians needed money to keep their space program going in all the chaos of perestroika, and only the Americans had the resources to cover the sums required. Both parties got what they wanted, and everyone was happy.

But now, over two decades later, the sums no longer added up. Roscosmos no longer had any technical expertise to offer the Americans; it still relied on Soviet solutions from the sixties. Also, China had emerged as a superpower and was ready to fund Roscosmos without asking awkward questions about human rights, democracy, and freedom of the press. In other words: the marriage of convenience had started to fall apart, but they were still sharing a matrimonial home in space.

The bus came to a halt in the middle of nowhere, a few kilometers away from the rocket; the chirping of crickets resounded across the steppe. Oh yes, it was time for one last ritual. Lucy got to her feet. Anton motioned for her to pass him in the aisle with an extravagantly gallant gesture. Broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and short blond hair, he wasn’t bad-looking. Only his nicotine-stained teeth spoiled the overall effect. Anton and Lucy had served together during her first tour of duty on the International Space Station eight years previously. They knew each other well, and that was why she avoided him.

“Ladies to the left and gentlemen to the right,” ordered Anton once they were standing on the baking-hot asphalt. Lev followed one pace behind Anton; he was a head shorter, an introvert, with a salt-and-pepper moustache as bushy as his eyebrows. Lucy had met him at joint training sessions and took to him. He was an old-fashioned type—sincere and devoted to the cause. He earnestly believed that the chasm between East and West could be filled in or, at any rate, that from the perspective of space, the division was meaningless. Lev was the personification of the Soviet ideal: hardworking, rational, and convinced that the future could be better than the past. This was to be his last mission, his farewell to space. He looked as if this was already making him sad.

A moment later, you could hear the rip of released Velcro and the swish of zippers. The Sokol spacesuits, which, not even an hour ago, had been meticulously fastened by a swarm of technicians in latex gloves, cotton caps, and plastic overshoes under the gaze of the families and journalists, were now breached. Of course, everybody, including the hardworking technicians, knew that this would happen. Because in 1961, on April 12, in exactly this spot, Yuri Gagarin had asked the bus driver to stop. The man who was about to become the first person to break free of the chains of gravity was grounded by the most mundane of human needs: he had to pee. Since Gagarin then flew out and returned in one piece, all cosmonauts who followed in his footsteps now stopped here too—just in case! As usual, the men had it easier. Women fulfilled the requirements of this tradition by bringing a small plastic bottle of their urine with them. Lucy tipped the contents of her bottle onto the bus’s back tire and, copying a gesture she had observed the priest making during the blessing, she shook out the last drops with a decisive flick of the wrist.

Baikonur—August 4, 2021, 19:12 GMT +5

“The Grass at Home,” the official cosmonaut anthem, blared out from the loudspeakers, announcing that the crew was now inside the rocket with less than two hours until liftoff. Steve Ayers wondered how many times he had heard this nostalgic song, how many times he had stood here on the viewing terrace of the Baikonur Cosmodrome. Was it the twentieth? Or the twenty-fifth? He had no idea. He had seen so many missions depart from here that they all merged into one another; his passport was covered in Kazakhstan stamps. But this phase, the last stretch of the race, still raised his adrenaline levels. Very shortly, they would send humans into space. There was no way you could get used to that; it never ceased to amaze him. A few more photos and speeches, a teleconference with the mission control center in Moscow, and then the bigwigs went out onto the viewing terrace.

“One era ends and another begins,” said Director Rybkin as he leaned against the railing. The day’s program, folded into quarters, stuck out of the back pocket of his trousers. Rybkin had an army background and it was obvious he hadn’t been a paper pusher. His eyes gave it away: they were vigilant, focused, continually in motion, trained to spot the enemy and scan for traps. This habitual alertness might eventually come in useful. His predecessor had been dismissed less than a year ago, mired in scandal, accused of corruption that could lead to a long term in a forced-labor camp. Nobody stopped to wonder whether he was guilty or not; you could work it out by the ostentatious jewelry worn by his much-younger wife. A more interesting question was why the prosecutor’s office had turned its attention to him at that point. In other words, what had he done to disappoint his superiors? What expectations did he fail to meet? What had changed behind the thick walls of the Kremlin?

“It doesn’t have to end,” retorted Ayers. They were speaking in English; it made it easier to communicate.

“Aha—so you do want to buy a seat on the next flight after all?”

“Yes, if you beat the competition on price.”

“Ah yes . . . the free market,” said Rybkin, grimacing. “Unfortunately, I don’t think that will be possible.”

“There are other projects.”

“Like?”

Ayers demonstratively lifted his gaze toward the sky. The sun had already set and the moon was peering out from behind the clouds. It was over fifty years since the last time a human had set foot on the Moon. There had been many plans to return, but there was a shortage of enthusiasm and money—and legitimate reasons. In the course of his long career with NASA, Ayers had repeatedly witnessed projects to return to the Moon making their way to the shredder. At the point when he was slowly losing hope that anything would come of them and that humans would again fly beyond the Earth’s immediate environs in his lifetime, the situation changed completely. SpaceX—a private company, a start-up that, only a dozen years ago, had been the butt of jokes among veterans in the field—showed it was possible to fly more cheaply, more frequently, and further than anyone had dared dream before. Now the ambition wasn’t just to fly back to the Moon, but to stay there. It wasn’t exactly clear—in economic terms, at least—what the purpose of permanent human presence there would be, but it was already evident that very few patches of the lunar surface could support it. Continuous sunlight and water—meager amounts of it, but still—could only be found at the rims of several perfectly located craters. And though international agreements specified no nation could claim a celestial body or any part of it as their own, good luck pitching camp next to your enemies. It was either another go at collaboration . . . or a race.

“We’ll find another partner,” said Rybkin. He moved away from the railing and folded his arms behind his back.

“China?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“China won’t make a good partner.”

“And have you been one?”

Ayers didn’t reply immediately. He sensed that, from now on, he ought to weigh every word.

“I’d like to think so,” he answered.

The Russian looked away toward the rocket. Bathed in the floodlights, picking it out from the dark night of the steppe, it looked like a gigantic monument erected to honor . . . What did it honor? Human curiosity? Power? Arrogance?

“Do you know how much we pay Kazakhstan to use the Baikonur Cosmodrome?” asked Rybkin after a pause.

“The data is publicly available.”

“Say the figure out loud. Let’s refresh our memories.”

Ayers paused. He didn’t like the tone Rybkin was taking with him, but wasn’t surprised. The Russians were increasingly confrontational lately, as if they were looking to pick a fight. “One hundred and fifteen million per annum,” he said.

“A hundred and fifteen million what? Rubles?”

“No. Dollars.”

“Exactly, dollars,” said Rybkin, nodding his head. “Is that a lot of money or not?”

“For me? It’s a lot.”

“Exactly! And how much money did Kazakhstan invest in the construction of this cosmodrome that they now so graciously let us use? Are those data also publicly available, Mr. Ayers?”

“You’re trying to lure me into a discussion about politics, whereas I—”

“Just tell me. How much?”

Ayers looked straight into Rybkin’s eyes. He was trying to work out where the conversation was going and what Rybkin wanted to achieve. Was this just about old grievances, or something more? “Kazakhstan was part of the Soviet Union at the time,” he replied diplomatically.

“So it was. And what was it that led to the collapse of the Soviet Union?”

“I’m not sure that’s relevant to our conversation.”

“It’s relevant to every conversation.”

“Well, let’s say opinions are divided on that one.”

“Yes, they are very divided,” agreed Rybkin. “Mine is that our partner gave us a helping hand. The same partner who has just taken away half of my budget.”

“Private companies are simply cheaper. That’s not our fault.”

“Huh! I feel as if I’ve gone back in time to the nineties,” snorted the Russian. “Why don’t you spin me a yarn about the invisible hand of the market?”

Whoa, thought Ayers. It’s time to change the subject. “It seems to me that our discussion has taken an unconstructive turn,” he said with a warmhearted smile of the kind only an American can glue to their face.

“Really?” Rybkin wasn’t prepared to let go. “In my opinion, our conversation leads to an inevitable conclusion.”

Announcements in Russian crackled through the loudspeakers: “Ignition . . . Preliminary . . .” The scaffold towers swiveled away from the rocket, and the umbilical cables were cast aside; it looked as if a flower were opening its petals.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

“May I ask what that conclusion is?” inquired Ayers.

“Seven! Six! Five!”

“That all this”—Rybkin gestured toward himself, then at Ayers—“was a mistake.”

The light from the flames flooded their faces.

Soyuz—August 4, 2021, 20:13 GMT +5

A plush toy dangled just above Lucy’s head—a puppy with pink fur, a black nose, and huge eyes. It weighed exactly twenty-three grams and was an important item of the Soyuz’s equipment. It reminded Lucy of a souvenir that Nate brought back from a conference in Edinburgh: a stone set in a frame with the inscription Scottish Meteorological Station. If the stone was hot, the sun was shining. If the stone was wet, it was raining. If you couldn’t see the stone, it was foggy. An instruction manual for the puppy would read as follows: If the puppy isn’t moving, you haven’t yet launched; once the puppy starts to tremble, the engines have been switched on; when it bounces around, you’ve left the ground; and when the puppy floats in the air, you’ve reached orbit. If the puppy bursts into flames—something is seriously wrong!

The plush toy started to shake. So did Lucy’s arms, legs, stomach, tongue, eyes, and brain—the vibrations radiated throughout the capsule. Lucy sat, or rather lay, to the left of Anton, curled up with her knees pressed right up to her chin, fitting snugly into a recess created using a plaster cast of her body; all three of them had swallowed a massive dose of painkillers to enable them to endure several hours lying in this position. Every cubic centimeter of the Soyuz capsule’s cramped interior had to be put to use, so just above Lucy’s head, in its protective bubble of plexiglass, luggage bulged out of bays, which were crammed full right up to the edges. As the capsule commander, Anton was responsible for loading the bays. If the weight was unevenly distributed, if there was as little as half a kilo more on one side than the other, the vehicle would deviate from its planned course. That could never be good news when traveling through the boundlessness of space.

“Carrier rocket parameters: nominal,” declared the voice in her headphones.

Lucy could feel a colossal force pressing her down and squeezing the air out of her lungs. Underneath her, forty thousand kilograms of rocket fuel were ablaze. She glanced at the screen: the gravity load was at two g, two-and-a-half, three, three-and-a-half. . . . She wanted to laugh, cry, and shout with joy. At last, after eight years of waiting, working, dedication, and sacrifices—her own and other people’s—she was once more breaking away from the Earth. However, she stifled these feelings as efficiently and dispassionately as if she were flicking a switch or pressing a button on a control panel. For an astronaut, the ability to do this was as important as knowledge of orbital mechanics or first aid techniques. Lucy was being continually observed, evaluated, and judged; even then, at that very moment, a camera that transmitted images to the mission control centers in Houston, Moscow, Toulouse, and Tsukuba was aimed at her face. She knew she had to look serious and focused to avoid attracting the attention of the psychologist monitoring the crew, even though she was actually only a passenger (Anton and Lev were in charge of this flight, and even they didn’t have much to do for the moment because the onboard computer carried out most of the tasks for them). So she tracked the readings on the screens and verified item after item on the checklist.

“First stage separation,” said Anton.

She felt as if somebody had abruptly lifted their foot off the gas pedal. The rocket discarded its tail, including the empty tanks and four engines, each the size of a truck. They would soon burn up in the atmosphere like sacrifices made to gravity.

“Launch escape system separation.”

Bang! Off came the escape tower concealing the thrusters that would have torn the capsule away from the rest of the rocket at lightning speed had there been an emergency. The most dangerous stage of the flight was now behind them. They could breathe a sigh of relief.

“Jettison launch shroud.”

The capsule was flooded with light now that its windows were no longer covered by metal panels. Lucy looked out. Half of the window was filled with endless blackness dotted with gleaming stars. Supposedly the same stars she observed in the night sky, but somehow different: unscreened by the pall of the atmosphere, their light was much sharper and more distinct. Lucy felt as if she were at the optician’s selecting lenses and, at last, she had found the right ones, which showed the world as it really was. Lower down, the Earth turned. The night sky above Asia blazed with city lights. She had missed this view. Every day. Every moment.

“It still makes quite an impression, doesn’t it?” piped up Anton.

“It does.”

“Second stage separation.” Lev was reading out the computer messages. They had launched from Baikonur in a soaring tower, and soon only the capsule would remain. “Third stage ignition . . . initiated.”

“A view like that time in the Cupola,” continued Anton. His tone was mocking. It was a challenge.

“Velocity: twenty-two thousand and fifty-one kilometers an hour,” said Lucy, ignoring the taunt.

“We were flying above Turkmenistan then too.”

“Solar array deployment,” said Lucy, flicking the appropriate switch, “initiated.”

“Those lights there are Ashgabat. And there’s Bishkek.”

“Standby,” said a voice in their headphones. It was Mission Control Moscow. “Loss of signal in thirty seconds. Communications resume in approximately twenty minutes. Start preparations for the first Delta-v maneuver.”

“Affirmative.”

There was silence in the cabin. For exactly thirty seconds. The biting words that followed were not recorded in the official transcripts.

Baikonur—August 4, 2021, 20:44 GMT +5

The Baikonur Cosmodrome was starting to empty out. The loudspeakers had fallen silent; the floodlights illuminating the rocket launcher were off. Dignitaries boarded the waiting limousines; journalists were folding up tripods and putting cameras into cases. Nate wondered how much demand there would be for their material, who might broadcast it, and—more importantly—who would watch it. The prospect of an expedition to the Moon, or to Mars, could still fire up the imagination; people could get worked up about the disputes of millionaires whizzing around in space; however, flights to the International Space Station had become commonplace. Naturally, news about the latest rocket launch to the International Space Station was followed by a loyal circle of enthusiasts, but it did not make the front pages of the newspapers, or even their second or third pages.

It was hardly surprising. At the end of the day, the ISS was a laboratory—in orbit, sure, but a laboratory all the same. How could you get excited about pipetting, even if it was in zero-gravity conditions? NASA’s press office was well aware of this and did what it could to revive interest in the station: the astronauts recorded video clips explaining how a toilet functions in space—“Look! You secure your feet with these straps, then pass urine into this funnel . . .”—spun around like tops, and caught the escaping bubbles that formed when squeezing juice out of a tube. It was as if they were circus performers and their act was the microgravity show. Eventually, even that no longer drew eyeballs. Thus, an achievement that wasn’t even an aspiration—only a pipe dream—fifty years previously had now become part of everyday life, and blended into the background unnoticed. This is the fate of every breakthrough and technological advance: humans can get used to anything. Indeed, perhaps it is the key to our success, the reason why an animal created to live on grassy savannahs, a bipedal monkey, has not yet become deranged in a world of glass, cables, and screens. Or rather, not totally deranged.

“Dad, can we go now?” asked Eliza. She was tired and a taxi was waiting for them downstairs.

“Just a little longer.”

Nate looked up at the sky to the place where, just a little earlier, he saw the twinkle of engines belching fire. No trace was left of the Soyuz; it had melted into the stars—a single dot among thousands. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of exhaust fumes and hot asphalt, then he slowly let the air out of his lungs. The fear that had been devouring him for weeks, which had insinuated itself into every thought and seeped into every dream, had finally eased a little. But it had not gone away entirely. It never did: the fear was poised to return at the first opportunity, at the slightest trigger, as if it were a spider that could feel even the slightest vibration of the web within Nate’s head. That was how he imagined it: thousands of tiny silver threads stretched out inside his skull and, in their midst, shining black eyes that never blinked.

Nate was pleased to be returning home to everyday life and the familiar routes between house, school, the stores, the gas station, the park, and the library. He needed routines to constrain his world and make it manageable. This was probably the biggest difference between him and Lucy. She continually craved new sensations, whereas he avoided them—even when they related to seemingly pleasant and straightforward things. Like a weekend away. Sounded great, but the weather might not be good; they might run out of gas or get a flat tire. Eliza might get ill, or, when they arrived, there might be a problem with the reservation. Of course, they would go anyway—because he wanted to, surely? Or, at least, he knew that he ought to want to go—but the doubts never disappeared. So, in his head, Nate worked out ever more complex contingency plans that branched out like the delta of the Amazon. He took extensive preventative steps: he would fill up the car’s tank a day earlier, check the tire pressure and the oil level, double-check that he had packed their rainwear and that the hotel room was booked for the right date. Rather than leave on a vacation, Nate departed on three-person military maneuvers, and as the staff officer, he had to continually check maps, get progress reports, and identify potential hazards while they were away. Obviously, this made it hard to relax. He only admired the views once he was back home—looking at the photographs.

Lucy was his polar opposite. Always composed. Always in control of the situation. For her, any new problem was an interesting challenge and a puzzle to be solved. In a rush to get to the airport and you hit a traffic jam? Excellent! She needed to quickly work out an alternative route. A looming deadline for submitting a document and the computer freezes? A good opportunity to expand her IT skills. Lucy was never stumped or thrown off-balance.

They had met fourteen years earlier at the International Conference on Planetary Sciences. At the time, Nate was a geophysicist working on a team designing a probe that was supposed to be sent to Titan (it never happened; the money ran out). Lucy was still working as an astrophysicist and was presenting the results of a spectroscopic analysis of the planets in the Gliese 581 system of the Libra constellation. Nate noticed her because her conference poster was held up by a structure improvised from a broom handle, a straightened wire clothes hanger, and thread from the hotel sewing kit, rather than the usual folding stand. It transpired that the airline had lost her luggage, so she was forced to build a stand from scratch in less than an hour using whatever she had to hand. Nate and Lucy chatted for a while; he made a joke and she laughed. He asked whether she had any plans for the evening. She didn’t. Sometimes—not often, but it did happen—he regretted not asking her about her plans for the following decade. Who knows? Perhaps then they wouldn’t have gone out for drinks, or kissed in the hotel elevator, or spent the night in his room. In brief, the whole chain of cause and effect that led Nate to the present moment at the cosmodrome in Kazakhstan might not have occurred. The partners of astronauts had it hard. Partners with his psychological makeup had it extra hard.

“Nate!” Someone put a hand on his shoulder. It was Deputy Director Ayers. Even though it was only the third time they had ever met, Ayers sounded as if he were greeting his best friend. You could tell he was a political operator. He had the reputation of a player, as adept as he was ruthless. “Will you be at the farewell dinner?”

“My apologies. Not this time. It’s the kid’s bedtime.”

“I understand. If you ever need anything . . .”

“Thanks. We have everything we need.”

“Excellent. In that case, we’ll all meet here again in six months’ time, won’t we?”

If all goes well, said the voice at the back of Nate’s head. Assuming Lucy’s capsule doesn’t enter the atmosphere at too sharp an angle and burn up. Assuming it doesn’t enter at too shallow an angle and bounce along the blanket of gases surrounding the Earth like a stone skimming across a lake. Assuming the heat shield works effectively. Assuming no cabin decompression. Assuming the parachute opens. Assuming they avoid going into a spin that would lead to lethal g-loads. Assuming the capsule doesn’t disintegrate on impact with the steppes of Kazakhstan.

“Exactly so,” he answered, forcing his lips into a smile.

ISS—August 4, 2021, 21:15 GMT

The bolts clanked as they were released and the hatch started to open. The Soyuz filled with the deafening rumble of fans and the distinctive smells Lucy remembered from her previous stay: sweat, overheated metal, and musty plastic. Above her, the crew’s faces appeared in the open airlock. Anton was the first to make a move toward them—a gentle push-off sufficed and he rose toward the exit, as if swimming through the air. Lucy pulled her hair, which was billowing in front of her face, into a ponytail and resecured it tightly with an elastic band. She was ready and couldn’t wait. Now Lev—one movement with his hand and he was up there. Her turn. She stood up on her seat, flexed her knees, and flew after the others.

Even though she had been here before, though she had trained on hundreds of parabolic flights to accustom her body to weightlessness, Lucy felt dizzy and her stomach clenched. Up, down—suddenly, these words lost all meaning and were useless. She felt as if she were inside an optical illusion where nothing was where it should be and the longer you looked, the more befuddled your senses became. Lucy could feel acid in her gullet. Don’t spew, she thought. You really mustn’t spew. Somebody was already hugging her and patting her back. She almost hit her head on the camera lens. They were in the Russian segment, in the Rassvet module, so it was cramped. It would have been tight for two people, let alone nine. They teemed like fish in a net. It would have been easier for Lucy to plan a move to checkmate in three-dimensional chess than to say who was where at any moment, or whose hand or leg she could see.

Lucy recognized the three astronauts they were relieving—Igor Volkov, Kate Hortchak, and Francesco Russo—who were due to return to Earth in their own Soyuz in a few days’ time. A moment later, she was greeted by Ezra Wendley, the pilot of the Dragon. Red-haired, muscular, and pale as a sheet, he had previously been in the US Air Force, and he looked the part. His capsule docked three months ago and was due to stay for another three. She saw Lafayette Summers flit by on her left; he was a Black botanist from Louisiana who always had a smile on his face. The last person Lucy spotted in the muddle was Devaki Anand, an American woman of Indian heritage. Lucy knew her the least as she was the only space tourist among this group of professional astronauts. Of course, that didn’t mean she could sip alcoholic drinks from a highball, stirring them with a palm tree cocktail stick; NASA set her to work as well. The amount she paid for her stay on the station was a secret, but there was no doubt that it was seven figures. Devaki had made billions in Silicon Valley, so this level of expenditure wasn’t a barrier for her.

Lucy was longing to head for her cubicle (a bedroom smaller than a broom cupboard), get undressed (nobody talked about it, but for the journey, the astronauts wore diapers, officially known as Maximum Absorbency Garments—a dignity-saving euphemism), and wash (that meant cleansing your whole body with single-use wipes because there were no showers; free-flowing water plus microgravity equaled a guaranteed short-circuit). But first, she had to attend another scheduled event: the post-flight press conference. They moved into Nauka, one of the oldest—yet also one of the newest—ISS modules. It was one of the oldest because construction of Nauka started in the nineties, and one of the newest because the Russians had only just managed to complete it and launch it into space. They didn’t, however, manage to dock it safely: shortly after Nauka was attached to the ISS, the main propulsion system, which had been acting up earlier, fired up unexpectedly and pushed the whole space station out of its orbit to within a hair’s breadth of catastrophe. Russian competence (or was it commitment?) seemed to be steadily decreasing to a degree that worried Houston. Lucy looked around the newly added module. It looked like any other, with cables, diodes, and electronic equipment protruding everywhere, from every surface.

“OK, let’s get into position,” ordered Volkov, the rotational ISS crew commander. “New people at the front. Rest at the back.”

It took the astronauts a while to get into their designated spots. To avoid disconcerting their viewers on Earth, they all adopted the same orientation as if they were standing on a floor, even though half of them could just as well have been hanging upside down. Everyone held on to something—those who had just arrived at the station instinctively used their hands; the rest, already habituated to microgravity, hooked on to grips with their feet: it was more comfortable that way. Three, two, one, and the lamp next to the glass eye of the camera lit up red.

“Station, this is Mission Control Moscow,” said a voice distorted by static. “You’re not too cramped up there, I hope.”

“We are coping, thanks,” replied Volkov with a smile. His hair was cut close to his scalp, like the other Russians. The skin on his neck was red and irritated: shaving in space was a singularly unpleasant business. Above his head, a golden Orthodox cross glistened from its fixture on the wall.

“Excellent. Soyuz, how was the flight?”

“Unproblematic,” retorted Anton.

And so it went on, all in the same style: few specifics and lots of forced joviality; it was an unconvincing show. Lucy had stopped listening to take a good look at the people who were going to share this extremely confined space with her over the following months. She could see their faces in the transmission preview window on the LCD screen. Anton appeared to be very satisfied with himself—not without cause, since he had carried out the docking procedure flawlessly, as befitted a former jet pilot. She quickly passed over him. Lev was clearly exhausted; beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, the tiny transparent globules flying off his skin every time he moved. As always, Lafayette exuded positivity and verve; he kept butting in with jokes. He spoke Russian with a heavy American accent, but his fluency was astonishing and she had heard he could quote Pushkin from memory. Ezra had his hefty arms crossed over his chest, and his eyebrows were furrowed. He looked annoyed. Or maybe he was just tired? Getting here was a dream for them all, but Lucy knew all too well that the idiosyncrasies of the station (the noise, the smells, the never-ending chores, and most of all, the people) nevertheless started grating on you after a while. Devaki seemed to be putting on a brave face; her pasty skin and the dark rings under her eyes contrasted with her words about how much she was enjoying her visit to the ISS. The gossip had it that she was suffering from motion sickness. Everybody knew the sensation: the labyrinth in the ear goes wild in orbit. Not bound by the forces of gravity, the tiny hairs of the inner ear billow rather than drop, which the brain interprets as a never-ending tumble, so it pumps adrenaline into the blood and sends out urgent signals: Grab onto something! Protect your head! Beware! For most people, these symptoms fade away after three or four days—most, but not all. The unofficial unit of measurement for motion sickness used by the astronaut community is the Garn. The name comes from Senator Jake Garn, who, in the 1980s, pressured NASA into getting him a seat on board a space shuttle—then, in a rare manifestation of karmic justice, he spent the whole mission vomiting violently. Zero Garns signify no discomfort at all, half a Garn meant continual nausea, and one Garn equaled constant, distressful vomiting. Lucy assessed her own status as 0.2 Garns and Devaki’s as 0.75 Garns. Poor woman!

“Naturally, it is sad that my time on the station is coming to an end,” said Igor Volkov, slowly winding up his speech, “but I am delighted to pass the helm over into such competent, graceful hands.”

Lucy smiled at the camera, restraining the urge to roll her eyes at the Russian’s supposed compliment. It was her big moment, the honor she had worked toward for years. She wasn’t going to let him spoil it for her.

“Lucy,” said Volkov, squeezing her hand gently as if afraid he’d break a bone, “good luck!” She wondered whether his smile was sincere.

Francesco Russo rang a small brass bell, a seafaring tradition from times when the stars were still gods. Expedition 74 had come to a close, and Expedition 75 was beginning—under Lucy’s command. Playing first violin had always appealed to her. In the Scouts, she had been troop leader, and she’d also been elected class president in high school. On campus, she had led three different clubs and was the captain of the university soccer team, maintaining perfect grades all the while. Things that for many people would have been an ordeal (mediating in conflicts, dealing with complaints, motivating the demotivated) for her were simply the next challenge: multivector problems that she needed to comprehend and resolve. Not only that, every will do, you’re right, and good idea stroked her ego and gave a little twist to the tap of habit-forming endorphins. For her, dynamism, beating records, and discovering the unknown were essential to life.

“Thank you, Igor,” she replied before delivering the clichés she had prepared. “Expedition 75 promises to be extremely interesting. Devaki will continue to study the bit errors caused by cosmic rays. Her research has already delivered many interesting results. Lafayette will start a new project crucial to colonizing Mars in the future: he will research the potential for fertilizing barren soil using ACC, that is”—here Lucy took a deep breath (she had practiced saying the words out loud for hours before finally getting them right)—“1-aminocyclopropane-1-carboxylic acid. As for Ezra and me, next month we will undertake a space walk to repair the damaged photovoltaic panels on solar array wing S6. Our Russian colleagues, Anton and Lev, will also undertake numerous scientific research projects.” About which Roscosmos refused to say anything, she thought. Despite repeated requests on multiple occasions. “All in all, we have several busy and exciting months ahead of us.”

“Thank you, Lucy,” replied the controller in Moscow. “We wish you all the best.”

The red light went off and the broadcast ended. A little more chit-chat and then the crew started to disperse. Everybody had plenty to do—the space station required constant, never-ending maintenance to function—and besides, the presence of so many people in such a small space was dangerous; the ventilation system wasn’t designed for that kind of load. A few minutes later, after squeezing through the claustrophobically cramped modules Zvezda and Zarya, she found herself in the American segment, while Anton and Lev stayed in theirs. They wouldn’t see each other that often; the ISS was designed so that the two segments could easily be isolated from each other. They lived here together but, when all was said and done, separately. Certainly, they sometimes met for meals in the Unity module; sometimes, when their controllers took pity and gave them an evening off, they watched a film together. But the relations between their countries and between their organizations had recently been so tense that these shared moments would surely be few and far between. As it happened, that suited Lucy very well. The only mandatory activity on their joint schedule was the weekly transfer of urine containers. The Russian segment didn’t have a water recovery system, so their containers had to be taken to the equipment on the American side. Almost biblical alchemy: the transformation of urine into water.

Lucy reached her cubicle. It was in the module Harmony, in a recess in the surface that, relative to her current position, was a ceiling. Lucy seized a grab and shifted herself in a single move—go! She turned three-quarters of a somersault to enter her cubicle headfirst. It was the size of a compact shower cabin and the walls were padded with soft fabric. The cubicle contained a sleeping bag, two laptops fixed to the wall—one for communicating with the mission control center, the second for personal use—and that was all. From her bag, Lucy pulled out an envelope with a label that read PERSONAL ITEMS, MAXIMUM WEIGHT 240 GRAMS. She took out photographs of her family—five-year-old Eliza on a climbing wall, Nate in a kayak on Lake Texoma, and Lucy’s parents outside their house in the suburbs of Chicago—and pinned them to the wall with thumbtacks. She double-checked that they were securely embedded in the wall. If they came out, they would float around her sleep station, which would be undesirable to say the very least: they might prick her skin or worse—fall into her open mouth. Next, she pulled out her uniform and unfolded it. It was dark blue with an American flag patch and their mission logo: a Soyuz capsule on a background of two clasped hands—a symbol of their shared flights, and of a dying era.

However, before she washed and changed, she switched on the computer and checked her list of tasks for the following day. Although she was the commander, she only had nominal control over the space station: the rosters for her and the rest of the crew had been decided many years in advance by the space agencies; the flight parameters and the operation of the numerous life-support systems were monitored by the mission control centers in Houston and Moscow. Just like the other astronauts, she was expected to follow a predetermined plan, checking off one task after another from a list of several thousand items. So during her turn as commander, she wasn’t likely to issue even a single order.

Except in the event of a crisis.

Houston—August 9, 2021, 06:45 GMT –5

Steve Ayers came out of the shower. He crouched down to wipe the water from the floor and noticed something underneath the vanity unit catching the light. An earring: a white shell set in silver. He turned it around in his hand and examined it. Then he threw it in the trash.

Steve lived on his own in a huge house in the suburbs of Houston. It hadn’t always been that way: once he had shared it with another person. Even though many years had passed, he still found the odd small item dating back to those times: mislaid jewelry like this earring, part of a toy, or a woolen hat that was not his own stuffed into the sleeve of an old coat. He wondered whether he should sell the place. It would be a way of cutting himself off from those memories once and for all; besides, he didn’t need so many rooms. But then he worked out that he spent fewer than a hundred days a year at home and decided that moving wasn’t worth the bother. Perhaps later, once he retired. He had many plans for his retirement, each one more adventurous than the last. He would buy a boat and fish for marlins. Or he would hop in a motor home and drive from Texas to Alaska. Or he would move to Paris, sit at an easel on the banks of the Seine, and paint landscapes for the tourists. Of course, he realized that he would never actually carry out any of these schemes and it wouldn’t be because he hated fishing, or because long car journeys gave him back pain, or because he’d never held a paintbrush in his life, but simply because they were based on the completely unrealistic assumption that one day he would stop working.

Steve wiped the condensation from the mirror and looked at his own reflection. Bloodshot eyes. Two days’ stubble. He squirted some shaving foam and quickly applied it to his cheeks, as if wanting to wipe away the face he saw. He was exhausted. From Kazakhstan, he had flown on to Moscow on a courtesy visit, and from there on to Cologne, then Paris, and only then did he get on a plane to return to the US. On this last leg of the journey, he had spent the whole flight hunched over a laptop balanced on his knees before landing in Houston the previous day just before midnight. He had reached home around two in the morning, fell asleep at four, and less than three hours later his alarm went off. Had Steve followed his doctor’s guidance, he would have taken the day off: gone on a long walk, eaten a light meal, headed for bed in the early evening, and read a book. But had he followed his doctor’s guidance, he would never have climbed to the top of the bureaucratic ladder and reached his current position. He had no time to rest: he had a whole day of meetings ahead of him. The topic: his impending trip to Washington. Congress was in the process of determining the budget for the following year, so he had to prepare for the backstairs bargaining, political theater, and rhetorical questions posed solely for the sake of the cameras.

Usually, Steve had to explain why his programs were so expensive; he had to fight for every dollar and every cent. This time, he was going to maneuver for NASA to receive a low level of funding. Congress was pushing for the planned missions to the Moon to use Space Launch System rockets, which were built on government contracts. Each SLS launch cost a trifling four billion dollars. Private companies could sell NASA rockets with similar specifications for a fraction of that price, but Washington was fighting this option tooth and nail. The official line was that such crucial technology shouldn’t be entrusted to external contractors and the strategic know-how should remain with the federal agencies. Unofficially, it was all about protecting their own interests. The SLS rockets were built by consortiums of several hundred companies scattered—and this was not merely a coincidence—throughout all fifty states. Each of the companies put in a steep invoice and then passed on some of the revenue to the reelection campaigns of the congresspersons whose signatures appeared on the federal budget. The American system was as riddled with corruption as the Russian one, only it was more sophisticated. White gloves rather than brass knuckles.

Steve pursed his lips so he could reach the hair growing just under his nose, drew the razor down twice more, then rinsed his face. He ran a critical eye over his face, checking whether he had missed any patches—around his Adam’s apple or just by his ears—then rubbed some aftershave onto his cheeks and neck. It stung. Good, that woke him up a bit. Even though he had been in the space flight game for decades, he had never ceased to be amazed at the enormity of the contrast between the uplifting slogans promoted to the public (We’re doing this for the good of all humanity. It’s a mission shared by all nations. Exploration of the universe is our destiny.) and the brutality and cynicism of what went on backstage. I wonder whether similar things happen anywhere else—perhaps the Church? he thought. Perhaps.

He walked out of the bathroom and opened his closet. A dozen or so suits hung inside; they were all in subdued colors and without any patterns, because any kind of stripe or dot looked bad on TV. He was pondering which one to put on when the blinking yellow diode of his silenced phone caught his attention. Steve wiped his hands and unlocked the phone screen.

Seventeen missed calls!

2

December 8, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: When were you told about the hazard?

AYERS: I don’t remember.

LAMAR: What did you do once you knew about it?

AYERS: I acted in accordance with procedure.

LAMAR: Which means?

AYERS: All the information on the subject is included in the stenographic record.

LAMAR: Mr. Ayers, do you realize the seriousness of the accusations made against you?

AYERS: Yes.

LAMAR: Then I suggest you change your approach.

ISS—August 9, 2021, 13:50 GMT

Lucy’s day had started normally. Her alarm went off at seven in the morning—although the term morning was a matter of convention on the ISS as the sun rose (and set) every forty-five minutes, coloring the Earth with a gradient of red to yellow. She followed her tasks, as outlined in the schedule, keen to fulfill all her goals on time. The hours passed quickly, and soon it was time for lunch. Lucy went to the Unity module and prepared her meal: decaf coffee (instant and drunk through a straw; it would escape from a cup), frankfurters (vacuum-packed, reheated in a microwave), and tortillas (normal bread was a banned item, as it crumbled too easily). She ate with the rest of the American crew; the conversation was disjointed, as time was short: only twenty minutes for the meal, then a brief videoconference with Houston, and by then it was high time to get back to work—they had to make the best possible use of every minute, as each one cost tens of thousands of dollars.

Devaki was clearly struggling to get any food down, barely suppressing her gag reflex. Lucy made a mental note to talk to her later and find out whether there was anything she could do to help. She glanced at the tablet attached to her knees with Velcro to stop it from flying off, and checked her schedule for the day. I’ll try and speak to her later, Lucy thought. I can finish my exercises a little early—that would be noted in her records. During their next conversation, the doctor would remind her—in a deadly serious voice reserved for patients who were not sensible—of the consequences of not keeping to the rigorous onboard exercise regime: muscle atrophy, osteoporosis, and heart attacks. Exercise was essential to good health, particularly in space.

Once the regulation twenty minutes were up, the astronauts tidied up after the meal: empty packaging made its way into plastic bags, and the bags into the BEAM module to await the cosmic garbage truck. The Cygnus cargo capsule was due to arrive in two weeks’ time; it would be crammed with food, clothing, tools, and all the other paraphernalia required to keep the ISS working and the crew alive. After unloading it, the astronauts would fill Cygnus with trash—not just the food packaging, but also dirty, sweat-soaked clothing and canisters of feces—and send the spacecraft off to be incinerated in the Earth’s atmosphere. If anyone on Earth looked up at the sky then, they would think the Cygnus was a falling star, silently make a wish, and delight in the beauty of the universe.

“OK. Ready?” asked Lucy, once they had finished tidying up.

“Ready,” replied Ezra. “You can connect.”

Lucy attached the tablet to the wall—it too was equipped with Velcro tabs—and tapped the appropriate button. She expected to see one of the flight directors: Michael, Judy, or Robert. She couldn’t remember who was supposed to be on duty. Instead, she saw the deputy director for crewed space flights, Steve Ayers. That didn’t bode well. Steve was a busy man. If he was joining them, it meant he had important news to convey. In Lucy’s experience, important news was rarely good news.

“Good morning,” said Ayers. “How are we feeling?”

“Great.” Lucy turned up the volume; the ceaseless hum of the air conditioning hindered conversation.

“Good to hear, although . . . well . . . I’m afraid I’m about to put a damper on your mood. I’ve just spoken to the NOAA. Their monitoring equipment has picked up an intense solar flare.”

“Classification?” asked Lucy.

“I’m afraid it’s an X.”

“Strength?”

“Not certain yet; they’re still analyzing the data. At least an eight, but possibly as high as ten.”

Lafayette whistled through his teeth. X10 was the highest possible classification. It meant that the Sun had just spewed out enough accelerated photons to disrupt the energy network and radio communications on Earth. The crew were not on Earth, so they would not be protected by the Earth’s atmosphere; where they were flying, it was so thin its effects were negligible. Luckily, they were still inside the Earth’s magnetic field, within the cloud of particles trapped by the Van Allen Belts. Had they been farther away—on the Moon, or on the way to Mars—there would have been no protection from the solar wind. The ionizing radiation would have shredded the cells in their bodies.

“Our assessment shows you are not at any risk. Each of you will probably absorb about one rem, well . . . maybe one-and-a-half,” continued Ayers, “but we have to activate emergency procedures. Variant two.”

Lucy ran through the steps of the procedure in her head: discontinue data transfer; switch off all electronic equipment not essential for the station to operate; put away all biological samples and close the laboratory cabinets; and take shelter in Harmony, the dormitory module whose cladding has the thickest layer of anti-radiation shielding. Her first crisis. She felt no fear, but rather a touch of excitement—so she would, after all, have an opportunity to step outside the spreadsheet cells and leave her humble mark on the ISS’s history. If Lucy was scared of anything, it was of Nate’s reaction. She knew that the news about emergency procedures being activated would be made public, and her husband would involuntarily start imagining the worst possible outcomes.

“NOAA says the solar wind will reach the station at fourteen forty-seven Spacecraft Event Time. So you have”—Ayers glanced at his watch—“just under an hour. At fifteen thirty-four you’ll be safe. In the meantime, all channels of communication will be shut down.”

“And the Russians?” Lucy involuntarily glanced toward the stern where Unity connected to Zarya.

“They’ve been informed, and are securing their segment of the ISS. Any other burning questions?”

Silence. They shook their heads. Negative.

“In that case, so long,” said Ayers. “Take care!”

As soon as they disconnected, Lucy issued her commands to the rest of the crew. She was securing Unity, Ezra was to take care of Destiny, Lafayette was responsible for Columbus, and Devaki—Tranquility. Lucy gave them half an hour for this task, and then they were to meet in Harmony, the dormitory module where they could safely wait for the solar wind to pass.

Lucy moved hastily, which only increased her disorientation. She wasn’t yet accustomed to every wall being both a floor and a ceiling and all the surfaces being dotted with electronic equipment. It made it seem as if the modules, which were by no means spacious, were expanding into a fourth dimension—it would have been easy to miss or forget something amidst cables protruding from everywhere and screens gleaming from every wall. Fortunately, Lucy had memorized the technical diagrams of every part of the station in full. She could have drawn the location of every wire and every pipe from memory; this helped her to orient herself in the apparent chaos. So, she spun around, first left-right, then up-down, and with a brisk click! click! click! on the buttons, panel after panel faded to black.

She glanced at her watch: it was time to go. Lucy grabbed a handrail, yanked it, and went flying through the module. Too fast: her shoulder hit a wall and she went into a spin. The station whirled around her; the blood hummed in her ears. She grabbed another handrail, stabilized herself, and pushed off once again—this time more carefully. She floated through Destiny, and moments later she reached Harmony; all she had to do now was a 270-degree turn and she found herself in her sleep station. She had just enough time to send a brief email to Nate—All ok don’t worry—and then she switched off her computer. Only then did she lean out of her cubicle. Lafayette’s sleep station was directly above hers, and he was already inside it; to the left, she saw Ezra. To the right, where Devaki slept, it was empty.

“Where is she?” asked Lucy.

“I don’t know,” replied Lafayette.

“Devaki?” called Lucy, although she couldn’t be sure whether her voice could be heard above the noise of the fans. Tranquility was relatively far away, off to one side of Unity.

No reply. She glanced at her watch: two thirty-nine. Devaki still had eight minutes before a wave of accelerated particles swept across the station.

“We need to go and get her,” said Ezra. Lucy would’ve preferred he frame it as a question: Should I . . . ?

“She can’t have gotten lost!”

“No, but something may have happened to her.” The pilot wasn’t letting it go.

“Let’s give her a few more minutes,” answered Lucy—though, as she said it, she heard the hesitation in her own voice. She didn’t want Devaki to feel she had been reduced to the role of a damsel in distress, but as the commander, she was responsible for Devaki’s safety. Of course, even if Devaki didn’t reach Harmony by the time the solar wind hit the station, she wouldn’t be facing death. At least, not a sudden death.

Ezra was about to say something else, but then seemed to change his mind. Lucy had suspected he might be difficult and might struggle to take orders from a civilian, particularly from a female civilian. Ezra was over fifty years old and belonged to the previous, now-waning generation of astronauts: the cowboys, swashbucklers, and aces of the heavens. He had no real interest in the scientific goals of the mission, or “all that nerd crap,” as he called it when his superiors were out of earshot. For Ezra, the flight into space was a final combat challenge, another badge to pin onto his uniform alongside his medals from Iraq. In the twenty-first century, the average mission lasted months, rather than the week or two common in the Apollo era, and plans were evolving for expeditions to Mars that would last years. Hence, NASA was now counting on a different type of astronaut: measured, conciliatory, and able to discuss their emotions openly. The generational changeover was almost complete; Ezra was one of the last of the old-style astronauts.

“How about checking the cameras?” asked Lafayette. “Or are they already off?”

“They’re off.”

“Two forty-one!” butted in Ezra, urging her to act.

“I know,” replied Lucy. “OK, go and check what has happened to Devaki.”

Ezra nodded, and pushed off to the stern, toward Tranquility. A minute passed. Two minutes. Long enough to get between the modules many times over. What’s happening with Devaki? thought Lucy. A snag with the equipment? Had she absentmindedly lost track of time? Unlikely. They weren’t dealing with the start time of a movie show or a bus departure—this was lethal radiation. You don’t forget about that kind of thing, or trifle with it.

“Quite some start to the expedition, eh?” said Lafayette, winking at her. The smile had never left his face; he could have featured in an encyclopedia under the heading Optimism. They needed people like him here, people with boundless and infectious enthusiasm. She wondered whether he really was like pure condensed sunshine, or if it was just for show: Look, I’m not threatening. No need to get nervous.

“At least something’s happening,” she answered.

“Oh, there’s always stuff going on here, alright.”

She caught a heavy note in his answer, some kind of hurt or grievance.

“Is Earth pushing you hard?” she asked, probing.

“Sure is . . . and this will put me back another half day.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with a chamois cloth. When he finished, he lifted the glasses up to the light to check whether the lenses were clean. “Listen, d’you know what criteria Faizan uses to pick the astronauts to form a crew?”

“No, I don’t think anyone knows.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why are you asking?”

“No specific reason,” answered Lafayette. Then he added more loudly, “Just out of interest.”

Really? she thought. No reason at all? But before she could ask another question, Lucy heard noises coming from the direction of the hatch, a knock, perhaps, and maybe panting; the sounds were barely audible above the thrum of the air conditioning. Devaki burst into the module, followed by Ezra a moment later. It was two forty-six. The solar wind would hit in one minute.

“Sorry!” gasped Devaki.

“What happened?”

“I had to . . .” She stopped herself. “I needed a moment.”

Lucy examined her carefully. Pallid complexion, tousled hair, and saliva in the corner of her mouth. Should she say something, or not? Should she play the leader’s card, or keep it in reserve? She could feel the others watching her; they were curious to see how she would play it.

“I would rather you vomited here than put other crew members at risk,” Lucy said, mixing reproach and compassion in her tone in carefully measured proportions.

“I understand. I didn’t want to—”

“End of subject,” said Lucy.

“Well, let’s hope this doesn’t happen again,” said Lafayette. “This type of solar flare usually only occurs once every dozen years or so. And we’re at a solar minimum.”

Beep! Beep! Beep! It was the alarm on Lucy’s watch. Two forty-seven. It had begun.

Houston—August 9, 2021, 09:51 GMT –5

From: Lucy <lucy.poplaski@protonmail.com>

To: Me <nate.j.hunt@protonmail.com>

Subject: <no subject>

All ok don’t worry

Lucy Poplaski

Nate felt the blood drain from his face. He closed the email tab, and clicked on a news piece about space flights. BIGGEST SOLAR FLARE IN 20 YEARS!!! screamed the headline. Nate read hastily, scanning the text for key words. Radiation emissions. Anticipated aberrations. Emergency procedures.

“Checkout number eight,” said a voice.

Nate tore his eyes away from his phone. He was standing in front of a row of self-service checkouts. They spluttered phrases that merged into one another, forming a choir of synthetic voices performing a chaotic round: Please scan the next, Next item, Scan, Place the item in the bagging area, Please scan the next . . .

“Checkout number eight, sir,” repeated the supermarket employee. She was wearing sweatpants, a checked shirt, and a blue fleece vest with a name badge pinned on askew, letting everyone know she was called Kate. All around him screens flashed and scanners pinged; insipid pop music played in the background.

“Sorry.” Nate dumped his loaded shopping cart abruptly and walked unsteadily toward the exit. Don’t worry—as if it were that simple, as if it were possible to talk himself into not worrying. Perhaps it would have been if he knew less, if he had not understood what it all really meant. The effect of radiation on the human body was one issue, but Nate was more concerned about the electronic equipment. The ISS was totally dependent on it: electronic equipment was used to verify the station’s orbit, to angle the solar arrays, to control the temperature and composition of the internal atmosphere, to switch on and off engines that adjusted the station’s direction, and to communicate with Earth. Of course, the computers on board were prepared for this kind of event: every logic circuit had at least three reserve copies that could replace it in an emergency. But there was still a chance, even if it was small, that each in turn would fail under such intense bombardment by accelerated particles. The ISS was an extraordinarily complex system of linked components—only one had to fail in order to trigger a cascade of disasters.

Nate left the supermarket and walked into the parking lot, which stretched way into the distance. Automobiles glinted in the quivering hot air; shopping cart wheels trundled over the uneven asphalt; somebody was shouting at a bawling child. He dialed Jeff Pictou’s number. Jeff was also an astronaut, except that he was on Earth, in between missions. He was the designated contact for the families of the astronauts currently in space. It was his role to liaise with family members during the never-ending preparations for a space flight, explain events as they unfolded, and entertain them during official dinners. Jeff would be the one to visit families if they had to be told the worst.

“Jeff?”

“Hi, Nate. I was about to call you,” replied a virile voice. “How are you doing?”

“Is there any information?”

“We don’t have any readings. Communication has been paused.”

“When does it end?”

“Hang on. I’ll just check . . .” Murmurs, whispers; another voice in the background; fingers tapping on a keyboard. “Roughly another twenty minutes. Then we’ll run the diagnostics. But we’re not expecting any problems.”

“Understood. But if anything happens, please, let me know.”

“Of course. Can I help with anything else?”

Hit the fast-forward button, thought Nate. Promise me that nothing will happen to her. Instead he replied, “Thanks, but no.”

“Right. If you think of anything, ring straightaway. OK? Any time of day.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Keep well,” said Jeff, and he hung up.

Nate pocketed his cell phone and sat down on a bench in front of the supermarket. Around him life rolled on as usual. Prosaic day-to-day life: people searching for parking spaces, and others cramming bags into trunks. He was unable to bring himself back to this mundane reality, to the price tags, receipts, and two-for-one promotions. His thoughts were racing; sweat flowed down his back.

This wasn’t how he had imagined his life. This wasn’t what he had wanted. When Lucy asked him years ago, “What would you say to me applying to work as an astronaut?” he had just nodded without hesitating. He didn’t realize he had just crossed a red line that divided his life into before and after. She might as well have asked him, “What would you say to me playing the lottery?” or “Would you have anything against me panning for gold in the creek behind our house?” There were thousands of candidates for every place in the astronauts corps, so the chances that they would choose her were slight. But Lucy received an invitation to an initial interview. Then, a second. Eventually, a third and final interview. Naturally, every time she had asked for Nate’s consent and sought assurances: “Is it definitely OK with you?” “Do you agree?”

What could he have said? That he forbade it? Realistically, they would have had to divorce. At that stage, without children or a mortgage, it would have been relatively easy. But it just so happened that he loved her.

If only there were any point to it all! However, Nate knew how things stood because he had been part of that world: he had spent five years working at the Applied Physics Laboratory at John Hopkins University and another seven years at the Southwest Research Institute in San Antonio. He knew that ninety percent of the experiments carried out on the International Space Station could be performed without human participation, for a fraction of the current cost, by using remote-controlled or wholly autonomous satellites. The remaining ten percent were experiments the astronauts carried out on themselves: they took samples of their own blood and urine, filled in mental health questionnaires, and recorded their perceptions of their own physical and mental well-being. What for? To examine how the human body and mind behave in space. What for? To facilitate crewed space flights. A classic example of circular reasoning. Naturally, other justifications were put forward. Shouldn’t humans equip themselves for crewed space flights because who knew when they might be forced to abandon the Earth and find another home in the universe? Perhaps, but this looked suspiciously like after-the-event reasoning—an argument to support a whim. People—at least people of a certain kind, people like his wife—were quite simply lured by the unknown, and the Earth was lacking in unknown territory. Even in the Himalayas, there were queues. There wasn’t anywhere to plant your flagpole and cry: I’m the first!

Nate slid his palms down his cheeks; the stubble scratched his skin. Ten more minutes.

ISS—August 9, 2021, 14:59 GMT

“How are you all doing? Can you feel anything?” piped up Lafayette. He was uncomfortable with the silence and needed to fill it with banter. He was hanging in the air like a giant bat directly opposite Lucy, a meter or so away from her. She couldn’t stop thinking that he was about to fall on top of her.

“No,” answered Lucy. “Should we?”

“I’m not sure. It’s the first time I’ve been in this situation.”

“Well, when they take an X-ray, do you feel anything?”

“No, but the level of radiation could be forty, sixty, or even eighty times greater now. I know it’s silly, but I thought perhaps”—Lafayette stopped speaking and rubbed the back of his neck—“I don’t know, that perhaps our bodies would register it somehow, that I would feel tingling or—”

“Or that you would suddenly acquire superpowers?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged, then smiled. “I wouldn’t say no to super strength. Or flying. What about you?”

“You can’t feel radiation, only its effects,” said Ezra, killing the mood. He stretched an exercise band around his ankles, and alternated lifting one leg, then the other; the contours of his sculpted muscles bulged under his close-fitting sweatpants. He had clearly decided to spend the unscheduled break productively. “You can only feel them above point three five grays, which is thirty-five rads: reddening of the skin, headaches, and vomiting.”

“In that case, I must have been exposed to radiation,” said Devaki hoarsely, “about three months ago.”

“Have you tried powdered ginger?” asked Lucy.

“I have.”

“And?”

“Huh.” She grimaced. “It tastes worse coming back up.”

“Apparently, pressure on the wrists can help. At least that’s what they told me when I was pregnant.”

“Not for me!”

“Hang on.” Lafayette raised his hand. “Ezra, where did you acquire such detailed knowledge about radiation?”

“That’s confidential information.”

“I get it. You’d have to kill me if you told me?”

The module went silent. The joke didn’t land.

“I wouldn’t have to,” replied Ezra flatly, staring into Lafayette’s eyes, “but I might.”

Lucy wondered what had happened between the two of them over the last three months. What had led to this tension? Yet another thing to check. Not because she liked to pry. It was her duty: she had to understand the crew dynamics and adapt accordingly; she needed to know whether she could entrust the pair with a shared task or not.

Clang! Lucy pricked up her ears at the sound that cut through the rumble of the fans. Metal hitting metal? Her first thought was that something had fallen. But nothing ever fell here. Or rather, everything fell, along with the whole station, continuously around the Earth, past the horizon, at a speed of over twenty-seven thousand kilometers per hour.

“What was that?” asked Lafayette, leaning out of his sleep station.

“Perhaps something struck the air grate?” suggested Devaki.

That makes sense, thought Lucy. Any items left unguarded—ballpoint pens, screwdrivers, cameras—would start off drifting aimlessly around the cabin but, in time, were propelled toward the fans by the movement of the air being drawn into the air conditioning system. Mislaid combs and cutlery usually turned up at the air grate.

“No. The background noise right now”—Ezra glanced at the noise dosimeter attached to the wall of his sleep station—“is seventy-two decibels. We heard the sound above the noise of the fans, so it must have been loud.”

“So it was something large or—”

“—something moving very fast.”

“A collision?” asked Devaki.

Another nightmare scenario: an object hitting the external walls of the station. An object sufficiently small not to be detected in advance, so they wouldn’t have any opportunity to adjust the station’s course and steer clear. A tiny screw from a defunct satellite, a frozen fifty-year-old drop of astronaut urine, or even a flake of old paint. Trifling? Maybe, but at these kinds of speeds even a trifle could cause a catastrophe. A mere one hundred and twenty-eight million such trifles were circling around the planet, and their number was increasing every year. Trash, trash everywhere, spilling out not only into the oceans, but into space too.

“Possible, but if the protective layers really had been pierced and led to decompression, we’d know about it already. There’s nothing to worry about,” said Lafayette, dismissing the idea. The reassuring smile was back on his face.

“Unless a micrometeorite hit a solar panel or a heat dissipator,” said Devaki.

“Good point,” said Lucy, nodding. “We’ll have to check it out.”

“What if it’s actually something inside the station?” asked Ezra.

Everyone turned toward him. It felt as if the temperature suddenly dropped a few degrees.

“Like what?”

“No idea.” He shrugged. “That’s why we should check.”

“We’ll check in”—Lucy looked at her watch—“twenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds.”

“In my opinion, we ought to check now.”

Lucy stared at Ezra. She didn’t understand what he was driving at. What could be so important and, moreover, so urgent that it was worth risking exposure to a higher level of radiation? Was this Ezra’s way of highlighting that he would have dealt with the situation differently and made a better decision? Or did he know something she didn’t?

“Why?” she asked plainly.

His eyes darted to one side, toward the open hatch. He thought something over, then shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Twenty-three minutes won’t save us.”

Houston—August 9, 2021, 10:35 GMT –5

Steve Ayers lifted the cup to his lips. The coffee was cold, slightly scorched, and there were grounds drifting up from the bottom of the cup. It didn’t matter: Steve didn’t even register its taste. He drank coffee for its function, not for pleasure; it wouldn’t be wrong to say that he took doses at regular intervals, every few hours. He could no longer say whether he drank coffee to sharpen his mind, or to avoid the massive headaches that always hit him once the level of caffeine in his blood approached zero. He wasn’t alone in this addiction by any means: once, back in the days of space shuttles, the coffee machine in the flight control room broke down, and panic ensued. The janitor sped through the complex in an electric cart bearing a spare coffee maker just like an ambulance driver with an organ for a transplant. Since then, the team had always had two coffee machines at its disposal—yet more proof that key systems have to be duplicated to allow for emergencies.

Steve was now in the same flight control room, although a level higher, in a glass-fronted gallery that bigwigs could use to discreetly monitor the controllers’ work without disturbing or distracting them. He had an excellent view of the whole room from the gallery. One wall was covered by an enormous screen (like in a movie theater), which was divided into several windows: a map of the world with the ISS’s orbit superimposed; the views from the onboard cameras, both inside and outside the station; clocks showing the time in San Francisco, Cologne, Moscow, and Tokyo; and, finally, a model of the International Space Station, rendered in 3D, which showed its current angle of inclination and orientation relative to the Sun.

The station’s shape was strange; it certainly stood out. A modular patchwork branching off in every conceivable direction, bristling with antennae and trusses. It had the look of an incorrectly assembled toy, or a squashed insect. The human mind struggled to assimilate this form: the mind was accustomed to the clarity and order of up/down, right/left, to obvious symmetry, and to the curves resulting from the constraints of gravity and air resistance. But in space these laws, internalized and intuitively understood, do not apply. Out there, construction is bound by other rules, which are alien to our earthly experience.

In front of the screen stood rows of desks covered in monitors and displays, enveloped in cords and cables. At the desks sat the flight controllers, each one responsible for one of the station’s systems. At the back of the room was the flight director’s desk. He was the general observing the movements of his troops from a hilltop, receiving reports, and issuing commands. The station was an extraordinarily complex mechanism, so the flight director had to multithread his thoughts, split his attention, and remember hundreds of interdependencies. Especially now that emergency procedures had been activated.

“Flight, OSO.” The words rustled in Steve’s ears as he adjusted his headphones and turned up the volume. He was connected to the flight director’s loop: this was where the most important information was conveyed and the key decisions announced. Only the controllers could speak, so Steve had no means of influencing developments via this channel; if something significant occurred, clearly he would be informed immediately. But in crises he preferred to keep a finger on the pulse and be at the center of events.

“OSO, Flight—go ahead,” replied a low voice. It belonged to Robert Schiff, the flight director on duty.

“We have confirmation from NOAA: the solar flare has ended.”

“Roger. CAPCOM—the astronauts’ status?”

“All OK,” came the reply.

“ADCO?” said Robert, turning to the next controller.

“Orbit correct.”

“CRONUS?”

“Full bandwidth on all links.”

“SPARTAN?”

“Arrays functioning,” replied a male voice. “Heat dissipators functioning.”

“ETHOS?” The last primary controller. The last critical systems.

“One moment, Flight . . . I’m waiting for a reading . . .” A pause; five seconds; fifteen; thirty; Steve felt his skin prickle. “Temperature nominal. Internal atmosphere nominal.”

So, the solar flare hadn’t caused any permanent damage. The crisis was over; they could breathe easier. But was that definite? The ETHOS controller’s tone of voice gave Steve the impression that something was amiss; he thought he had heard a hint of anxiety. He spotted the controller sitting at a desk in the second row. Young, with shoulder-length hair, a patch of sweat on his back, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Perhaps he had only recently started the job, so quite naturally, he was flustered by this first crisis; perhaps he felt stressed because he hadn’t had the data ready and made the flight director wait. Or maybe something else was going on. Generally, controllers didn’t report problems to their boss if they considered that the issues wouldn’t affect the safety of the crew or spacecraft and could be resolved without involving superiors. Often a controller only had a fraction of a second to decide whether a particular piece of information ought to be passed on to Flight—or not; they knew the flight director was bombarded by information from all sides, and Flight’s time couldn’t be wasted. A bad call could have catastrophic consequences, if not for the mission, at least for the career of the controller making the call. Steve was fully aware of this: he himself once worked in that room, spent hours staring at the figures streaming onto the screens, listened intently to reports, and wavered: To tell, or not to tell?

“CAPCOM—instruct the crew to return to the daily plan,” ordered Schiff. “How far behind are we?”

“One hour and twenty minutes.”

“OK,” said the flight director, nodding. “OPSPLAN—reallocate the tasks from that interval to the next few days.”

“Roger, Flight. The updated schedule will be ready in two hours.”

“RIO—contact Moscow and establish whether—”

Click! Steve wasn’t listening any longer. He was flicking through the channels until he found the one assigned to ETHOS, or Environmental and Thermal Operating Systems. These were the systems responsible for maintaining life on the station, which revolved in a void, without easy access to water, oxygen, or food, bombarded by radioactive particles, alternately heated to 121 degrees and cooled to minus 157 degrees Celsius. The ETHOS controller who reported to Flight was the spokesperson for a large team—the visible tip of the iceberg. Somewhere in the innards of this gigantic concrete building, several floors lower or higher, there was a back room packed with engineers who worked day and night—monitoring the stream of telemetric data, analyzing every bit and byte, and picking out even the most subtle deviations from norms.

Steve caught a voice saying, “—that must have been an erroneous reading.”

“Are you sure?” asked the young controller.

“Definitely. Such an abrupt jump has no logical explanation,” interjected a third person.

“Besides, the functioning of the apparatus was disrupted by the solar flare.”

“Do we have any analogous results in the archived data?” The young controller Steve had seen in the flight control room wasn’t letting go. Good. That was the kind of person they wanted: conscientious, meticulous, a stickler.

“No—as I said, it must have been an incorrect reading.”

“Please check the SAM results.”

“The SAM?” Papers rustling. The engineer on the line was checking something. “It’s currently set to MCA mode. The machine is controlled by Huntsville.”

“Then call and tell them to change it to TGA.”

Steve took his headphones off. The conversation moved on to technical details he did not understand, which was an understatement—he couldn’t even decode the acronyms. But from their tone of voice he deduced that these were routine activities. That was the nature of these jobs. If something interesting or, God forbid, exciting was happening, it could only mean one thing: something was wrong. Most of the time, the controllers just checked off one item after another on a long list; they asked and answered the same questions, day in, day out, night after night. This way of working had continued for some twenty years since the first module of the ISS had been put into orbit.

Not everyone could hack it. NASA attracted ambitious people: alpha-type personalities, leaders seeking challenges, dedicated people who wanted to deliver progress for the human race. They came with an expectation that every day would test them, like in Star Trek, where Captain Picard goes from exploring an unknown planet, to fighting off the attacks of the treacherous Ferengi, to rescuing an off-course scientific expedition from a supernova explosion—a new adventure in every episode! In reality, they were bored most of the time, yet they still had to maintain maximum concentration because a single mistake, a missed message, or failing to treat a warning seriously could lead to the whole crew perishing. As happened in the case of the Challenger, which exploded because of a faulty gasket, and the Columbia, which was incinerated in the atmosphere because a piece of polyurethane foam—the same material as a kitchen sponge—hit the wing of the space shuttle during liftoff and damaged the fragile heat-insulating cladding. Steve thought flight controllers were like security personnel at an airport: most of them would never see anything suspicious in their whole careers. But that one, single time when a weapon or explosive appeared on the screen, they had to be ready to react—immediately—otherwise, people would die. It was hardly surprising that most flight controllers burned out after a few years. Those who stayed—who could cope with boredom accompanied by underlying stress, ten-hour shifts, and interrupted sleep—often paid a high price. They lost their families and friends; their health suffered. Just like Steve.

He could return to his office now. Not just could, but should. The emergency was over, and it was time to get down to the emails, meetings, calendars, and presentations. Jenny, his secretary, was probably already waiting with a long list of missed calls and a folder of urgent documents to be signed. However, Steve decided he would stay a little longer—the ambience of the flight control room, solemnly quiet and without external windows, was conducive to getting work done. So he pulled out his laptop and started to catch up on his backlog of correspondence. His headphones lay on the table; the flight director’s baritone seeped out of them like white noise. Now and again—when Steve happened to raise his eyes from the screen or reached for his cup of coffee—individual messages caught his ear. Lucy was practicing on the Canadarm2 robotic arm simulator. Ezra was changing air filters. Lafayette was back at his experiments on fertilizing soil. Devaki was on the treadmill. Three hours of jogging to save her bones from disintegration. The Russians were in their own quarters—heaven knows what they were doing.

Half an hour passed; Jenny reminded him of an imminent meeting. With a sigh, Steve slotted his laptop into his bag. He was just about to leave when he caught voices from the flight control room emanating from his headphones.

“Flight, ETHOS.”

“ETHOS, Flight—go ahead,” replied Robert.

“We have a problem.”

3

December 9, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: You have many years’ experience as a flight director. Please tell the commission whether readings like these have ever been recorded before.

SCHIFF: No, never.

LAMAR: Do you agree with the theory put forward by Mission Specialist Poplaski?

SCHIFF: Yes. It is the only logical explanation.

LAMAR: What is the probability of that sequence of events?

SCHIFF: One in seven million.

ISS—August 10, 2021, 16:40 GMT

SUCCESS! flashed up on the practice program. RESTART SIMULATOR? Lucy massaged her sore fingers, then pressed the YES button. Her second hour, her twenty-seventh go. She gave a deep sigh.

One summer vacation during high school, Lucy had taken a job as a tester at a computer games company. The requirements weren’t high: you had to know how to use a joystick. Lucy was a typical child of the eighties: in her bedroom she had a Nintendo console hooked up to a nineteen-inch television. On rainy afternoons, hiding under her blanket, she would battle her way through the murky dungeons of the Kingdom of Hyrule, fight with the evil Major Bison, and play the role of a heroic commando saving the world from an alien invasion.

Her school friends envied her (“Wow, you’ll play games all day long, and get paid for it too!”). However, the reality was less rosy. The studio that employed her produced straightforward racing games, and Lucy tested only one of them. Every day, for eight hours solid, she had to drive a car, patched together from several hundred polygons, around the same route. The first day it was fun. The second day she started to feel fed up. By the end of the week, she knew every bend, pothole, road sign, and tree on the route, and was able to complete it with her eyes closed. After a month, she handed in her notice, but for a long time she couldn’t get the pixelated afterimages out of her head. As the age-old maxim goes, any medicine taken in large enough quantities becomes a poison. Lucy had just discovered that a sufficiently large dose could turn any pleasure into torture.

Now, as an astronaut, she still got envy-laden sighs (“Wow, you’ll fly in space, and get paid for it!”). Once more, she had to repeat set tasks, time after time, day after day. One of her responsibilities on the ISS was to operate the Canadarm2 manipulator system, a robotic arm almost twenty meters long used to grapple cargo capsules like Cygnus. The task was simple, but as was usually the case in space, the slightest error could have disastrous consequences. You only had to be a few centimeters out, or apply a touch of excess force, to make the capsule bounce off the robotic arm and hit the ISS. At best, this would disrupt the station’s orbit; at worst, it might perforate the station’s shell, leading to decompression of the pressurized modules and, possibly, the deaths of all the crew.

For this reason, every activity had to be practiced over and over again—tens, hundreds, and even thousands of times. The previous year, Lucy spent two months in Cologne practicing on the Canadarm2 simulator. Even though she achieved the highest possible score at every attempt, she still had to carry on practicing. Now that she was on the station, the ground staff decided it was high time for her to refresh her skills. Lucy grappled the digital capsules one after another until her wrists ached and the joystick was slippery with sweat. She thought this was worse than pointless: the constant exercises increased, rather than reduced, the risk of an accident because they dulled the brain and transferred control of the performed activity to the realms of the subconscious. Just as a word repeated over and over again eventually loses its meaning, so the continually repeated motions lost their sense. But Lucy didn’t complain, or rather she couldn’t complain. There was no shortage of volunteers for future space flights, and she didn’t want to be labeled as a grumbler. Besides, should astronauts ever express dissatisfaction? After all, she was living the dream of millions. At a cost of millions.

SUCCESS!—the computer congratulated her again. RESTART SIMULATOR? Lucy glanced at the daily plan on her tablet to check how many attempts she still had to complete. To her surprise, the block labeled CANADARM2 PRACTICE had shrunk by half. The space released was filled with a new item: VIDEOCONFERENCE CAPCOM (PRIV.). Lucy shut down the practice program with relief. She had five minutes to spare—enough time to stop in Unity and fill her water bottle. There she met Ezra, who had been allocated an even more thankless task: he was taking an inventory of the meals. He had to open every little drawer, remove the food packets, read their serial numbers, and check them off on his list. Even though they all kept to the diets calculated for them—they ate no more and no less than they had been allocated, down to the last calorie—the ground staff nevertheless insisted that the astronauts verify the level of supplies at least once every two weeks. They clearly worried that, if there was no external control, the crew might surreptitiously raid the larder and, once hunger struck, tears would flow. The astronauts were superheroes, yet they were forced to account for every morsel they consumed.

Lucy entered her cubicle and shut the doors behind her: “PRIV.” in the meeting name meant the conversation was to be private. Anna Rathke, the on-duty CAPCOM, or capsule communicator (the controller responsible for liaising with the crew), appeared on the screen of Lucy’s laptop. Anna had once been an astronaut, but her trips into space had been at the beginning of the century. Anna was the only person on shift in Houston who had seen the station with her own eyes and knew what it was like to be there, observing the Earth through a window and accounting for every second and minute of your day.

“Hi,” said Lucy, bracing her legs against the cubicle wall to stop herself drifting. “What have you got for me?”

“More work, I’m afraid.”

“No problem,” replied Lucy with a smile. She was masking her feelings. “Can you tell me what it is?”

“After the solar flare, we ran full diagnostics on all the systems. Everything is functioning correctly, but”—Anna paused, and sighed—“we have one troubling result. The concentration of ammonia in the air. The previous measurement was within norms at one-and-a-half parts per million, but a more recent reading showed one point seven five. At first, we thought it was just a one-off blip, but follow-up readings have confirmed the figure.”

Ammonia. The word triggered an immediate association, a particular fear. “Is the cooling circuit leaking?” asked Lucy.

Concealed behind the wall panels of the American segment of the station was a dense network of plastic pipes carrying water that circulated around the modules; it absorbed the heat generated by the ubiquitous computer equipment and the astronauts’ bodies. This heat had to be dissipated and pushed out of the station, otherwise they would all boil alive in this steel can—opening windows wasn’t an option. A simple solution might have been to extend the network of water pipes to the exterior of the station and let the biting cold of the universe do the cooling. The problem with this idea was that the water would freeze instantaneously and block the circuit. Hence, in several places—highlighted with numerous brightly colored stickers marked BEWARE! or LETHAL HAZARD!—the pipes carrying water came into contact with a separate circuit of pipes carrying liquefied ammonia. Ammonia’s freezing point is extremely low at minus seventy-seven degrees Celsius—a tremendously useful property. Ammonia could flow through pipes on the external walls of the station, emit the heat it had absorbed from the water into the vacuum of space, and return to the interior of the station without crystallizing. The downside: ammonia is highly toxic and at room temperature it turns into a gas that mixes with the air. At a concentration of 700 parts per million it causes severe irritation of the mucous membranes, and above 2,000 parts per million it leads to an agonizingly painful death. If any of the pipes of ammonia on board burst, or were pierced, this threshold would be exceeded within a few minutes. In that situation, the crew’s only option would be to escape to the Russian segment of the station, which was cooled by a separate system, and to close the hatches behind them. Most likely forever.

“We don’t know,” answered Anna. “If it is, then we’re dealing with a tiny microperforation. If there was a hole any larger, you would already be able to smell the ammonia. Clearly, we’ll have to check the cooling circuit, but at the moment, we think the source must be elsewhere.”

“Where else could it be?”

“Well, ammonia is one of the byproducts of the metabolic process, isn’t it?”

Oh, no, thought Lucy. Anything but that!

“It’s present in urine, sweat . . . and feces . . .” added Anna, wrinkling her nose. “We think you might have a problem with the toilet. If the tank is leaking, the urine could be escaping and ammonia along with it. Another possibility is the canisters of . . . you know what.”

“I know—shit.”

“Our chemists used a different term, but yes. They said perhaps the canister lids aren’t screwed on tightly enough.”

“Let me guess. We need to go through the refuse sacks and . . .”

“Yes, make sure all the canisters are tightly sealed, and also check for any other putrefactive processes that could be the source of the ammonia.”

“Sure, we’ll get it done,” replied Lucy, but she was finding it increasingly difficult to keep smiling.

“We’ll block off some time in the roster. You’ll start tomorrow morning.”

“OK.”

“Listen, Lucy.”

“Yes?”

“Flight asked me to emphasize that, contrary to appearances, this is a serious matter. A jump of point two five ppm may not seem like much, but the acceptable limit for ammonia in the internal atmosphere of the station is two parts per million. If we don’t find the source and eliminate it”—Anna paused for emphasis—“we’ll have to consider various options.”

“Like?”

“All of them. Including an early return.”

Now Lucy understood why the videoconference had been marked as private.

“Isn’t that a bit of an overreaction?” she asked. “If I’m not mistaken, the threshold at which ammonia becomes perceptible is twenty-five parts per million, and we still have a long way to go to reach that. We’re not at risk.”

“That’s right, but those are the procedures. Your safety is key.”

Lucy stifled the sigh rising inside her. Risk—since the space shuttle catastrophes, NASA had avoided risks whenever it could. Sometimes, as in this case, by going to ridiculous lengths.

“Fine,” she said. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll treat the issue with all due seriousness.”

“Excellent. In that case, that’s all for now. Good luck!”

Lucy quit the virtual meeting app. She felt like staying in her cubicle for a while to ease her growing frustration by looking at cat images on the Internet or listening to music—any distraction would do. At the very least, she could have calmly considered what she had just heard. But no, the timetable didn’t allow for that; the red line moved inexorably down the daily schedule. The teleconference was finished, so the next item on the program had started: dinner—twenty minutes to nourish her body with the precise number of calories she was allowed. So Lucy opened the doors of her cubicle, pushed off from the doorway, and floated toward Unity. It was cramped: Ezra, Devaki, and Lafayette were there, and Anton had also appeared.

“Oh look! Our captain’s here as well,” said Anton, saluting. He winked at her.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” asked Lucy.

“My goodness! I’ve come in the spirit of international cooperation and dialogue—”

“Anton wants to trade his caviar for some bacon,” chimed in Lafayette. His mouth was full; a crumb of food made a bid for freedom and floated away through the cabin.

“Three tins for one pack of bacon. That’s a good—what’s that word you use?—deal, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Ezra coldly as he opened a box of pasta, “but you don’t have any takers.”

“Ugh . . . casting pearls before swine,” said Anton, shaking his head.

“The swine don’t want to mess up the paperwork.”

“Ah yes, that’s right. I forgot you guys need everything shipshape. How about you, Lucy, eh?” Anton pulled a can out of his pocket. “It is beluga caviar. The best in the world. Very tasty.”

“I don’t doubt it, but no thanks.”

“You used to be more relaxed, you know?” The room fell quiet; the tension between the two of them was palpable and puzzled the others.

Lucy didn’t rise to his provocation. She took out the tray closest to her and a couple packets of hot sauce. In a microgravity environment hot air doesn’t rise; instead, it forms a bubble around your plate, so the aroma of the food never reaches your nose. Your olfactory receptors aren’t activated, and everything tastes like polystyrene—unless you drown it in sriracha.

“Your loss.” Anton pulled off the top of the can and, without breaking eye contact, licked it.

“So what are you guys up to?” asked Lafayette. He seemed genuinely interested or, if not, he feigned it convincingly. A people person if ever there was one.

“Oh, we’re carrying out experiments that are vital to the human race.” Anton hovered in the air with his legs crossed like a fakir. “Believe it or not, I’m growing lettuce and Lev is breeding snails.”

Mocking smirks appeared on the astronauts’ faces. Roscosmos’s research program was the butt of many jokes. The Russian part of the station didn’t have the apparatus necessary to conduct complex experiments because the installation of the Nauka laboratory module had been delayed for many years. Hence, Russian cosmonauts didn’t have many tasks to complete other than cleaning and repairs. In a typically Slav spirit, they made do, improvising and resorting to DIY. They would muddle through, patching something together without the required parts. For example, they mounted a radio charged by solar batteries onto an old Orlan spacesuit, and ejected the humanoid satellite into space. What for? No real reason. On another occasion, Russian cosmonauts played Tetris for weeks on end to check whether there was any difference between their reaction times in microgravity and in 1g (it proved there was—but that had been common knowledge since the sixties). Or, they observed the Earth through portholes, looking out for the approach of hurricanes (a job already performed far more effectively by countless satellites). The international community’s primary response to these experiments was pity, so Roscosmos reacted by concealing all information about its crew members’ activities. As the Russians put it: Vot i problema net.—Lo and behold: there is no problem.

“Breeding snails, is he?” asked Lafayette.

“Yes. We want to check how they develop in zero-gravity conditions.”

“And?” the botanist prodded him to continue. “Do tell.”

“So far, our results show”—Anton shoved a heaping spoonful of caviar into his mouth and paused for effect—“that they develop in exactly the same way as on Earth.”

“Nobel Prize coming right up,” butted in Ezra. He stared long and hard at Anton without blinking. A chill went through the module. No surprise: they were both military pilots, and both had spent years preparing for a war in which they would be on opposite sides. Lucy had spent enough time around military guys to know what went on in their heads: How would I go about shooting you down? What would work best? A direct attack, or a feint?

“Oh, I think so too,” said Anton, ignoring the provocation. “I already started working on the acceptance speech. How was your call with Earth, Lucy?”

“Excuse me?” Lucy was taken aback. How did Anton know a conversation had taken place? The rest of the crew had no access to her timetable. Did she forget to log out of one of the tablets?

“Well, what did you talk about?”

“Nothing interesting.”

Anton cocked his head and gave her a searching look. It disconcerted her.

“What?” she asked curtly. “Any other questions?”

“No, Captain,” he replied with a mock salute. “But I have some advice.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t play poker,” replied Anton, and he disappeared into the passage leading to the Russian segment.

Houston—August 10, 2021, 20:16 GMT –5

Steve’s day had accelerated. Meeting after meeting. Presentations with hundreds of slides. A mountain of paperwork. How did one o’clock come around so fast, obliging him to go for a lunch break? How did six in the evening come around so fast that the office was starting to empty out? It was getting dark outside. Steve switched on his desk lamp. It was a simple old-fashioned model: a conical lampshade, a curved steel stem, and a heavy oval base, which was chipped in several places. The lamp was allotted to Steve when he first started working in this complex, thirty years earlier. Every time he moved office, Steve took it with him: from one floor to another, from one rung of the ladder to the next. It had stuck out of the cardboard boxes like an inquisitive dog peering out of a car window.

His secretary, Jenny, repeatedly tried to persuade him to exchange the lamp for a newer model—one that would befit a director’s desk—but Steve adamantly refused. Some people suspected that he was attached to the lamp for sentimental reasons, as it reminded him of the good old times and his youth. The real reason was more mundane.

For starters, when he moved the switch from OFF to ON, the lamp gave a loud metallic click. Steve was an engineer by education, vocation, and inclination, so when he heard that click, he imagined the circuit closing, the electrons propelled along the wires, their momentum heating up the wolfram wire, encased in its bubble of glass, until the filament started to glow. All that, in a fraction of a second, as the result of a light touch, human genius, and the experimenting, tinkering, and dreaming of countless generations.

Steve liked mechanisms of all kinds: gears, toothed wheels, and push buttons. He wanted to understand the physical interconnections, what shifted position, and to where. In brief, he was a man of the analog age who perceived the world in terms of Newtonian physics: actions triggering reactions, clear sequences of cause and effect. He wasn’t fond of digital devices, which hid the logic of events behind millions of ones and zeros, transferring it into a dimension that humans couldn’t perceive with their senses. He was disgruntled by the lack of direct transmission from the gas pedal to the engine in his new car—nothing worked without the intervention of the onboard computer. He disliked his cell phone and the way its layer of toughened glass and layer of polished metal were assembled into a hermetically sealed rectangle that jealously guarded the phone’s secrets. He felt no affinity for modern lamps activated by a noiseless, barely perceptible touch that gave no feedback—no click, clack, or pop.

Besides, his favored lamp cast a narrow shaft of light like a theater spotlight, helping him to focus on his work. Only the items picked out from the darkness mattered: the documents spread out on his desk, the sticky notes, and his hard 2H-grade pencil. All the rest was enveloped in darkness; it didn’t count—it disappeared from his field of vision. The furniture in his office. The door through which he could exit. The home to which he could go.

He liked this time at the end of the day when the steps in the corridor, the voices in the canteen, and the ringing of desk phones all faded away. At last, there was nobody to make demands of him; at last, he could give his attention to the matters he considered really important (right now, the ammonia issue, as Houston still hadn’t managed to find a convincing explanation for the rise in the concentration of ammonia). Free of the constraints of routine matters, Steve would often stay at his desk for many hours, late into the night, completely absorbed in his work.

Every physical body, even the very smallest, attracts and is attracted; its motion is determined by hundreds of interdependencies, and it comes to rest when these are in perfect equilibrium. These forces seemed not to apply in Steve’s case: nobody and nothing could influence the trajectory of his life, let alone trap him in their orbit. He left the childcare to his wives: his first, his second, and eventually his third. He missed christenings, weddings, and funerals. He stuck daggers in backs, pulled rugs from under feet, flattered disingenuously, and made genuine threats. All for the good of humanity, or so he told himself to silence his conscience. As if looking through a wide-angle lens, Steve could only see the big picture and was unable to focus on the detail. Things that were far away on the horizon were crystal clear; the things right in front of him—a blurry splotch.

Ring-ring. The telephone startled him out of his reverie. Jenny. Theoretically, she should have finished work, but she was waiting for him to go home . . . while Steve wasn’t waiting for anything in particular. The engineers wouldn’t present their briefing about the ammonia until the next morning. It took him two attempts to unlock the screen. His sweaty finger slid on the perfectly level panel.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I have Director Rybkin on the line. He would like to talk to you, and says it’s urgent. Can I transfer his call?”

Steve was taken aback. At this time? It’s around 4 a.m. over in Moscow. Interesting, most interesting.

“Of course,” he said.

Steve pulled his chair in, switched his landline to speaker mode, and interlocked his fingers on the desk. He anticipated the conversation would be neither easy nor pleasant.

“Dobryy vecher, Yuri, or is it dobroye utro for you?” he began. Steve’s Russian was dreadful, but inserting at least a word or two was a gesture, a nod to emphasize that both languages, and both organizations, had equal weight—even though it hadn’t been true for quite some time. “To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice at this very early hour?”

“I was told you have a leak,” said Rybkin, skipping pleasantries altogether.

“No indication of that at the moment.”

“Then where is the ammonia coming from?” asked Rybkin.

“I’m pleased you’re raising the subject. We’re in the process of ascertaining the source.”

Rybkin snorted. He couldn’t bear those kinds of glib phrases—diplomatic prattle. Naturally, Steve was fully aware of that. It was the reason he was using glib phrases. He knew that the more he could throw Rybkin off-balance, the greater the chance that the latter would reveal his hand.

“You are pulling the wool over our eyes,” said the Russian.

“I assure you that isn’t the case,” replied Steve. “You have access to the same data as us. Yes, the apparatus has registered a slight jump in the concentration of ammonia, but the dynamics of the increase don’t point to a leak in the cooling circuit.”

“My people are up there. They have to breathe the same air.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“So when will you solve the problem?”

“It isn’t even a problem yet.”

“I asked, when?”

“As soon as we can, naturally.”

There was silence at the other end. Steve didn’t rush to break it.

“Right from the beginning, we told you that using ammonia to cool the station was the wrong decision,” insisted Rybkin. “We told you it was a ticking bomb.”

“Yes, I recall. I was there when you said it,” conceded Steve. “What do you expect me to do, Yuri? To go back in time?”

“I’ll tell you what you can expect. A commensurate reaction.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

“I’m responsible for the health of my crew. I will protect them.”

“How?”

“I have said all I want to say.”

“Well, in that case, thank you for your time. Do svidaniya.”—Goodbye.

Click. The line went dead. Steve leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. An intriguing conversation, he thought. But yet more intriguing: Why did it take place?

ISS—August 11, 2021, 09:16 GMT

Houston divided the astronauts into two teams. Devaki and Ezra were measuring the concentration of ammonia in different parts of the station using electronic sensors and Dräger detector tubes. Lucy and Lafayette were sent to BEAM, an experimental module installed in 2016. BEAM was different from all the other modules, which were rigid steel cans; it was an inflatable, like a balloon. If this type of structure proved effective, constructing the next space station would become significantly simpler and cheaper. In such projects, the greatest difficulty—and driver of expenditure—was overcoming the Earth’s gravity and lifting the components into orbit: every kilogram reduction in mass could translate into savings of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of dollars. A module that could be folded up into a cube for transportation, like an inflatable beach float, and then filled with gas once it was in orbit had the potential to be a major breakthrough. Bigelow Aerospace, the company that manufactured BEAM, wanted to build the first privately run space station—a hotel in orbit around our planet—and then, who knows? Maybe also a spa and a casino in space. A hot stone massage with a view onto planet Earth—that would be out of this world!

Unfortunately, it remained a dream. Bigelow Aerospace went bust, so the ISS gained an owner-free, empty module. It was soon put to use—as a garbage can. The astronauts didn’t have access to dishwashers, washing machines, or showers, let alone a sewage system. So everything was expendable; sooner or later, everything became waste. However, storage space was extremely scarce on the station; its residents were continually searching for somewhere to cram in one more bag or one more box. The contrast with the space vehicles shown in science fiction films—everything gleaming, spotlessly clean, and as tasteful as if it had been arranged by Italian interior designers—was amusing. On the ISS, what mattered was function, and nothing else; if the creators of the station were ever guided by any aesthetic doctrine, it could only have been horror vacui. Cables, buttons, and panels projected from every surface; there were compartments, drawers, and Velcro strips everywhere; and accidental bumps, scrapes, and entanglement were all too easy to come by.

“OK, let’s get this over and done with,” said Lafayette as they hovered at the entrance to BEAM. “I’ll take containers A and B; you take C and D. Is that OK?”

“Fine.”

They set to work. The procedure was straightforward: open a refuse sack, check that the bags of sweaty underwear were firmly tied and the lids of the metal canisters of feces were screwed on tightly. Once Lucy or Lafayette had checked a sack, they transferred it into the neighboring module, tying the sacks to one another to prevent them flying off. It sounded simple but, in practice, it was tiring, especially battling with the screw-on lids. If they didn’t position themselves correctly—first of all, they had to brace either hands or feet against a wall—then, instead of turning the lid, they would themselves start revolving around the canister. Weight was not important; only the movement counted. Yet another charming aspect of microgravity. It wasn’t long before they were both drenched in sweat. Nevertheless, Lafayette didn’t slow down or look for excuses or stop smiling. They may all have flown to the station from Earth, but he was the person who had traveled the furthest and overcome the most obstacles. Lafayette had always known he would face an uphill struggle; as a gay Black man from an impoverished neighborhood, he had started at a disadvantage. It was only after he had slogged away for years to complete a doctorate at a prestigious university that anyone held out their hand to him. It looked good—pats on the back all round. See! In America, anyone can make their dream come true. Perhaps, but not everyone walked down streets pitted with bullet holes on their way to school; not everyone went short of food for years on end; not everyone worked sixteen to eighteen hours a day, year after year, just to keep their head above water. He knew how to keep it together—more so than any other member of the crew.

“How’s it going? Have you found anything?” asked Lafayette.

“No.”

“Between you and me, this is a bit pointless,” said Lafayette, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “We’re only making things worse.”

“What d’you mean?”

“There’s ammonia in our sweat, yeah?” said the botanist, tapping his forehead. “The average person generates fifty milligrams a day. I suspect I’ve just added the same again.”

“Right, let’s take a break,” ordered Lucy. “Air it out.”

Lafayette nodded. BEAM was so cluttered that the air circulation inside the module was slower than in other parts of the station. The carbon dioxide they had exhaled stayed inside the module and formed a bubble. Mission Control had instructed them not to spend any longer than two hours at a time inside BEAM, or else they might start to feel the effects of oxygen deprivation. Or rather, they would suffer greater oxygen deprivation than usual. Removing carbon dioxide from the station’s internal atmosphere had been problematic from the start: the filters in the Carbon Dioxide Removal Assembly were less efficient than expected and, even worse, the CDRA failed repeatedly. Hence, the concentration of CO_2 on the ISS was several times higher than on Earth, and that translated into headaches and problems with memory and concentration. Astronauts complained about these symptoms regularly, but nothing changed—the level of carbon dioxide, unlike the ammonia, was within norms, and you couldn’t argue with norms. Not even if they seemed to be divorced from reality.

“Water?” suggested Lucy.

“Thanks, I have my own,” said Lafayette, brandishing his bottle. It was adorned with a big New Orleans Pelicans sticker. He must’ve brought it in his personal items envelope.

“Are you sure it’s a blind alley?”

“One hundred percent.” Lafayette uncorked his bottle and slipped in a folding straw. Diapers, straws, and slumber bags. Living in space seemed like a backward step in personal development; it was infantilizing. “The concentration rose by point two five parts per million, yeah? The total volume of the station’s internal atmosphere is nine hundred and fifteen cubic meters. . . . The carbon filters are capable of removing four grams of ammonia per air circulation cycle, that’s per hour. I don’t know the amount of ammonia emitted by a cubic meter of shit—I’d have to check that—but I assume it would be about ten to fifteen milligrams.” Lafayette scratched his head and moved his lips noiselessly. “All in all, for the math to add up, we’d have to have found a cesspit sloshing around this module.”

“Somebody at Mission Control must have done those calculations too.”

“I expect so, yeah.”

“But despite that they sent us here. Why?”

Lafayette glanced around the area. Lucy knew what he was looking for: the nearest camera. In the name of transparency, NASA broadcast a live stream from the station—Look! We’re not a military organization; if we were, we wouldn’t do this. Most of the time it showed images from the external cameras: the Sun emerging from behind the edge of the Earth at dawn, a veil of aurora, billowing clouds, or other heavenly postcard-worthy landscapes. But sometimes, for variety, they showed shots from inside: the astronauts in the laboratory, or on the treadmill, or eating a meal. No sound was transmitted but, nevertheless, you could make out a lot by watching the astronauts’ lips.

“For the sake of taking action—any action,” replied Lafayette. “To give the impression that something is being done. They don’t actually have a clue what’s going on. If the cooling circuit had ruptured, there would have been a sharp increase. If it really was a problem with the trash or a leaky john, the increase would be minimal, and we wouldn’t even be aware of it. But we’re somewhere in the middle, and there’s no logical explanation for it.”

“What about microperforations?”

“Possible, but if it were a microperforation, we’d have a warning message about reduced fluid pressure.”

“A measurement error?” suggested Lucy, throwing out another hypothesis. “After all, we have just been hit by a solar wind.”

“I also thought the Spacecraft Atmosphere Monitor might be up the creek,” said Lafayette. “But Devaki says the Dräger tubes give the same reading. I considered what other sources there could be. Brand-new equipment degasses for an initial period—you know, like furniture that still smells of lacquer for a few weeks, or a new car. But those would be really minute values; besides, they haven’t sent us anything large recently.”

“And nothing else comes to mind?”

“Look, if you were to ask me to produce some ammonia, well . . . easy as pie. It’s not a difficult substance to obtain. But here, we’re talking about an accidental emission, the byproduct of a reaction occurring somewhere in the background, and that just doesn’t match up with anything else.” He sighed. “I don’t know, maybe during the solar flare a very sweaty intruder boarded the station and hid on deck.”

“Interesting theory!” Lucy smiled. “I’ll present your hypothesis to Houston.”

“OK, but in your own name.”

Lucy smiled and gave him a wink, then glanced at her watch. Another half hour and they’d have to move on to other duties. She looked up at Lafayette and wondered, Is this the right moment? Should I ask?

“Listen, on an altogether different issue,” she began slowly, watching intently to see his reaction, “did something happen between you and Ezra?”

Lafayette looked at her searchingly, his trademark smile now gone. “Why are you asking?”

“Because I need to. You must understand.”

“I don’t like him.” Lafayette shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Because of something in particular?”

“Because he’s an asshole,” answered Lafayette, then he pushed off toward BEAM, ending the conversation. Why? she wondered. Maybe he didn’t want her to think he was snitching on a colleague; maybe he didn’t trust Lucy enough to confide in her. Besides, had he and Ezra ever had any chance of seeing eye to eye? They were both from planet Earth, from the same country, but they came from different worlds, and the only place they could have met was right here, in orbit.

Lucy joined Lafayette and pitched in. They continued working in silence, conscientiously, but their hearts weren’t in it. Soon, the module was full of beads of sweat. They glistened in the light from their headlamps, formed complex constellations, merged with one another, and then traveled, as if along an invisible path, toward the fans. There the moisture would be trapped and filtered; tomorrow, at breakfast, they would drink water recovered in that way. Lucy felt more aware of her material being in space than anywhere else. She was an agglomeration of billions of molecules, a chemical reactor that continually emitted waste and gases, day and night.

ISS—August 11, 2021, 21:30 GMT

It was twenty-one thirty ISS time. The lights were dimmed; the fans were running more slowly. Lucy’s timetable now only had two items left: FREE TIME until twenty-two thirty, then REST, which continued until the morning of the following day. Of course, nobody checked up on the astronauts to see exactly what time they went to sleep; they didn’t have to read by flashlight, but Lucy wasn’t aware of anyone staying up into the early hours on the station. The days were quite exhausting enough: a continual race against time, constant noise, three hours of compulsory physical training—it all added up. Her sleep was shallow and fitful; every night she woke more than a dozen times. Sometimes her inner ear, confused by microgravity conditions, sent out panic signals—You’re off-balance! You’re gonna fall!—and woke her; sometimes her optic nerves suddenly flared up with blinding flashes when hit and activated by a stray cosmic ray particle. Now, she had an hour to wash, change, check her personal email, and call Nate. Lucy hoped that their conversation would be short, but she felt guilty for wishing it. She loved Nate with a mature, conscious love reinforced by years of shared experience, but she needed a little time to herself. To prepare a plan of action.

Lucy had to act. She had concluded that Lafayette was right: the flight controllers really didn’t know what was happening and their plan of action was a sham. Usually, the astronauts could rely on them; perhaps the crew relied on Houston too much, like children who don’t consider the consequences of their actions because they are constantly supervised by grown-ups who will always warn them, help them, and advise them (It’s ouchy. Don’t touch that!). However, this time, it looked as if the host of engineers and chemists didn’t have a ready-made solution for the crew; the hypotheses they had proposed were not proving correct. The tests carried out by Devaki and Ezra using the Dräger gas detector tubes showed that the concentration of ammonia was similar in all the modules—although it was hard to get precise measurements at such a low level. The latest reading from the SAM showed a concentration of one point eight parts per million. The upper limit of the acceptable norm was getting ever closer; the clock was ticking louder and louder.

Lucy squeezed some toothpaste onto her toothbrush. One thing kept bothering her. Why had the increase in ammonia concentration occurred immediately after the solar flare? There was no obvious connection between the two, but coincidence seemed too convenient an answer. The particles ejected by the Sun could have damaged the electronic equipment and caused the computers to malfunction—including those responsible for controlling the life-support systems—however, according to the ground staff, no such problems had occurred. Perhaps that clang they heard while they were sheltering in Harmony had something to do with it? Maybe something got wrenched off, cracked, or broken at that point? If not inside the station, then perhaps outside? But there were cameras and sensors outside as well; any damage would have been discovered immediately.

Lucy returned to her sleep station; it was almost time to phone Nate. Before pushing the appropriate button, she massaged her face and arranged her hair. Lucy knew that if she looked down or bothered, Nate would immediately detect it and absorb those emotions. She had long since developed a habit of hiding uncomfortable issues from him for as long as she reasonably could. A letter telling them they were late with their credit card payment? She would tear it into shreds and send a bank transfer from her own account. Worrying test results at the doctor’s? Better not mention it until after the following appointment because things might improve in the meantime. Lucy told herself that she was protecting Nate from unnecessary stress—and it was the truth, but not the whole truth. Thanks to these little white lies, she was saving herself from having to deal with his anxiety, and that was equally important. The system worked, the marriage functioned, but as a result, Lucy as a wife was just as inauthentic as she was as an astronaut; in both roles, she created a persona to fit in with others. In both roles, she weighed every word and strictly controlled her emotions and facial expression. In both roles, she was exhausted.

Nate appeared on the screen. He was wearing a baggy hoodie; his hair was tousled and tufts protruded in various directions.

“Hi!” He smiled upon seeing her.

“Hiya! You’ve got a tuft of hair sticking up.”

“Where?” He automatically raised his hand to his head.

“Behind your ear, on the left.”

“Here?”

“Uh-huh. How are things at home? Is Eliza at violin practice?”

“Yes,” said Nate, nodding. “She’s learning how to play ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’ now.”

“I want a recording!”

“Sure. I’ll make one. Listen”—Nate scratched behind his ear, then adjusted his glasses—“I heard there’s another problem on the station . . .”

Ah, she thought, so the cat’s out of the bag already. “Nate, there’s always some kind of problem here,” she said. “Who’s writing about it? Is it Berger? Or Cowing?”

“Neither, actually. TASS issued a press release.”

“Oh well.” She sighed. “The Russians must be delighted that something has broken on our side for a change.”

“Yep. That was the tone of the dispatch. Is it clear yet what’s going on?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Listen, how’s your mother doing? Is she back to her normal self?”

“She’s doing OK. They’ve changed her medication. So, what will you do?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy shrugged. Her attempt to change the subject hadn’t worked. “Whatever Houston comes up with.”

“It sounds dangerous.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Really, it is,” said Lucy soothingly. “We just have to find the source.”

“OK, but be careful.”

She suppressed a sigh. “Darling,” she said slowly, as if to a child, “at that concentration the ammonia has no effect on my health at all.”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about.”

“What then?”

Again, he scratched behind his ear. He did that when he was anxious. “I just don’t like it,” he said. “The sequence of events. It’s too much all at once.”

“Just bad luck. That’s all.”

“You take care.”

She should have smiled, thanked him for his concern, and tried to change the subject again. But she was tired and irritated; the strings controlling the corners of her mouth, her eyebrows, and her vocal cords slipped through her fingers.

“So what am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Only inhale every other breath?”

Immediately after she said it, she regretted her words and her tone; she felt embarrassed. Nate meant well. He had given up so much for her sake. He loved her.

“I don’t know, Lucy.”

“Nate,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“No big deal. I just meant that, if I were in your shoes, I’d keep my eyes peeled . . . in all directions.”

Houston—August 11, 2021, 17:33 GMT –5

The roadside diner was fairly busy. Most of the tables were occupied, country music was playing through the loudspeakers (the singer was waxing lyrical in praise of the hills of West Virginia), and the smell of fried bacon wafted through the air. Outside the window, the lights of the cars whizzing down the interstate flashed by; the powerful motors of the trucks roared. Steve flicked through the laminated pages of the menu until he reached the ALL-DAY BREAKFAST section.

“I’ll have pancakes and coffee,” he said.

“Cream?” asked the waitress. The red nail polish was flaking off her chewed nails.

“No, black. What about you, Kevin? What are you having? My treat.”

The man sitting on the other side of the table was wearing a crumpled shirt with the buttons done up askew. Kevin was sleeping off his night shift when Steve called him and asked—well, demanded—an impromptu meeting. He stifled a yawn, put the menu back on the table, and wiped his fingers on his pants.

“Just tea for me,” he muttered. “Caffeine-free, if you have it.”

“Chamomile?”

“That’ll do,” he said, nodding.

“Coming up.”

Steve was fiddling with a sugar packet. The crystals crunched between his fingers. “I’m sorry I dragged you out of bed,” he said. Not entirely sincerely. That was the job. End of story.

“No problem.”

“When’s your next shift?”

“Tomorrow. Daytime, for a change.”

“Fine. I’ll keep it short, so you have time to get proper rest beforehand.”

Kevin Wallgreen nodded, resigned to his fate. He was a flight controller—not a job conducive to healthy sleep routines. As the RIO, the Russian interface officer, he was responsible for liaising with Moscow. His mother was Ukrainian and came from Poltava, so he knew the local languages and the culture; he knew how to drink vodka, and didn’t flinch at the sight of a cubed vegetable salad drowning in mayonnaise that was turning yellow; he could sense better than anyone when a firm nevozmozhno really meant impossible and when it was an invitation to start negotiating; in short, he understood the Russian soul. Which by no means meant that he liked it.

“I want to understand what Rybkin is trying to achieve,” said Steve. “What’s his goal?”

“He wants to ingratiate himself with his superiors.”

“Yes, obviously. But . . .” Steve let his voice hang. “D’you play chess?”

“Now and again.”

“Excellent. It’s clear that we need to treat Rybkin’s phone call and the TASS press release as an opening move. What I need to know is, What does it tell us about the position they want to reach? Where are they luring us?”

“OK, I understand,” said Kevin, nodding. “Let’s start with the fact that their space program is in a terrible state.”

“Yes, I’ve read the report.”

“Oh no, it’s much, much worse than in the report.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Kevin was animated now. In the background, the espresso machine gurgled and doors slammed. “The staff are leaving in droves. Behind the scenes, people are saying that it’ll take at least another fifteen years to finish building the Vostochny Cosmodrome, and by the time it’s finished it will be obsolete. All the technology, everything from the spacesuits to the Soyuz rockets, is a legacy of the sixties. All attempts at modernization have been fiascos; the money slips out of the back door.”

“I know. Our dollars included.”

“The situation is only going to get worse,” continued Kevin, “because, in a few years, the ISS will be decommissioned. We’ll keep some of the modules and use them as building blocks for a new space station. I mean our commercial partners will do the construction, but it comes to the same thing. However, the Russian segment of the ISS is obsolete—scrap that’s no good to anyone. Sending even one new module into space is more than the Russians can manage right now.”

“Rybkin is betting on China.”

“Officially, yes. But . . .” Kevin leaned toward Steve, and the leatherette seat creaked. Someone flushed the toilet in the bathroom. “Personally, I don’t believe anything will come of it.”

“Why?”

“Because the Russians will never agree to an arrangement in which they have to play second fiddle. Space exploration is still a source of immense national pride in Russia. There are fresh flowers at the monument to Gagarin all year round; Valentina Tereshkova can’t cross the road without a crowd gathering—people approach her with tears in their eyes, asking to kiss her hands; and every other mutt is called Laika or Strelka. Any arrangement in which they take on the junior role and no longer count in the Space Race is politically unacceptable.”

“Exactly, so they need a win.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken.”

“Coffee and pancakes for you.” The waitress had returned with their order. The plates clattered onto the table; the cutlery clinked. “Tea for you. Will you want anything else?”

“No, thank you.” Steve reached for the jug of syrup. It felt sticky.

“If you need anything, just call.”

“Sure.”

“Darn, those pancakes look good,” sighed Kevin, looking at the steaming plate.

“Do you want some? I won’t eat them all.”

“Well, maybe one.”

“You were saying I was mistaken . . .”

“Well, not so much mistaken,” said Kevin, sliding an empty plate over, “as approaching the issue with an American mindset. Aim for the Moon, and you’ll land somewhere amidst the stars; a stumble is the first step to a win; and so on and so forth. But the Russians have a different mindset. Their own particular one.”

“Which is?”

“They don’t need a win,” he said, cutting into his pancake. “It’s good enough if others fail alongside them.”

ISS—August 11, 2021, 23:41 GMT

Lucy was getting ready to go to sleep. She slipped into her sleeping bag (which wasn’t easy in a cubicle two meters long by half a meter wide), inserted earplugs, and pulled on an eye mask. She felt as if she were in a flotation tank: the boundaries of her body became blurred, she disconnected from her senses, and she immersed herself in the white noise. The thoughts that, during the day, were deafened by the noise of the air conditioning, pushed into the background, and scattered now arranged themselves in a row. The phrases she heard returned, bouncing back like echoes.

Perhaps something struck the air grate?

How was your call with Earth, Lucy?

It’s not a difficult substance to obtain.

If I were in your shoes, I’d keep my eyes peeled . . . in all directions.

She reminded herself of the sequence of events. Steve Ayers told them about the imminent solar flare. They had twenty minutes or so to put the station in order. They took shelter in Harmony. Lafayette got there first. Devaki was late. Ezra went to look for her. The Russians sheltered in their own segment. While the station was being bombarded by the solar wind, they heard a noise—a clang. Later, when the emergency was over, they returned to their normal activities: maintenance, cleaning, experiments, and gym. The next day she received a message about an increase in the ammonia concentration.

I’m going to make an assumption, she thought. I’ll assume briefly, although it’s so unlikely that it seems absurd, that the problem with the ammonia wasn’t caused by a random accident, but was the result of a person’s deliberate actions. What for, why, and how were unimportant right now, something to consider later; for the moment, only what if mattered. In that scenario, the solar flare provided an ideal opportunity: the cameras were switched off, the transmission of telemetric data was paused, and so were communications with Mission Control. Then—in a rare occurrence that virtually never happened in daytime—both crews were ensconced in their sleeping quarters for about three-quarters of an hour. Houston was blind, deaf, and dumb for over forty-five minutes and, in that time, somebody—if they wanted to, although it really was so unlikely that it seemed absurd—could have moved around the station unnoticed, like a ghost. That noise must have come from somewhere. Action—reaction. One object struck another. Forcefully.

Lucy pulled off her eye mask and switched on the computer—the work computer. She opened a number of folders in turn: EXPEDITION 75, then DATA, then CCTV. She looked through the recordings from the surveillance cameras in Tranquility, then Harmony, then Columbus, Leonardo, and Kibo. It was the same in all of them: an empty room, turned-off screens, a myriad of buttons, handrails, and cables. She fast-forwarded through the forty-odd minutes of blackness when the CCTV had been switched off for the duration of the solar flare. Click: before; click: after; strain your eyes; spot the difference between the images. Even though it was so unlikely that it seemed absurd.

Click. Pause. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

The footage from Tranquility. Fourteen forty-seven. Everything normal; everything in its place. Fifteen thirty-seven. A slight dent appeared on the wall opposite the treadmill. And not far away, floating in the air—a screwdriver.

4

December 9, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: When did the communication breakdown with the Russian side begin?

WALLGREEN: There were problems right from the start, but they got much worse in 2014, after the invasion of Crimea.

LAMAR: How did it manifest?

WALLGREEN: All transparency ended. Roscosmos cut itself off from our experts and disregarded jointly agreed procedures. That led to all kinds of incidents, like the one that occurred during the installation of the Nauka module.

LAMAR: Did you expect matters to escalate?

WALLGREEN: Of course. But not to this extent.

ISS—August 12, 2021, 12:31 GMT

Lucy opened the bag containing her gym clothes. As she feared, the T-shirt was still damp. She sighed. According to official guidelines, Lucy had to wear it another three times before finally being allowed another. Oh well, it had to be done. She changed, then glided toward Tranquility; her fitness training session started in a few minutes. At last, she had time—and an excuse—to look around Tranquility and compare it with the recording she had seen the previous evening. Lucy hadn’t yet told anyone what she had discovered. She didn’t want to raise the alarm until she was certain that something was up, and that she hadn’t been seeing things. The atmosphere on the station was foul enough already—both literally and figuratively.

In the morning, they had attended a teleconference with Mission Control. The level of ammonia continued to increase, but fortunately the rate of increase was slow. That morning’s measurements showed the concentration in the station’s internal atmosphere was one point eight three parts per million. The ammonia was still invisible and imperceptible, but it dominated life on the station. Their roster, planned with such great care, was changed yet again to allow time for further checks. Devaki and Lafayette were assigned the job of thoroughly inspecting all ten IFHX panels—the interfaces where the water and ammonia pipes touched each other—to finally confirm or debunk the theory of microperforations in the circuits. Lucy and Ezra were given the task of checking the carbon filters, as Houston suspected one of them might be faulty. It would explain the unusual dynamics of the increase of ammonia in the air, and make sense in terms of the sequence of events: the filters were last changed immediately after the end of the solar flare. The remaining tasks were transferred to later slots or, in some cases, deferred indefinitely. This latter category included the botanical experiments. Lafayette was devastated, though of course he did his best to pretend otherwise.

But not the fitness sessions—the spacecraft would have to be on fire for those to be canceled! Before the first flights into space, nobody knew for sure whether humans would be able to survive in a zero-gravity environment. Perhaps the heart would prove unable to pump blood? Perhaps human lungs would fail? Hence dogs, rhesus monkeys, and chimpanzees preceded the first human astronaut to space. It transpired that earthly organisms were indeed capable of surviving in orbit and adapted quickly to the new environment—in fact, perhaps too quickly! Bones don’t need to support the weight of the body? Great—in that case, the precious micronutrients in them can be sucked out, as they’ll come in useful elsewhere. The muscles of the arms and legs aren’t used as intensively? Then let them lose ten, fifteen, or even twenty percent of their body weight. The mechanisms regulating the human body turned out to be more ruthless than economists at the Chicago School: they slashed any unnecessary expenditure; they eliminated every superfluous cell; and they had zero tolerance for scroungers, subsidies, and welfare payments. It was problematic because, in the end, astronauts returned to Earth. Their bodies, mollycoddled by the absence of gravity, had only the short flight back to adapt to gravity loads of the order of three, four, or even—if something went wrong, if the flight trajectory suddenly had to be changed—twelve g. So, without hours of regular exercise—without forcing the neoliberal clique controlling the human body to maintain the cells that were superfluous in zero-gravity conditions—astronauts would fall apart on their return to Earth.

Lucy floated into Tranquility. This was where the exercise equipment was kept: the treadmill, the exercise bike, and ARED—a weight training machine that used pistons in vacuum cylinders to simulate free weights. There was also a toilet, a water treatment apparatus, an oxygen generator, and the control panel for another, smaller robotic arm, Dextre. In addition, as everywhere on the station, every nook and cranny of the module was utilized for storage. The walls were enmeshed by a dense network of bungee cords restraining bulging sacks of equipment, tools, and reagents for experiments.

The dent wasn’t visible. Lucy caught hold of a handrail and spun herself around to look for the relevant wall. She performed a pirouette with ease, as the resistance was negligible. Casting her mind back, she remembered that the spot was on the wall opposite the treadmill, roughly in the middle. That area was now obscured by bags of spare clothing. On the video recording they were elsewhere, toward the stern. So somebody had moved them in the meantime, perhaps because they were in the way. Or perhaps to conceal something.

Lucy loosened the bungees. The bags immediately came alive; they started to move and bounce off one another like corn being popped. Even though each sack weighed ten to twenty kilograms, it was possible to move one with a single push. One to the left, one to the right, a little further to the side . . . and Lucy found the dent. It was quite small: a centimeter or two deep with a diameter of no more than ten centimeters. The wall panel was made of thick, hard plastic, so it must have been struck with quite some force to leave that sort of mark. Behind it, there was a cupboard containing boxes. Lucy looked inside them—sealed plastic bottles, boxes of latex gloves, and ziplock bags. Nothing suspicious.

“Are you looking for something?” said a voice behind her back.

Lucy swung round sharply. Devaki. She must have been in the bathroom. Lucy hadn’t heard her open the door, or glide up to within an arm’s length. On the ISS, there weren’t any floors or hinges that creaked and, even if there had been, such sounds would have been drowned out by the fans. It was easy to take someone by surprise. To steal up from behind.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“That’s alright.” Lucy slid over to hide the dent behind her back. She did it automatically, without thinking, even though there wasn’t any reason to keep it secret from Devaki. At least, no rational reason. “How are you feeling?”

“No change.”

“Fuck!”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“Hasn’t the doctor come up with anything?”

“They’re supposed to send me some new pills with the next cargo,” replied Devaki. She looked and sounded exhausted. “But I’m not that optimistic.”

“You’re brave.”

“No, I’m not.”

They fell silent. It was a silence that spoke volumes. If I had the option of returning early, said Devaki’s emaciated body, screamed her bloodshot eyes, I would’ve taken it already—jumped at it, and paid twice over. It was a particularly cruel fate that she—the only person on board who paid their own way—was the one to suffer from continual nausea. She could have chosen to take a short flight on a commercial rocket and then spent the rest of her life repeating tired phrases about the desolate, boundless blackness and the vibrant blue globe. But no, Devaki hadn’t wanted a trophy or a souvenir; she had wanted to do it properly and participate fully. In negotiations with NASA, she secured the longest stay of any space tourist in history in exchange for a commitment to work just like the rest of the crew. A luminary of modern technology with a doctorate from MIT, she undoubtedly qualified to be more than ballast on the station. Sadly, the trip that was supposed to be the culmination of her dreams, which she had worked toward for so many years, was turning out to be an interminable nightmare.

It occurred to Lucy more than once that she would like to ask Devaki the question she herself repeatedly faced and that she couldn’t answer—neither aloud, nor in her head. Why, oh why? Back on Earth, Devaki had it all: a company with a market capitalization of a few hundred million dollars, a stunning residence in Presidio Heights, a loving husband who looked like a model, and children who had inherited his looks and her brains. Considering all that, why was she risking her life to spend six months in a steel can, in a never-ending din, in air that stank, working from dawn till dusk? Was it for the moments when she could observe the Earth from the windows of the Cupola? Was it for the moments on Earth, before and after, when camera after camera flashed? Lucy was in a better position than anyone to know that such questions were pointless: she might as well have plied Devaki with questions as to why she wanted to live, why she decided to have a family, and where she found the inner strength to become successful in Silicon Valley. The only reply you could give to all these questions was the one you would give to a bothersome child: “Just because.”

“I should go.” Devaki grabbed a handrail. She was about to pull on it and propel herself forward.

“Wait!” said Lucy, stopping her. “You secured this module before the solar flare, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Was everything in order here?”

Devaki was taken aback by the question. Perhaps even a little irritated.

“Sorry, but I’m not sure I understand,” she replied.

“Did you have to . . . maybe . . .” Lucy broke off. She was weighing her words. “. . . fasten something? Or loosen it? Or tighten a screw?”

“No. I switched off the electronic equipment, as you instructed. Then, I went to the bathroom. Why do you ask?”

“I just wanted to check.”

“Check what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lucy, brushing it aside. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

Devaki nodded—and then she was gone, floating through the hatch and into Unity. Her long black hair billowed like waves across water.

Houston—August 12, 2021, 07:00 GMT –5

Seven in the morning. Nearly the end of the shift. The controllers going off duty were handing over to their replacements and telling them what had happened in the last ten hours—what they had and hadn’t managed to do, what needed to be dealt with urgently, and what could wait. There were now two people at every desk; the room, which was usually quiet, was filled with the murmur of multiple whispered conversations and the rustle of pages being turned.

It was tense because they still hadn’t found the source of the ammonia: the filters were working correctly, they hadn’t found any leaks in the toilets, and the Russians hadn’t reported any failures in their segment. The permissible upper limit of two parts per million was getting ever closer. Since they hadn’t managed to eliminate the source of the ammonia, they decided to focus on mitigating its consequences while still continuing to search for the source. Additional filters would have helped, but they didn’t have the necessary equipment on board, and sending it into orbit, even fast-tracked, would take at least several weeks. However, NASA engineers were not known for their creative solutions without reason: they were developing a method of building filters from the components available on the station. It wasn’t particularly complicated in itself, but they had to take into consideration dozens of factors and multiple interdependencies. How would additional filters going live affect the load on the electrical circuits? How much would it increase the risk of a circuit blowing? How much heat would the makeshift equipment generate? How strong would the vibrations be? How many decibels? How much would it weigh? Which position would avoid blocking hatches or obstructing access to important sockets or panels? Any change on board was like a game of pickup sticks or building a house of cards. Moving any one element had an impact on all the rest; it took only a single careless decision to bring it all crashing down.

All the time, at every step, it was necessary to weigh up the probabilities: How much were you increasing the risk of catastrophe? The calculation never gave a probability of zero: every intervention had its undesired consequences that had to be foreseen, understood, and computed. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking loud and clear. The ground crew had to rush without overlooking anything while at the same time taking risks, but keeping them to a minimum. They weren’t firefighting yet—it wasn’t a crisis on the scale of Apollo 13 yet—but, in Houston, every problem was treated with deadly seriousness because every one could have fatal consequences.

Steve was observing the flight control room from the VIP gallery; he was searching for familiar faces among the controllers. Kevin Wallgreen, who was just starting his shift as RIO, stood by the coffee machine. He was wearing the same shirt as at the diner, but now it was buttoned up correctly. Anna Rathke, the CAPCOM, was finishing work; she was gathering up her belongings from the desk, including an insulated mug with the text THE BEST GRANNY IN THE UNIVERSE. Robert Schiff, the flight director, was also getting ready to leave. He was hunched over and his shirt was damp with sweat; you could see the effect of ten hours of exertion and the stress that came with his responsibility for human lives and equipment worth over one hundred billion dollars. Steve set off to intercept him.

“Robert,” he called.

Schiff started; he stopped midstep.

“Steve, nice to see you,” he said, although his expression was at odds with his words. As you would expect, he wanted to go home. To take a hot shower. To avoid speaking or listening to anyone. To reset his overheated brain and shift into a lower gear. Steve could see it, but took no notice. He needed Robert, and he needed him now. Nevertheless, for form’s sake, he asked, “D’you have a moment?”

A pause. A quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall. “Of course,” replied Robert.

“Excellent. Come this way. I saw a free room over there.”

Steve opened the door. A windowless room, with fluorescent lights and the rumble of an air conditioning unit. The furnishings: a table marked with coffee cup stains, plastic chairs, and a whiteboard covered in equations. They sat down.

“You can guess what I want to discuss, can’t you?” said Steve.

“The ammonia?”

“That’s right.” He nodded. “Our meeting is sponsored by the letters N, H, and the number 3.”

Robert didn’t even smile. Perhaps he wasn’t amused. Perhaps he was just too tired. “I’ve written it all up in a report. The last measurement, about an hour ago, was one eight eight. If it continues to increase at the current rate, even if we assume no other mitigations, we have at least two days to—”

“I know, I know,” said Steve, cutting him short. “I’ve read the report, but that’s not what I’m after.”

“What is it, if not that?”

Steve leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and briefly closed his eyes. They were stinging from lack of sleep. “It strikes me that we’ve gotten stuck in a rut,” he said. “So, let’s try and get out of it. Let’s reverse the equation for a moment.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Let’s assume that you wanted to increase the level of ammonia on board.”

“Deliberately?!”

“Let’s say deliberately.”

“OK . . .”

“In a way that no one would uncover.”

Robert raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, what are you driving at?” he asked.

“An innocent thought experiment. Nothing more.” Steve smiled. “How would you go about it?”

“Well,” said Robert, crossing his legs, “the simplest option would be to tamper with an IFHX panel.”

“But the inspection didn’t show any damage. What else?”

“A chemical reaction, of course.”

“What reaction?”

“There are many options. I would have to think about what is available on the station, what—” Robert stopped mid-sentence. “Hang on, Steve, you don’t think that . . .”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. Give me concrete examples.”

A pause. They eyed each other.

“A reduction of nitric acid or nitrites,” said Robert finally. “A reaction between calcium oxide and ammonium chloride. But I’m in no position right now to tell you whether the relevant chemicals are available on the station and, if so, in what quantities. Or whether it would be at all possible to generate the relevant quantity of gas using these methods.”

“Check it out then”—Steve leaned back in his chair—“but do it off the record.”

“Off the record?”

“Yes.”

“As part of your innocent thought experiment?”

“Precisely.”

“Steve, tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Steve got up. He leaned against the wall. “Let me answer you with a question. What will happen when we exceed the limit of two parts per million?”

“We won’t exceed it.”

“But if we did. Fire away. This is only an informal chat.”

Robert paused before replying. “The Multilateral Coordination Board would call an emergency meeting. We would submit a proposal for a temporary adjustment of the norms. I assume nobody would be difficult about it, but—”

“Assume that somebody was difficult.”

Robert raised an eyebrow; he was clearly shocked. “The Russians?” he asked.

“Perhaps the Russians,” said Steve, shrugging. “Perhaps Brazil. It doesn’t matter. What then?”

Robert looked to the side, opened his mouth, then shut it noiselessly; you could almost hear the interlocking wheels grinding beneath his cranial vault. At last, he spoke. “I believe that situation is covered by section four of regulation ten of the 1996 treaty, isn’t it?”

Steve nodded in satisfaction. Robert Schiff was the best flight director they’d had in years. So good, in fact, that they would soon have to promote him—more’s the pity. But Steve still had a few years to wring all he could out of Robert, and he had no scruples about doing so.

“Yes,” said Steve. “A meeting would be convened between the heads of NASA, ESA, Roscosmos, and the science and technology minister of Japan.”

“Am I to assume that, once again, no agreement would be reached?”

“Exactly. So what next?”

“Hmm . . .” Robert pondered the question. “That now falls into the realms of international law, arbitration—”

“It provides a formal justification for withdrawing from the agreement, in fact, for a withdrawal effective immediately,” said Steve. He took a deep breath. His head was spinning; he was so exhausted. “Roscosmos would then be able to initiate the process of uncoupling their segment of the ISS. It could be done within just a few days; there wouldn’t be enough time to prepare our modules to function independently. We’re dependent on the Russians for the oxygen they generate and, more importantly, for the station’s steering. Within a few weeks the orbit would decay. We’d have to evacuate our crew, and the ISS would burn up in the atmosphere. OK, we know the station is reaching the end of its lifespan, but we are going to use a few of the newer modules for the nucleus of our next space station—”

“Oh? It’s been decided already? Last time I heard, we didn’t have the funding.”

“We will find the funding,” said Steve, nonchalantly waving Robert’s concerns away. He’d squeeze those dollars out of a brick, if that’s what it took. “When the clock strikes five to, as always. Provided, like I said, we still have something up in the air. Without a few modules to start with, the likely date when a new space station might become operational moves back by over a decade, and we need a space station as a base for regular flights to the Moon, and all the more so for flights to Mars.” Finally, Steve stopped speaking.

“But the Russian segment can’t function without us either.”

“So what?”

Robert didn’t have a good answer to that one.

ISS—August 12, 2021, 13:30 GMT

It was lunchtime. The astronauts gathered around the table—a folding metal counter that lowered like a drawbridge. Velcro, magnets, and hooks allowed them to put down their cutlery and food trays without worrying that they would fly away. The astronauts also had to anchor themselves somehow—otherwise, accidentally jostling a neighbor would send them flying to the opposite end of the module—so they slipped their feet under rails fixed to the walls.

It didn’t have to be like this. They could have eaten separately at different times to avoid a crush. They could have sucked tubes of mush and not bothered with cutlery. In fact, they could easily have eaten without a table: floating freely, spinning in the air, each facing in their chosen direction. But some habits are hard to put aside, particularly those associated with meals. In this instance, biology and culture were so tightly interwoven that it wasn’t possible to separate the two.

In the sixties, when humans were inundated by speedy advances in technology and the Space Race was more of a sprint than a marathon, the issue of feeding a crew was treated as a purely technical problem. What counted was the balance of protein, fats, vitamins, and micronutrients—taste was unimportant. So the astronauts’ lunch bags were packed with meat pellets, powdered orange juice laced with a massive dose of iron, and fruit and vegetable pap resembling baby food. But it soon became clear that humans are not machines, and taste buds can’t be treated as a redundant subsystem that you simply switch off for the duration of a space flight. After a few days of that sort of diet, astronauts became irritable and disagreeable; after a few weeks, they succumbed to depressive states. The conclusion was that seasoning is as important as rocket fuel in the conquest of space; the engineers were forced to return the pots and pans to the more capable hands of the cooks. Henceforth, every consignment going to the station included fresh fruit—despite some controllers wailing about how much space it took up and how few calories per cubic centimeter it contained—and the astronauts’ meals for special occasions, like Thanksgiving or Christmas, were prepared in Michelin-starred restaurants. But these were rare occasions.

“Lord,” sighed Ezra, poking food around his plate with a fork. “I’d kill for a real chicken sandwich.”

“No doubt you would,” said Lafayette. “Can someone please pass the salt?”

“Here you go,” said Devaki, pushing the bottle of liquid salt his way. “How are your plants doing?”

“Dead, unfortunately,” sighed Lafayette. “I’ll have to start all over again once this situation has been resolved.”

“Will you have enough time?”

“I don’t know.” Lafayette shrugged, though it was clear the instructions from Houston bothered him.

“It’s only cress,” cut in Ezra.

“Thanks a bunch.”

“Any time.”

“Have you managed to get any results so far?” asked Devaki. Perhaps she was curious, or perhaps she had to distract herself and occupy her mind in order to force another mouthful down. Lucy shot her a compassionate glance. Eating while nauseous was torture.

“Yes, it’s looking promising,” responded Lafayette, lighting up. “You see, in essence, the problem is that the soil on Mars doesn’t contain any bacteria, and so its function of fixing nitrogen is unfulfilled. Without nitrogen nothing grows.”

“Not even potatoes?” asked Devaki with a wink.

“No, not even potatoes. The idea is that this acid, the ACC, could accelerate the process . . .”

Lucy wasn’t listening; she was engrossed in her own thoughts. She already knew for sure that someone had been in Tranquility while the surveillance cameras were switched off. Either during the solar flare, or just before, or just after. What were they doing there? There was no way of telling, at least not from a cursory glance; there were so many panels, instruments, and devices in the module that a thorough inspection of each of them would take her weeks. The only clues were the dent in the wall and the abandoned screwdriver. Lucy had looked for the screwdriver, but failed to find it—the suction should have drawn it toward the air grate. It was possible that the screwdriver got tangled up along the way, as mislaid items sometimes did disappear without a trace. It was possible that someone had come back to retrieve it—perhaps the same person who slid the packages over to cover up the damaged wall.

A cold sweat ran down her. In training Lucy had rehearsed dozens of crisis scenarios. What to do if a fire broke out on board? There were fire extinguishers in every module: water extinguishers in the Russian segment, where the electricity supply was twenty-eight volts; and carbon dioxide extinguishers and oxygen masks in the American segment, where it was a hundred and twenty-four volts. What to do in the event of an air leak? Use duct tape and gauze soaked in epoxy to seal the hole. What to do if, on descent, a capsule deviated from its planned course and the astronauts landed far away from the place where they were expected? For this eventuality, there were emergency food rations, flares, matches, a tent, and water purification equipment tucked away in a locker in the Soyuz. The astronauts hadn’t worked through any scenario that involved a saboteur residing on the station.

Lucy still wasn’t ready to share her suspicions with the others. She realized that—even if she was wrong—her revelations would trigger an unpredictable chain of events. Summoning the police to the station to examine the clues wasn’t an option. There was no legal framework for an investigation. An attempt to establish which jurisdiction applied would itself probably drag on for years. Theoretically, each module was considered part of the territory of the country that built it. An investigation into events in Kibo would be conducted by the Japanese; Harmony—the Americans; and Columbus—the Europeans, who would also need to come to an agreement among themselves (good luck with that!). Every few meters, a different set of laws applied. No, in the event of any conflict on board, the astronauts would have to resolve it on their own. Whatever that entailed.

“. . . of course, there’s the question of how feasible it is to scale up the process,” continued Lafayette. “But assuming that—”

“Excuse me,” butted in Lucy. “Have any of you seen a stray screwdriver?”

“No,” said Ezra, shaking his head. “Why?”

“I can’t find it. It was there when I last looked in the toolbox, and now it’s gone.”

“What did it look like?”

“I don’t know—like a screwdriver. Blue handle.”

“Blue?” said Ezra, shooting her a suspicious glance. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“The Russians have blue screwdrivers. They got them in the last shipment, a month ago. Perhaps you’re confused?”

“Perhaps,” she responded, her thoughts elsewhere.

Lucy picked her tray up from the table. She had lost her appetite.

ISS—August 12, 2021, 18:11 GMT

They still hadn’t found the source of the ammonia leak. Devaki and Lafayette had been put to work building an additional filter, following step-by-step guidance transmitted from Houston. They were in the Columbus module, floating amidst a constellation of tools and components, listening intently to the instructions coming from the loudspeakers. It was Lucy and Ezra’s turn to do the cleaning—yet another task that could not be skipped or put off until later. In general, people associate space vehicles of any kind with technology: plastic, metal, and glass. They seem devoid of life, sterile, filled with dry, lifeless air. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Every astronaut—each person—was a complex ecosystem, a microscopic universe enveloped in skin. Prior to their flight to the station, all crew members were scrubbed from head to foot with rubbing alcohol, but even so, they brought billions of stowaways on board—bacteria, viruses, and fungi—and, with every breath, sneeze, and cough, these microorganisms escaped to the outside. The air and water on the ISS circulated in a closed system, so all these invisible life-forms multiplied exponentially, colonizing the most inaccessible crannies: the air ducts, the chinks between panels, and the gaps between cables. They fed on exfoliated skin, fingerprint grease, and droplets of saliva. To make the place habitable for humans—to prevent the station turning into a biological time bomb—the astronauts had to fight a never-ending war with the microbes. It was one of those conflicts that would never be resolved; the front line moved to and fro like the shoreline shifting with incoming and outgoing tides. Once a week, the astronauts would arm themselves with cloths and disinfectant and wipe every surface and rail, paying particular attention to the bathrooms and the exercise equipment. The microbes perished in their billions; then, at lightning speed, the battle survivors multiplied and refilled the ranks—so the whole process had to be repeated. Thus, although humans had yet to encounter aliens, they were already waging war to guarantee the supremacy of their species in space.

Lucy scrubbed, wiped, and scraped without stopping—as fast as she could manage. They were nearly finished: she and Ezra were in Kibo, with only Tranquility to go. Maybe I’ll have enough time, she thought, doing her best to wipe off a stubborn stain.

“Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?” asked Ezra. He was hefty and muscular, so the vinyl gloves and apron looked comical on him. It was clear he was aware of this and felt uncomfortable in the outfit. Although Ezra didn’t say it out loud, he was obviously aggrieved that he—an ex-serviceman, a man through and through—had to scrub toilets.

“A tad,” admitted Lucy.

“Off you go then. I’ll finish up.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. But she was already pulling off her gloves.

“Uh-huh.”

Unusual act of kindness on his part, she thought. Best not look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Thanks. I owe you a favor.”

Lucy didn’t wait for a reply. She grabbed a handrail and pulled herself toward the open hatch, glancing at her watch. She had twenty minutes before she had to report for the next task, and Lafayette and Devaki were still working in Columbus. There might not be a better opportunity for quite some time; she could escape raised eyebrows and questions from the crew and Mission Control. Lucy flexed her knees and pushed off with all her might; a moment later she was already at the far end of Unity where it connected to the Russian segment. She stopped at the entrance. It was dark and narrow. Lucy didn’t want to do this; she didn’t have the slightest inclination. But she had no choice.

She slipped into the passage; her body almost completely filled it. A few movements later, she was squeezing into Zarya, the first Russian module. Here, it was really tight: you couldn’t even straighten your shoulders. You had to hold your elbows tightly against your stomach to avoid scraping them on the walls. Lucy wasn’t claustrophobic—that had been very thoroughly checked many times before she was accepted into the astronaut corps—but, even so, she couldn’t imagine how you could spend a few months in this sort of space without going mad.

“Come in,” called a voice from the neighboring module, Zvezda. It was Anton. He had a distinctive voice. Low. Inflected with mockery.

She crawled inside. The module’s interior was filled with electronic equipment: LCD screens stared at her from every angle; cables snaked along every edge. A good part of the equipment was dead: Zvezda’s central computer shut down irreparably a few years back and could not easily be replaced, so now the module’s operations were controlled by three cheap laptops Velcroed to the walls, making the space even more cramped than it used to be.

Anton was hovering in the middle; a small cross on a golden chain had slipped out from under his T-shirt and was swaying gently in the air, sparkling in the cold light of the lamps. He was engrossed in a book; he didn’t even raise his eyes from the page. Fantasy—judging by the dragons and scantily clad female warriors on its gaudy cover. Clearly, he didn’t have any more urgent tasks.

“So, you’re tempted by the caviar after all?” said Anton, licking his finger and turning the page.

“No thanks.”

“If not, why are you honoring me with a visit?”

“How about putting your book away?”

“Wait,” he muttered. “I’ll just finish the page.”

“Now would be better.”

“Mhm . . .” His light blue eyes moved slowly along the lines of text. Finally, Anton closed the book and pushed it behind him. It spun around as if under a spell, its pages rustling. “Finished. I’m listening.”

“Did you manage to establish anything?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“About the ammonia.”

“Oh that. Not yet,” he said, shaking his head, “but I can assure you that our search is proceeding at full steam.”

“I can see that.”

“Oh, come on!” Anton rolled his eyes. “Everybody knows the source is on your side.”

“Really? How can you know?”

“Because you are the ones who use ammonia, no?”

“The cooling system isn’t leaking.”

“Really? Well, we can all sleep peacefully then. America saves the day yet again.” His smile brought out aggression in Lucy. I know—that you know—that I know. “Is that all?” Anton cocked his head. “Don’t take offense, but I want to know what happens next. In the book, I mean.”

“Haven’t you lost something?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

Aha, she thought, that got your attention alright.

“Might you possibly have mislaid something?”

“Like what?” Anton stretched very carefully and slowly to avoid hitting any of the computers underneath him, above him, and at his sides. He resembled an animal too cramped in its cage.

“Like a screwdriver, maybe,” she clarified.

He glanced directly into her eyes. Very briefly. Then he looked away. “I do not think so,” he responded. “Why? Have you found one?”

“Let’s say so.”

He chortled. “Dear Lucy, it’s not quantum mechanics, yes? It is a binary issue. Either you found one,” said Anton, arching backward, pulling on a handrail, and turning a somersault, “or you did not.”

“Where were you during the solar flare?”

“Strange question.” He shrugged. “On the ISS.”

“Where on the ISS?”

“Somewhere around here, as far as I remember.”

Lucy fell silent. She clenched her sweaty fists, then straightened her fingers. Anton was doing everything he could to irritate her and throw her off-balance. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of succeeding.

“I’ll talk to Lev,” she stated. “Perhaps he has a better memory.”

Anton pushed away from the wall. Suddenly and violently. He blocked the hatch to Nauka with his body. “Lev is very busy,” he said.

“Move aside.”

“You would be interrupting a very important experiment.”

“The one with the lettuce, or the one with the snails?”

“The two are inextricably linked,” responded Anton. Then he added in a whisper, as if he were betraying a closely guarded scientific secret, “You see, the snails eat the lettuce.”

“I said, move aside.”

“As Lucy Poplaski?” asked Anton, now entirely in earnest. “Or as the expedition crew commander? If it is the former, then my reply is still no.”

“And if it’s the latter?”

“Naturally, I will obey my captain’s order,” he replied with a deep bow, “and immediately afterward, I will inform Moscow.”

Neither spoke. The only noise was the drone of the air conditioning. Not a single sound could be heard from Nauka.

Houston—August 12, 2021, 13:31 GMT –5

Lucy wasn’t answering. Why? thought Nate. What’s happening? If anybody were able to look inside his head at that point—say someone was doing a brain scan just then—they would have seen an explosion of flashing neurons, flooding his brain with stroboscopic light. Flash! Flash! Flash!—an electrical charge raced from cell to cell like a breathless messenger bearing bad tidings. Had Lucy had an accident? Was there an emergency on the station? Had communications failed? Nate had no control over this at all. It was like the lurch in the pit of your stomach when a car cuts in front of you, or the racing of your heart when something slips out of your hands.

He looked at his watch: they had been due to connect five minutes ago. Nate checked his inbox: no new messages. He got up from his desk, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled through pursed lips—once, twice, three times. It helped. A little. There were other methods too. In the bathroom, in the cabinet with the squeaky hinges above the sink, stood a little plastic bottle of pills. Alprazolam. Half a milligram. When Nate’s doctor heard that Lucy was off on another space mission, he immediately wrote a prescription. “Just in case,” he had said. “In case you can’t fall asleep. In case something happens.”

So far, Nate hadn’t taken a single pill. Paradoxically, he was afraid of them. The list of possible adverse side effects in the patient leaflet went on for half a page: drowsiness, dizziness, memory disorders, and impairment of physical coordination. He was alone in the house with Eliza. At any moment, something could happen to her: she might choke, fall down the stairs, burn herself, or cut herself with the scissors—so Nate needed to be able to take her to the hospital. Also, Nate was afraid that if he took a pill, even just once, and it seemed to work, he would not be able find the strength to put the medicine aside. Being inside his head was like swimming in an icy pool: as long as you were in it, as long as you kept moving, it was still bearable, but once you got out, even very briefly, you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to return. So Nate had to keep swimming. All the time. Even though it exhausted him.

He glanced at the computer screen. Still nothing. Nate went to the kitchen, poured himself an orange juice, downed it in one gulp, and grimaced. He peered into Eliza’s room to check whether she was putting the laundry away, as instructed, and found her drawing instead. Nate reminded her what needed to be done in the kindest voice he could muster, wary of letting the stress seep into his words. Then he rummaged through her schoolbag to check if her granola bar and apple were already packed and whether she had tissues, Band-Aids, and a disinfectant in the side pocket (You never know! Better safe than sorry!). Nate had no influence on what happened in orbit, but what he could do was control the things that were around him—things he could inspect, handle, and put right. Activity—of any sort—helped him direct and curb his racing thoughts.

Nate heard the ping of the virtual meeting app. Lucy was connecting—at last! He ran to his office and sat down at the computer. Click. Lucy’s face filled the screen. She looked different than how she usually looked on Earth. Her face was distorted by microgravity; it was bloated and swollen. As if she had just been crying.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You must have been worrying.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he answered. “It’s OK.” He didn’t want to burden Lucy with the workings of his head and so add to her worries. Their conversations were often like this: both of them slipping and sliding across the surface. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m coping.”

“Is there any progress? On the ammonia front?”

“Hmm? No, but we’ve activated an additional filter, so everything should be fine.”

But it wasn’t. Nate could see that. Lucy was agitated. Perhaps worse: shaken. He had hardly ever seen her in that state.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing.”

“I can see it’s not nothing.”

A pause. Her eyes skittered to the side, although Lucy really didn’t have anywhere to look: her sleep station was as narrow as a coffin.

“The joys of an international crew,” she sighed.

“The Russians?”

“The Russians,” she said, nodding.

“Will you tell me more?”

He could see her hesitating. Could she share her fears with him, or would it result in her having two problems to deal with instead of one? That hurt him. He wanted to be her rock, a real man, the cowboy from the cigarette ad who, in all situations, remains calm and supportive, who stands proud so that his woman can nestle into his hairy chest.

“I’m not sure, Nate,” she said in the end. “They’re behaving strangely.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Lev or Anton?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen Lev since the solar flare. But Anton . . .” She stopped mid-sentence. She lowered her eyes. Something was wrong.

“But Anton, what?”

“I don’t trust him anymore.”

“What happened?”

Silence. Just Lucy’s pale face framed by the walls of her sleep station.

“They did something on the station,” she said, “and now they’re covering it up.”

The neurons flared again: worst-case scenarios. Nate scratched behind his ear. The skin was covered in scabs.

“Nate?”

“Yep?”

“Please, don’t tell anyone. If the media caught on . . .”

“I understand.”

They stayed silent. Lucy gave him a weary smile, and Nate returned it.

“I need to get going.”

“OK.”

“I love you.” She blew him a kiss.

“I love you more.”

They disconnected. Nate sat without moving for a while. He wanted to do something—anything—to help. He opened his browser.

His fingers tapped the keyboard. Two words appeared in the search bar—a first and last name.

Anton Kovalyov.

5

December 9, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: Were you aware of the tensions among the crew of Expedition 75?

RATHKE: Yes, but nobody talked about them openly.

LAMAR: Did you do anything with that knowledge?

RATHKE: Yes, I wrote to my managers.

LAMAR: What exactly did you write?

RATHKE: “That mix of people should never have been sent into orbit as a team.”

Houston—August 13, 2021, 07:13 GMT –5

Steve Ayers was due to spend the morning at an Ethics Council meeting. A Mars colony was on the agenda. Should it be a cooperative venture between the state and private enterprise? Governed from Earth, or by the future residents of Mars? Should countries stake exclusive claims to territory they occupied? If so, how would they enforce the claims? Should the colony’s supplies include weapons? What would the official language be? What sort of economic system should be established? Would the colonists be paid salaries, or issued tokens? Should they endeavor to adapt the Martian environment to make it more human-friendly, or try to preserve it in its existing state as far as possible?

A few years ago, the only people interested in such questions were futurologists, visionaries, and other dreamers; now these issues had to be treated seriously. Even though the prospect of humankind permanently inhabiting another planet was still distant, it could now be envisioned. It did not take much imagination to come up with a long list of contentious issues. Judging by humans’ past record of exploration, it would be better not to leave anything to chance or rely on intuition and instinct. Even though Mars really was a terra nullius—thank goodness there was nobody living there to deprive of their land, kidnap and enslave, or infect with lethal microbes—there was still plenty of scope for conflict. Many members of the Ethics Council believed Mars could be a new beginning for the human race. A place where humans could finally make a clean break with history’s baggage, artificial divisions, prejudices, irrational fixed views, and all those toxic isms. All they needed to do was prepare the ground and remove any obstacles on the path.

Steve didn’t share their fervor. In his view, people would always find a pretext to quarrel; there would always be some form of them and us—with winners and losers; belief in any form of utopia was as naive as it was dangerous. The events of the last few days appeared to confirm his pessimistic assessment. That was why he didn’t turn up at the ethics meeting and instead was talking to Lucy Poplaski, off the record, in a room secured against listening devices, using an encrypted loop. The suspicions she shared matched his own, and the facts she had just revealed fit the scenario he had envisaged.

It looked as if the Russians might be planning to abandon the station earlier than the joint arrangements allowed. The Russians couldn’t afford to continue sending cosmonauts into space, and lagged so far behind the competition that they couldn’t catch up. But they weren’t in a position to swallow the humiliation of losing the Space Race by conceding a forfeit. It seemed clear that they had decided to manufacture a crisis, blame the Americans, then pull out of the joint project amidst an international outcry—moreover, they might be planning to do it in a way that would bring the station’s life to an abrupt end, writing off any chance of the ISS remaining in orbit.

But how had they done it? All the signs indicated they had used the solar flare and the concurrent pause in communications as a smoke screen. While the US crew sheltered in their own segment, rather than do the same, the Russians moved into action. Clearly that meant that both Lev and Anton had exposed themselves to harmful radiation. Steve was ready to believe it: the Russians were known for lacking any scruples about sacrificing their pawns. Besides, that way of thinking wasn’t altogether alien to Steve. But what exactly did their sabotage entail? What had they done to make the level of ammonia start rising without anyone being able to discover its source? The simplest approach would be to release the gas in their own segment, where NASA had limited access, and sooner or later the ammonia would disperse throughout the station. In that case, why had the Russians been ferreting around in the American segment? What did they use the screwdriver for? How did they dent the wall in Tranquility? What was happening with Lev? Steve didn’t have the answers to these questions yet, but he intended to get them.

“Thanks for being so vigilant, Lucy.”

“Not at all,” she answered. The screen on which her face loomed large was the only source of light; it bathed everything in the room in hues of cool blue.

“But I’m afraid what you’ve told me is no more than circumstantial evidence. It’s not enough for me to act on. You see, every conversation with the Russians has geopolitical implications. Every action meets with a reaction, either in orbit or on Earth.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding.

“Obviously, I’m referring to official dialogue and actions.”

Steve was watching Lucy closely; he was tracking every change in her expression and movement of her eyes. If she did what he wanted, she would be putting her career at risk, and nothing was more precious to an astronaut. Every one of them had sacrificed their life and family for their career. An astronaut was like Agamemnon, who had been ready to slit his own daughter’s throat for the sake of catching the wind in his sails and heading toward adventure. Naturally, times had changed and the sacrifice was less bloody (smiling children posed for photos and spouses waved from the stands), but the mechanism was similar—give up your lives and dreams for the sake of mine. Hence, Steve had to move carefully, exert pressure gradually, slowly; he was ready to step back at any moment to allow another attempt, from another angle, using other words. He knew Lucy, as he knew all the astronauts—their strong points and their weaknesses. In her case, they were one and the same—ambition. Her ambition had led her into orbit. Her ambition would now allow him to manipulate her. Who, if not you, Lucy? We’re counting on you. Go on! Show us what you can do.

“That leaves certain less formal ways of proceeding,” he added after a pause. “Just until we’ve gathered more information.”

“What ways?”

“Let’s start by thinking about what might shed the most light on the situation,” he answered. Let her say it. . . . Let it be her idea.

“Lev,” she said straightaway. “We need to find out what’s going on with him.”

“I think so too. How? From what you’ve told me, Anton gave a very clear signal that you should leave the subject alone. If you press the issue, the Russians will take it as an escalation, and we don’t want that. At least not yet.”

A pause. Lucy was considering it. He knew what conclusion she would reach. She was sharp and knew the procedures. It was obvious. The question was whether she was ready to do it, or whether she would take fright at her own ideas.

“Hmm . . . well . . .” she started hesitantly, then stopped, but soon gained confidence. “There is a way.”

Steve nodded; he was gratified. “I’m all ears,” he answered, even though he knew exactly what she was about to say.

Houston—August 13, 2021, 08:50 GMT –5

Blue eyes, a well-defined jaw, a natural, unforced smile. Anton was good-looking in an Eastern European way: his age showed, as did the cartons of cigarettes he had consumed. In Russia, it wasn’t fitting for a man, especially a military man, to use face cream or dental floss. Hair gel was just about acceptable and Anton used a little too much of it, possibly to compensate for these restrictions. In most of the photos that Nate found on the Internet, Anton was wearing either an air force or an astronaut’s uniform. There were very few personal photos, and the ones Nate managed to find were all posed shots accompanying interviews. Anton in a chunky reindeer sweater sitting at a desk assembling a model Yak-152 with his son (“Young Denis plans to follow in his father’s footsteps and is already testing his prowess on gliders at the local flying club,” read the caption). Anton and his wife (a blonde with a model’s figure and a stewardess’s smile) in colorful eighties-style ski suits on the slopes, the snow sparkling in the sunlight (“Ksenia adores trips to Sochi with her husband. ‘I have him all to myself here,’ she says. ‘The phones stay behind at the hotel.’”). Anton under the open hood of his mud-spattered car, bent over, sleeves rolled up, his arms smeared with grease, pliers tucked behind his worn leather belt (“‘I only go to the mechanic to get the paperwork stamped,’ says Anton. ‘I do all the repairs myself.’”). In the next photo in that series, he was looking straight into the camera lens with an ironic smirk, as if he were asking, What about you, pal? D’you know how to change a tire?

Nate rubbed his itchy, watering eyes. The previous evening, he’d been at his computer until two in the morning; that day, he returned to it immediately after dropping Eliza off at her friend’s house. He put off his chores until later: the laundry could wait, and he could order takeout for dinner. As for his job, he hadn’t worked outside the home for quite a few years. The birth of their daughter and the total incompatibility of an astronaut’s career with the demands of parenting had been a major factor—someone had to drive Eliza to school, doctor’s appointments, and other activities. Someone had to take care of her when she was sick, which—at least at the beginning—was most of the time. Of course, it wasn’t impossible to reconcile these demands with paid employment: they could have hired a nanny, or persuaded one of the grandmothers to move to Texas. Another factor had come into play: built-up frustration.

In 2006, just after finishing his PhD at Caltech, Nate joined a team working on a probe that was supposed to be sent to Titan. It was an obvious choice. Titan was the only moon in the entire solar system with an atmosphere worth its name. (Fifty percent denser than the Earth’s! More than enough to shield off cosmic radiation.) Its surface was covered by hydrocarbon lakes—the only reservoirs of unfrozen liquid ever observed beyond our planet. In fact, the surface conditions were similar to those on Earth when life first began. There were chemical signs that suggested the existence of simple methane-based organisms! So many things to research, so many questions—and answers that could completely change the way we looked at the universe. Driven by passion, Nate and his colleagues worked seventy, eighty—pfft!—even a hundred hours a week; they lived on canned soup and energy drinks; they slept on foam mattresses laid out under their desks; they only left the office to use the self-service laundromat and, even then, amidst the whirring of dozens of spinning drums, in a haze of soap suds, they would balance their laptops on their knees and carry on calculating, diagramming, and writing. A bunch of nerds in checked shirts and sandals, they were the real advance guard; they were the ones leading the human race into the unknown—not the astronauts who flew back and forth in shuttles like truck drivers, covering a pathetic few thousand kilometers; nor the teams preparing the umpteenth flight to Mars to turn over yet another stone, or photograph yet another crater.

Nate spent three years working on that first project, the Titan Saturn System Mission, and he remembered them as if they had been amalgamated into a single never-ending day: no seasons, no Christmas, no trips away—just strip lights, linoleum floors, and cold pizza.

In 2009, it was announced that the funding was being allocated to another proposal, and that the Titan mission would continue to be assessed. Indeed, it was still being assessed now, more than a decade later. The money ran out; the team dispersed, but some of them, including Nate, were transferred to a team working on a different Titan mission, the Titan Mare Explorer. It aimed to send a boat-cum-probe to travel on the icy lakes of methane. What could be more wonderful? What challenge could be more worthy of time, effort, and sacrifice? But in 2013—after a further four years, gallons and gallons of sweat, and tons of graphite smeared over acres of graph paper—their budget was slashed by a Senate committee. But . . . wait for it . . . there was more to come. . . .

Nate was invited to work on yet another project: a drone with a radioisotope power system that would circle around Titan and map its surface in detail. Also exciting, but this time Nate was more skeptical: his enthusiasm was damped by the human equivalent of material fatigue, concerns about his relationship with Lucy, and health issues arising from spending his youth hunched over a desk. And rightly so: the drone was only ever created on paper; NASA didn’t even grant them the funding to build a model. Instead, the dollars flowed into Mars probes—Yet more of them! Jesus Christ! How many did they fucking need?—and the crewed space flights program. In other words, partly to support Lucy’s career.

At that point Nate simply gave up; childcare made for a convenient excuse. He was fed up with doomed projects and disappointments. And he didn’t regret his decision. Dragonfly, another Titan probe that was still hanging on to existence, was supposed to be completed and sent beyond the Earth’s orbit in 2027, then reach its destination nine years later, in 2036 (according to the plans). This schedule assumed everything would go smoothly—that NASA wouldn’t change its agenda in the meantime; Washington wouldn’t take away the promised funding to finance far-off bombings instead; the rocket wouldn’t fail at launch like the Orbiting Carbon Observatory; contact between Earth and the probe wouldn’t be lost during the flight as with Shin’en and Deep Space 2; the probe wouldn’t disintegrate like the Mars Climate Orbiter, or crash on landing like Schiaparelli; and the apparatus for taking scientific measurements would survive the journey through the vacuum of space. Nate no longer had the strength for it. Bureaucratic paralysis in tandem with the vastness of space defeated him.

Nate became aware that his thoughts had wandered and his gaze was fixed on a point outside the window where the earth met the sky. Concentrate! he scolded himself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Stop whining! Be useful for once, and help her!

He jerked his mouse to wake the sleeping screen, and opened the file in which he was organizing information about Anton. His official résumé was brief. Nate had to reach into the murky depths of the Internet to vet Anton properly. He had combed through the second, third, and even fourth page of the search results. Nate’s broken Russian was coming in handy: armed with dictionaries and translation apps, he slowly decoded scraps of information, letter by letter.

Anton Kovalyov, born in Pskov in 1974, graduated from the Higher Military Aviation School in Syzran on the Volga River in 1995, entered service in the 764th Fighter Aviation Regiment of the Russian Federation’s air forces, served in the Second Chechen War, left the military in 2006, and started training to become a cosmonaut in 2008.

Interesting, thought Nate. The Internet was silent about what Anton had done between 2006 and 2008.

Houston—August 13, 2021, 09:40 GMT –5

Laughter, chattering, and shouting. “Hold hands, please. Be careful, children—it is a parking lot.” Steve didn’t bother looking out of the window, as he was used to these sounds—another school field trip. Kids visited from elementary schools, middle schools, and high schools regularly, along with the various young astronaut clubs, scout groups, and science competition prize winners. When Steve started working here, it had irritated him: the noise, the blocked hallways, and the waste of astronauts’ time signing autographs and posing for photographs. But he had been young then—young and foolish; he had thought only a step or two ahead at most, whereas it was necessary to look further ahead and think strategically, not just tactically. Children had to be won over because soon—surprisingly quickly—they would become adults. Adults weren’t inclined to gaze up at the stars; their minds were on interest rates, income taxes, and their loyalty card points at the local supermarket. Adults stopped dreaming about distant worlds and adventures in the Large Magellanic Cloud and instead aspired to a bigger house, a newer car, or possibly better sex. If people weren’t imbued with the wonder of the universe at an early age, if they didn’t have fond memories of playing astronauts in foil-covered cardboard helmets and of warm August nights spent lying with their parents on a rug in the yard looking out for a Perseid meteor shower, then, later in life, they would start asking awkward questions. What was it all for? What was the point? And why did it cost quite so much money? Space exploration was often compared to building a cathedral, which could take a century or two, or even three; it required a titanic effort whose benefits would only be reaped by future generations. The comparison was apt because both cathedrals and rockets originated in collective beliefs and myths—the only way of explaining their existence and justifying their expense. Steve, a militant atheist, eventually noticed that organized religions had many ideas that he could borrow. How to inspire people. Also, how to lie.

“I can’t hear you clearly,” said Robert Schiff over the phone.

“Sorry, field trip. Hold on, I’ll move into another room.” Steve shut the door behind him. “Is that better?”

“Yes, much better. Thanks. Can you repeat what you just said?”

“Of course. I’d like to change the schedule. Specifically, I’d like the operational systems update to be brought forward from twenty-three twenty to sixteen fourteen Spacecraft Event Time.”

“That’s . . . hmm . . .” Robert hesitated. They were on friendly terms, but he was, after all, talking to his line manager. “That’s not the best idea. At least, not from a technical point of view. The update is scheduled to allow time for any problems to be resolved while the crew are sleeping.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“So, why do it?”

“For reasons connected to our previous conversation,” said Steve evasively, just in case anybody else was listening in. You never knew. Better safe than sorry.

Robert didn’t reply straightaway. He weighed his words, and made mental calculations. “I understand,” he said after a while, “but I still need some kind of justification. Something on paper.”

“I’m afraid I can’t supply anything like that. I don’t want to leave a paper trail. At least, not yet.”

“Steve . . .”

“I realize I’m asking a lot, but the stakes are high.” He paused to give his next words their proper weight. They had to be given sufficient space. “The future of the station is on the line.”

Flight was silent. But Steve wasn’t worried; he didn’t hold his breath. Robert would have killed for the station. Yes, for the station—not for the people who just happened to be living there and would depart in a matter of months. He loved the spacecraft itself—that ugly duckling bristling with sensors and robotic arms. He loved it with a passion that only another engineer could understand.

“I could have a chat with Kelly.” Robert sighed. “She’ll be CRONUS today. There’s always the odd error in the computer readouts, so we could use those as a pretext for bringing the update forward.”

“Talk to her, but off the record, not on the official channel. OK?”

“OK, understood.”

“And expect problems with the update.”

“Sure. Why?”

Steve thought, Because earlier I had another off-the-record chat. With the head of the programming department, who really—desperately—wants a promotion.

Aloud, he said, “That’s irrelevant. Just take my word for it.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Steve did. He also knew that if something went wrong, he could still act surprised. What’s that? Really? Surely not? I assure you, Congressman, that we will treat the matter with the utmost seriousness. Any court would find him innocent. Naturally, they could remove him at any time, but Steve had been there a long time, and the next administration was bound to put its own people at the helm. The risk was acceptable.

“Robert, how long have we been working together? Seven years?”

“Eight.”

“Eight—that’s right. That’s quite a long time, isn’t it? Definitely enough to form an opinion about a work colleague.” He transferred the cell phone into his other hand. The device had heated up so much that it was almost scalding his fingers. Steve had called half the organization that morning. “So, let’s stop beating around the bush. Just tell me whether I can count on you or not.”

“You can,” replied Robert, although his tone was less decisive than Steve would have liked.

“Excellent. In that case, go ahead. I have to run.”

“Goodbye.”

Steve hung up and dialed another number: Helen Chen at the Public Affairs Office. Many of NASA’s employees saw the staff at the PAO as a necessary evil, and treated them like pesky leeches. They didn’t reply to the PAO’s emails or answer calls; they reacted to every request with a deep sigh as if to say, Here I am forging humanity’s future, and you want me to spend time recording video clips for social media. Steve didn’t share this attitude; he understood that Helen and her colleagues were as important to NASA’s success as rocket design engineers. Indeed, they were probably more important.

One ring, two, three. Steve walked over to the window. The school group had disappeared into the entrails of the building. The driver was sheltering from the sun in the shadow of the bus, smoking a cigarette; his tie was flapping in the wind.

“Hello?” said a voice.

“Hi, Helen. How are you doing?”

“Fine, thanks. And you?”

“Great, great. Listen, I’m calling you about that panel discussion with . . .” He scratched his head. “Who was it? The Washington Post?”

“The Wall Street Journal.”

“Ah, yes. That’s right. Well, I was wondering whether, rather than a single astronaut, you’d prefer to have three?”

“Well!” Helen was briefly lost for words. “If that were possible, it would be fantastic. . . . It’s just that earlier the Astronaut Office told me they couldn’t send anybody because they’re all in training that day.”

“We’ve changed the schedule,” responded Steve, somewhat ahead of things. “How much time would you like?”

“Two hours would be superb.”

“Let’s make it three.”

“Three?!” Helen couldn’t believe it. “Wow! OK, I owe you a favor.”

Steve grinned. The immutable laws of human interaction: give and take; you scratch my back . . .

“There is one thing, since I already have you on the line.” He walked over to his desk, flicked through some papers lying there, and picked one up. “I see that NASA TV has a live broadcast from the station scheduled for this morning. Would it be possible to change that to, I don’t know, say, a documentary?”

“A documentary?” Helen skillfully masked her surprise. “Yes, sure. What sort?”

“Any,” responded Steve, “provided it’s long.”

ISS—August 13, 2021, 16:00 GMT

Lucy was levitating in the Cupola—their crow’s nest and window on the world. This smallish module, hemispherical in shape, was constructed like a stained-glass window: seven panes of armored glass set in a metal framework. The Cupola reminded most astronauts of the TIE Fighters from the Star Wars universe, with their characteristic convex cabins modeled on old bathyscaphes, whereas Lucy felt as if she were inside an insect’s segmented eye. That association conveyed the place of humans in the universe more aptly—their size, knowledge, and agency: not in the pilot’s seat. Just an ant with its eyes fixed on the stars.

They were flying over Siberia; it was night there, but the sky was lit up by the aurora borealis: billowing bands of light in shades of yellow, white, and green, peppered with fine spikes like an immense ghostly chart. Lucy lifted the camera to her eye, and took a photograph. It was her turn for the most desirable shift on the station—documentation. Half an hour of solitude recording breathtaking views of space. Most of the modules didn’t have any windows, and those that did only had small portholes. The walls, all within an arm’s length and covered in cables like overgrown ivy, framed your field of vision. In the Cupola, you had some relief from that sensation: you could rest your eyes not just on a distant horizon, but on infinity. Despite that, Lucy didn’t like to take shifts in this module; she usually swapped them for other tasks unless she had to operate the Canadarm2 robotic arm—there was never any shortage of people wanting to trade. When crew members asked her why, Lucy would say that she didn’t like taking pictures. The truth was that the place—every handrail, every window—aroused pangs of guilt in her. Bad memories.

However, this time she didn’t try to wriggle out of her shift. She was worried that someone might notice how stressed she was, start asking questions, and then later, when it was all over, they would recall it. Also, she could be alone here, the task she was carrying out was simple, and any mistakes wouldn’t have serious consequences—a rarity on the station. A badly framed photograph had yet to kill anyone! Click. Click. She snapped panoramas of the Earth enveloped in the northern lights; a solar wind was tugging at the Earth’s thin cloak. Lucy felt too rushed to take pleasure in it—she didn’t admire the images she was capturing for posterity in the preview screen; instead, she kept checking the time and the station’s position. Sixteen eleven—longitude 145 degrees east. Sixteen twelve—longitude 150 degrees east.

Lucy had butterflies in her stomach; she could no longer concentrate on photography. She let go of the camera and it drifted lazily away, its bulging fisheye lens reflecting the aurora. If multiverse theory is correct, then at precisely this moment reality divided into two branches. In one, Lucy acted in accordance with the rule book, her schedule of activities, and common sense. In the other—she took a huge risk. That, in itself, wasn’t a problem. Lucy loved taking risks: riding a motorcycle at high speed, paragliding, scaling mountain peaks. But those risks didn’t involve ethical issues. She had faced the risk of injuring herself, or even dying, but not the risk that she would be on the wrong side of history and would lay waste to the efforts of thousands of people by destroying something priceless. Sixteen thirteen—longitude 155 degrees east.

Lucy closed her eyes and gripped the handrail more tightly in her sweaty palm. One movement, and she would be gliding through the hatch. All it required was an electrical signal running from her brain to her shoulder, a quick contraction of her muscles, a fraction of a second—no more than that. She hesitated or, more accurately, she put off the inevitable. Because it is also possible that parallel universes do not exist, and there is only one universe in which everything is predetermined, from the Big Bang to the Big Crunch, including the births of galaxies, the explosions of supernovas, and the course of Lucy Madeleine Poplaski’s life. Lucy was accountable. Lucy was the best. Lucy was ambitious. The deputy director for crewed space flights was counting on her. He had asked Lucy to do it—her personally, and not anyone else. How could she refuse?

Sixteen fourteen—longitude 160 degrees east.

Lucy pulled herself along using the handrail, and reached Tranquility. She glanced into Unity, the neighboring module, and then, taught by experience, she opened the bathroom door. Empty. All quiet, apart from the thrum of the air conditioning, the hum of blood at her temples, and her own uneven breathing. She unlocked the screen on the tablet Velcroed to the wall. SYSTEM UPDATE IN PROGRESS. PACKET 23 OF 342,110. It had begun. Lucy opened the app for communication with Mission Control, and called CAPCOM—once, twice, three times. No reply. Just a warning message with a red exclamation point: CONNECTIVITY PROBLEMS DETECTED! She waited a moment, and then tried again. No change. So Steve had kept his side of the bargain.

Lucy glanced at her watch again. Sixteen nineteen—longitude 175 degrees west. They were flying over the Chukchi Peninsula, the northeasternmost part of Russia’s landmass, and passing Roscosmos’s last transmitters and receivers. Once the station was beyond their reach, approximately from the 160th meridian west until the 10th meridian east, Moscow made use of American communication links. These used relay satellites, in addition to antennae, enabling constant contact to be maintained with the station regardless of its position in relation to the globe . . . except when connectivity issues just happened to crop up during a system update.

Sixteen twenty-two. They were flying over Alaska. Lucy pressed the button and activated the fire alarm.

Houston—August 13, 2021, 11:20 GMT –5

“CRONUS, Flight—current status?”

“Communication still down.”

Steve was listening intently through his headphones. He heaved a sigh of relief, but continued to click his ballpoint pen—in, out, in, out. This was just the beginning—the first step onto the other side of the Rubicon. Keeping to that analogy, the real battles were still ahead of him. And at the end . . . who could know? Perhaps the Ides of March.

“When will they resume?”

“No information yet.”

“Report back as soon as you hear,” said Robert. “SPARTAN, ADCO, ETHOS—the latest data before the communications went down?”

“Flight, SPARTAN—all normal.”

“Flight, ADCO—same here.”

“Flight, ETHOS,” responded the last controller, “all values nominal apart from the ammonia. Its level was one point eight nine parts per million.”

“CAPCOM, Flight—the last known locations of the astronauts?”

“Flight, CAPCOM—in line with the daily plan.”

“Thanks. Keep me posted about any irregularities,” said Robert slowly and calmly. However, a hint of anxiety could be heard in his almost monotone voice. He’s a good actor, thought Steve. Sounds as if he really doesn’t know what’s happening and is taken aback. Or perhaps he isn’t acting: perhaps he really is afraid. Afraid that something bad might happen on the station and the Mission Control team would only find out after the event—Robert would never forgive himself as long as he lived. Or less dramatically, but still tragically, that somebody would see through this sham performance and the promising career of Robert Schiff would come to an abrupt end—in an international furor. It could happen. In that room, behind that desk, every decision had consequences.

“OSO—put the recovery teams on standby,” continued Robert—he needed to carry on talking, conducting the orchestra of controllers. “And help PAO prepare a press release. RIO—telephone Moscow and let them know what’s happening.”

“Flight, RIO,” replied Kevin, “I’m already speaking to them on another line. They’re furious.”

“Flight, CRONUS—” Steve adjusted his headphones. This was the message he was waiting to hear—a great deal depended on it. “I have confirmation from the programming section: communications will resume in one hour and eleven minutes. Telemetric data will resume on the S band first, then on the Q band a few minutes later.”

“Thanks, CRONUS,” answered Robert. Then it went quiet.

Steve peered through the two-way mirror separating him from the flight control room. One person was scratching his head, another person was pulling off her headset, and the screens displaying the station’s current status had gone dark. No data. No data. No data. The controllers were now blind, deaf, powerless, and inactive. It was a strange feeling for staff who kept a finger on the pulse day and night and understood the workings of the station better than the astronauts inhabiting it. But that’s how it would be in the future if they managed to go beyond the Earth and the Moon. The umbilical cord of radio contact could not be stretched out infinitely: the communication delay with Mars was six-and-a-half minutes, so thirteen minutes both ways. You couldn’t hold a conversation like that; you definitely couldn’t issue a string of commands.

Steve took a seat in the corner of the room, silenced his cell phone, and closed his eyes. He had to rest and gather his strength. He had some time. One hour and eleven minutes to be precise.

After that, the heat would be on.

ISS—August 13, 2021, 16:34 GMT

The thrum of the air conditioning was drowned out by the alarm. A high-pitched, rhythmic, piercing screech that made your flesh crawl and your teeth chatter. Lucy slipped into Unity; Lafayette and Devaki were already there. Even though a fire on board the station would be a lethal hazard—the filters wouldn’t be able to cope with the smoke, damage to the structure of any of the modules could lead to sudden decompression, and evacuation of the station would be hellishly risky—they seemed calm. The smoke sensors were extremely sensitive, so false alarms occurred regularly. It was routine. However, Ezra, who joined them a moment later, seemed to be treating the situation very seriously: his body was as taut as a plucked string; his eyes darted around searching for the hazard.

“Have any of you spotted anything?” he asked.

“No.”

“Smoke? Has anyone smelled smoke?”

“Not me,” said Lafayette, shaking his head.

“Me neither,” said Devaki.

“Lucy?”

“No.” She was already moving, all eye contact broken off. “Action!”

She didn’t need to say anything else: they had rehearsed the fire alarm procedures many times, together and separately, on Earth and in orbit; they knew every single branch of the decision tree by heart. Can you see or smell the source of the fire? If not, pick up your Personal Breathing Apparatus and go to Zvezda in the Russian segment. If something went seriously, really seriously, wrong, they would get into their capsules—the Soyuz and the Dragon—and abandon the station. In that scenario, they wouldn’t be returning to Earth at an optimal point, following a trajectory calculated and triple-checked by flight controllers, or arriving at a safe spot where a recovery team was waiting for them with a thermos of tea and warm blankets. No—they would plummet into the Earth’s atmosphere like a cannonball fired at random, jammed into their contoured seats by a force of eight or even ten g; they might land in the middle of a desert or a stormy sea, or crash into a mountain, or smash into a city like a meteorite. Nobody wanted that to happen.

Lev and Anton were waiting for them next to the main computer, in accordance with procedures. Except that they were both wearing masks, which wasn’t in line with procedures at all. The reserves of bottled oxygen were limited, so the masks shouldn’t have been used until the presence of fire or atmospheric contaminants had been confirmed. Curious, thought Lucy.

“The source?” asked Ezra.

“No data,” replied Anton.

Lucy wasn’t listening to them; she was looking at Lev. His jumpsuit was clean, spotless, and had no signs of wear. His face was barely visible behind his steamed-up mask, but you could tell his hair was dirty and matted. His hands were grasping the handrail so tightly that his knuckles were white. Why was Anton hiding Lev? Why did Anton not want her talking to him? Perhaps he really had been carrying out an experiment in Nauka? An experiment that produced ammonia?

“Where was the alarm activated?” persisted Ezra. “Was it manual or automated activation?”

“No data.”

“What do you mean—no data?”

“I mean that your people decided to update the system in the middle of the day!” Anton retorted.

“Was anything happening on your side?” asked Lucy.

“Our side is functioning flawlessly,” replied the Russian with heavy emphasis on the word our.

“Good to hear, because the last time there was a genuine alarm, your oxygen generators were smoking,” interjected Lafayette with a smile. “Perhaps it would be worth checking them? Just in case?”

“Any warning messages about shorting?” asked Ezra. “Broken circuits?”

“No data. Oh look! I do have the most recent report about the concentration of ammonia, though. Shall I read it to you?”

“Lev, did you see anything?” asked Lucy.

“I have already told you that everything is working on our side,” said Anton.

“I’m asking Lev.”

Silence. Lev shook his head. Nobody spoke for a short time.

“Lev?” asked Lafayette. “Is everything OK? Khorosho?”

“Enough! You can chat later,” said Ezra, calling them to order. “The station might be on fire!”

“It’s obviously a false alarm,” said Lafayette, rolling his eyes.

“Obvious, my ass,” barked Ezra. “Something might be smoldering behind the panels.”

“Hey there, calm down!” intervened Lucy. The screech of the alarm, the rumble of the fans, raised voices—it was all too much. Her mouth was bone-dry; she had a splitting headache. Perhaps there had been another hike in the carbon dioxide level. “Ezra is right: we need to check. Anton, you stay at the computer; the sensors will pick up something eventually. Lev and I will check the Russian segment, and Devaki, Ezra, and Lafayette the American segment.”

“With all due respect, you are not familiar with our modules,” protested Anton.

“But I’m in charge here,” she replied. “So get to work.”

She waited to see if he would object, threaten her with Moscow again, but no—he just nodded and turned to face the screen. The American crew members disappeared through the hatch leading to Unity, leaving Lucy on her own with the Russians. Lev was still clutching the handrail. His breathing seemed labored and irregular. Perhaps it was the mask.

“Come on,” she beckoned to him. “Let’s start with Nauka.”

Lev nodded and followed her. They entered the neighboring module and Lucy scanned the room. The fire alarm had given her an excuse to move around the Russian segment without any restrictions and, just as importantly, unannounced—Anton and Lev hadn’t had any time to prepare, or conceal evidence, if there was any. First, Lucy checked the air conditioning vents. It would have been the simplest way for the Russians to release ammonia—but no: she drew a blank. She glanced in Lev’s direction. He was behind her, combing the module with a handheld smoke detector.

“Can you see anything?” she asked. Just to get him to speak, so she could hear his voice.

“No,” he answered. He spoke quietly in strongly accented English, his voice distorted by the mask. “The internal atmosphere is within norms.”

And you? Lucy wanted to ask. Are you within norms? What are you hiding from me? But she couldn’t. She had to be careful; the temperature was bound to shoot up when it became apparent that the alarm had been activated manually in the American segment for no good reason. Every question she asked, her every word could later be used against them, add to geopolitical tensions, and even be used as a pretext to start a war. She was treading on thin ice.

Lucy looked over toward the laboratory cabinets. Steve had sent her a list of simple chemical reactions that generated ammonia, including photos of the lab apparatus configurations required to carry them out. Her eyes scoured the cabinets for them; she sniffed to try and detect an acrid, nostril-stinging odor. Zilch. There were only wilted lettuces and dead snails behind the cabinet doors.

“Life in orbit didn’t serve the snails well, did it?” she said.

“No, it did not.”

“What happened?”

Lev turned toward her. His mask kept steaming up as he exhaled.

“I did not have time to look after them,” he answered.

“Why?”

They were both hovering in the air, suspended and tense.

“Better not to ask,” replied Lev.

“Excuse me?”

“Please. It will be safer that way.”

“Safer for who?”

Lev didn’t reply. He slipped his foot under a bar and used this point of contact to turn himself toward the hatch.

“All good here.” Lev pushed off toward the exit.

“Hey! Wait . . .”

Too late: he was gone. Lucy scanned Nauka one last time. A bulkhead covered in photographs, pictures, and newspaper cuttings caught her attention. A lopsided picture of an astronaut on the Moon drawn by a child. An Orthodox saint with a severe expression, a wizard’s beard, and a golden halo. A map with the Russian Federation shaded in red spilling out into Crimea.

They returned to Zvezda. The processor rumbled; the diodes flashed. There was Lucy, Lev . . . and not another soul. No one controlling the computer.

“Anton?” shouted Lucy. “Anton!”

No reply. Just the hum of the air conditioning. Cold sweat ran down her back; the hairs on her arms stood on end. She looked through the hatch leading to Zarya: no one there either. Two movements and she was squeezing through Zarya’s narrow corridor toward the hatch connecting it to Rassvet, where she found Anton.

“You were supposed to be at the computer,” said Lucy, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“We still weren’t getting any readings, so I decided—”

“It was an order.”

Anton narrowed his eyes and twisted his lips into a duplicitous smile. “I adapted to the situation.”

“Is that how it works in the Russian military?” she asked. “Everyone does whatever they choose?”

“We are not in the army here.”

“Luckily for you, otherwise you’d be facing a court-martial for insubordination.”

“What’s going on?” Ezra’s silhouette filled the hatch. A vein running through his temple was pulsating visibly, and his jaw muscles were working. He was agitated.

“We are just finishing up, big guy. All in order,” answered Anton with a smile that was as broad as it was insincere. “How about your end?”

“We didn’t find anything.”

“Excellent! So the alarm is over.”

“I’m the one who calls off the alarm,” said Lucy. “I want to take stock first. With the whole crew.”

“That is not a good idea,” retorted Anton. “We will overload the ventilation system and set off another alarm.”

“Thanks for the advice. We’re meeting in Zvezda.”

The whole crew gathered in a few cubic meters of space. They had to tuck in their legs and press their upper arms to their sides so that they could all fit. Devaki, Lafayette, Ezra. Tired, sweaty faces. Problems were piling up: the solar flare, the ammonia, a break in communications, and now this. The atmosphere was fraught; discipline was crumbling. This expedition is far from a success, thought Lucy. Let’s hope it’s not the last expedition ever.

Lucy looked over at the Russians. They were still wearing their oxygen masks.

“Take the masks off.”

“So you have called off the alarm after all?”

“Anton, I want to talk to you both.”

Anton said nothing for quite a while, but eventually, he pulled off his mask. Only then did Lev follow suit.

His face was bruised, and he had a black eye.

6

December 10, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: Would you like to comment on the accusations made against your cosmonauts?

RYBKIN: They are lies.

LAMAR: The witnesses’ statements corroborate each other.

RYBKIN: The witnesses are conforming to your expectations.

LAMAR: In that case, what do you suppose happened? What exactly took place on the ISS during Expedition 75?

RYBKIN: Your astronauts lost their tempers.

ISS—August 13, 2021, 17:10 GMT

It was hot and humid in Zvezda and it stank of sweaty laundry; the pipes rumbled. Outside a small, round porthole, the Earth slid by enveloped in a milky layer of cumulus clouds. Supposedly they had left the Earth behind, but that was an illusion: the planet still drew the station in, slowly, patiently, centimeter by centimeter, as if winding a kite in on a reel. The Earth dragged the spacecraft toward the point where it would scrape its belly on the atmosphere and sparks would start to fly from blisteringly hot metal. From time to time, the astronauts had to switch on the engines located in this Russian module to counteract the Earth’s force and avoid a fiery end. Even if those engines roared into action at full throttle and the astronauts broke free of the Earth’s gravitational field, floating away into the blackness, still they would not escape from the Earth: they could not cut themselves free of its cultures, languages, and politics. Or its conflicts.

“Lev, what happened to you?” said Devaki, her voice quavering.

Lev turned his head away from them to hide the bruises. “I hit myself,” he replied. Very quietly.

“You hit yourself in the face?” she said.

“Yes, he hit himself in the face. It happens. Bad luck,” said Anton.

“How? Did he step on a rake?” asked Lafayette.

“We’re talking to Lev,” said Lucy. Firmly.

“Oh yes, there will be plenty to talk about today,” retorted Anton, “as soon as the communication links are back up. One wonders what happened, no?”

“Lev, tell me exactly what happened,” said Lucy.

A tiny pause: half a second, maybe less. Enough for the Russians to exchange glances. Anton gave a slight nod.

“I was moving a heavy box,” said Lev slowly and hesitantly. “I pushed too hard against the handrails, could not brake . . . and hit the wall.”

Theoretically possible, thought Lucy. It was easy to forget that only the weight of an object changed in a microgravity environment, not its mass, and that an accelerating object could strike you forcefully or crush you. However, it was Lev’s fifth trip to space; he had spent more than a thousand days in orbit—he was an old hand. Most likely, he was lying. But there was no point in confronting them, Lucy decided. At least not here, not now, and not in front of witnesses—that would only aggravate the situation. They had the best part of three months to go in this crew configuration, assuming they didn’t have to evacuate the station for one reason or another. She would play along.

So Lucy asked, “When did it happen?”

“A few days ago.”

“Why didn’t anybody inform me?”

“Because it is not serious,” said Anton. “He is a man. He will get better.”

“I’m responsible for the health and safety of this crew—the whole crew.”

“Fabulous! Everybody is healthy. Top form!”

“Show me your face,” said Ezra to Lev. His tone left no room for doubt: it was a demand, not a request. But Lev ignored him and looked away. Ezra let go of the handgrip and hooked his feet under the bar on the floor. He tensed his muscles. This is looking dicey, thought Lucy.

“I said show me your face.”

“Whoa! You can’t go—” said Anton, cut short by Ezra springing into action: he lunged forward, clamped his hands onto Lev’s chin, and forced his head round. Lev tried to resist but in vain: Ezra was stronger. Way stronger.

“Mudak!”—Asshole! snarled Anton.

Before Lucy could do anything, Anton was on the spot, shoving Ezra aside. They flew off in opposite directions—zero friction, action–reaction, opposite vectors—and struck the walls. One slammed into a laptop—crunch! Its keys shot into the air like popping corn kernels; the other crashed into a fire extinguisher. Both of them bounced and knocked into others, and the commotion spread in a cascade like the break in a game of billiards.

“Stop it!” shouted Lucy. She banged her elbow; pain radiated throughout her body. “Stop, right now!”

“What do you think you are doing?” shouted Anton.

“You’re lying,” panted Ezra.

“What?”

“He has scratches on his face. Friction marks. At the top, bottom, crossways. No way did a wall do that.”

“Listen, Ezra,” said Lafayette softly. “That’s not a sufficient reason to—”

“You know shit,” said Ezra through gritted teeth. Then he turned back to Lev, “Tell us what happened, right now.”

“Or else?” snarled Anton. “You shoot?”

“Do you really want to find out?”

“Shut up!” screamed Lucy. “Shut up, both of you.”

It worked. Just as well: What could Lucy have replied if Anton had said Or else? What threats could she have made? What would the consequences have been, considering where they were—racing around the Earth in a steel can that, slowly but surely, was filling with a toxic gas?

Everybody was watching her. Anton’s look was insolent; Devaki had terror in her eyes. Ezra seethed. Lucy considered what to say. The cat was already out of the bag, so should she put pressure on the Russians and ask what the hell they were up to? But no, she felt she wouldn’t gain anything that way, and the situation might well spiral out of control. The air was already thick with testosterone.

“The fire alert is over,” she said. “Disperse.”

“What?” growled Ezra. His forehead was covered in sweat; his eyes were bloodshot. “You’re not going to leave it at that, are you?”

“No. We’ll come back to it later.”

“When?”

“When everyone’s calmed down,” replied Lucy.

“I want to have my say in that discussion,” said Ezra. Again, it was a demand.

“Noted.”

They eyed each other. Lucy didn’t cower or blink, even though Ezra was a head taller than her and nearly twice as heavy. Even though if he wanted to, he could crush her as easily as he could squash a plastic cup.

“Yes, Captain,” he answered eventually, his reluctance resonating in every syllable.

“Excellent. Return to your duties.”

Before Lucy finished speaking, Ezra was in the hatch leading to the American segment and Lev disappeared into Nauka. Devaki and Lafayette shared a What the hell is going on here? look and then left. Lucy was now on her own with Anton, who was examining the laptop he had struck to see if it was salvageable.

“When are we going to discuss this?” he asked.

“Shortly.”

“I am asking because the system has just restarted,” said Anton, tapping a keyboard, “and it shows that the fire alarm was activated manually. Do you know anything about that?”

“No,” she lied. “Perhaps there was some kind of short circuit.”

“Oh, some fuses blew for sure.”

“See you later, Anton,” she answered. Lucy felt the need to get out of Zvezda. Immediately.

She squeezed through the narrow connector to Unity, her shaking body making movement difficult. Run! screamed the adrenaline in her body. But there was nowhere to run to. Hide! But how? Fight! With whom? How? With what? Lucy felt like a forgotten kettle left standing on a white-hot burner—she was exploding from within, and felt as if her skull was about to burst and splatter her brains all over the station.

She looked at her watch. Seventeen forty. She had to write up a report and share it with Houston, then try and catch up with her other tasks. Her timetable was angry red, indicating delays, dollars lost, and experiments failed. Crisis or no crisis, Lucy had to demonstrate her calm and resolve, focus on the task at hand, and please her bosses down on Earth. Despite that, Lucy returned to her sleep station, to all two meters by fifty centimeters of it, and carefully closed the doors behind her. Then she buried her face in her sleeping bag, pressing so tightly she could barely breathe, and started to scream.

Houston—August 13, 2021, 20:12 GMT –5

Nate scanned some Russian-language space exploration forums on the Internet: astronomy.ru, astrogalaxy.ru, and forum.novosti-kosmonavtiki.ru. He found dozens of posts mentioning Anton, but none of them contained any information about what he did between 2006 and 2008. Nate scratched his head. Perhaps I’m barking up the wrong tree looking at these forums, he thought. Am I entrenched in my habits because I learned to use the Web two decades ago? Have I the intuition of a digital fogy—someone who remembers images loading pixel by pixel while the modem bleeped?

Nate changed tack and checked out social media and messaging apps: the obvious ones like Facebook, Twitter, and Odnoklassniki, but also Discord, Telegram, and TikTok. All of them jealously guarded their content from search engines; all demanded a toll—email address, personal data, and time—in exchange for access. Nate already had some of the apps, but had to install others; he clicked through never-ending terms and conditions, registered his details, logged in, then scrolled and scoured to the best of his abilities. Without any interesting results—so far.

He swore silently. Anton. Nate was sure that Anton was the source of the problems on the station: he had heard Lucy’s tone of voice change and seen her face harden every time she mentioned Anton. Nate wasn’t sure what he expected to achieve with his amateur sleuthing, or how the gap in the Russian’s résumé related to the in-orbit crisis, but it was the least he could do. And it occupied his mind. That was necessary; otherwise, it would return to generating the blackest of black scenarios. There was no shortage of triggers: NASA had just admitted to an unplanned break in communications with the crew. First the solar flare, then the inexplicable ammonia problem, and now this. As the saying goes, it never rains, but it pours. . . . For Expedition 75, the downpour was torrential.

“Dad, what are you doing?” asked Eliza. Nate tore his eyes away from his phone. They were sitting on the couch in front of the TV, and Eliza was watching a cartoon about a mischievous sheep. A yellow bowl, half-full of popcorn, sat on the coffee table.

“Nothing much,” he answered, stuffing his phone into his pocket hastily and clumsily as if she had caught him red-handed. Not far from the truth—he should be giving Eliza his full attention, engaging with her, and maintaining a semblance of normality. A solo performance for a one-child audience.

“Were you writing to Mom?”

“No, not just now.” He tried to sound breezy, and smiled. Nate was doing what he could to stop his daughter sensing that something was wrong—to prevent her from being infected with his fear. “What about you? Do you want to write to Mom?”

Eliza reached for the popcorn without taking her eyes off the TV. A kernel fell out of her hand and onto the couch.

“No,” she replied, “I don’t.”

“Careful! You’re making a mess.”

“OK. Sorry.”

“Mom would like it if you wrote,” he added.

“But I don’t want to.”

“OK, but you will remember what we talked about, won’t you? That it’s good to think about other people’s needs.” Nate rummaged between the couch cushions and retrieved some popcorn fragments. “Mom misses you a lot.”

“Can I watch another episode?”

“We agreed two.”

“But it would satisfy my needs, Dad.”

Smart aleck, he thought. He turned to face her, and tapped her lightly between her ribs with his finger. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Dad, stop it!” Instead of laughing, Eliza put on her annoyed face. “I will write, but not today.”

“So tomorrow?”

“Hmm . . . can I watch another episode?”

He knew he ought to say No, sweetheart, that’s enough for today, or No, you need to stick to what we agreed, or perhaps Are you saying you expect a reward for writing to Mom? Think about it. Is that the right motivation? But he decided to give her a break. Nate was well aware of the root cause of these moods. Being an astronaut’s daughter wasn’t easy. Lucy was far away and cast a long shadow, like a monument on a high pedestal.

“Alright. But afterwards you’ll go and get ready for bed immediately, OK?” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Without any stops?”

“OK, OK.”

They both fell silent. An ambulance blared past the window. On the screen, the sheep was chasing chickens. Nate tried to concentrate on the animal’s adventures, but he just couldn’t.

“I’m going to get a drink,” he said eventually. “Do you want one?”

“No thanks.”

He went into the kitchen, checked whether Eliza was looking his way, and then pulled the phone out of his pocket while opening the fridge with his other hand; he reached for a can of sickly-sweet iced tea. He wasn’t thirsty, but getting it let him pretend he hadn’t deceived his daughter and absconded with his phone. He scrolled through feeds and threads in an unfocused way; he had stopped believing he would find anything useful. What next? His first instinct, his reflex, was to give up. I can’t, he told himself, not this time.

He opened the folder where he had saved photos of Anton. He read in an investigative journalist’s book that you could learn a lot from photos that, on the surface, seemed innocent. Why not? he thought. It won’t hurt to try.

Nate set to work analyzing the photo with the car: he zoomed in, and examined it section by section. Perhaps something of interest was lying on the passenger seat? Perhaps he could decipher the license plate number? Perhaps he could, at the very least, find a sticker with the name of a university on the rear bumper? No. Nothing.

The sound of the familiar end-of-episode jingle reached him from the living room. Nate leaned through the kitchen doorway, keeping the phone in his hand out of sight.

“Eliza, time to get ready for bed,” he called. “Go on. Right now.”

“Can I watch another?”

“What do you think?” he asked, a little impatient now.

“They’re very short.”

“No way! Make sure you brush your teeth properly. Popcorn can get stuck in between your teeth. OK?”

A dramatic sigh followed, then demonstrative stomping, but Eliza obeyed and switched off the TV. She ought to put her bowl in the dishwasher too, thought Nate, but that’ll do. I’ll let her off this time. He looked back to his phone and selected the next photo of Anton—the one with his son and the model plane. In the background, there was a bookcase. Nate rotated the screen by ninety degrees, and started to read the titles on the book spines. Might they reveal something of interest? Nikitin, Latynina, and Bulychev. Lots of science fiction. And the classics: Turgenev, Tolstoy, and Chekhov. Naturally . . . not only was Anton good-looking, but he was well-read too.

Nate froze. Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t fit. He noticed it subliminally, without any conscious thought at all. Ah, yes. That was it. He couldn’t hear running water.

“Eliza?” he called. “What are you doing?”

“Coloring.”

“What should you be doing?”

Another sigh, steps, and a door creaking. Nate turned back to the photo. Books, more books, nothing of interest. Or was there . . . ? A large coffee-table book stuck out beyond the edge of the shelf, and dangling from it was a decorative ribbon. It was like the ribbons used for hanging medals and orders. The material was embroidered with fancy letters in gold thread, but the folds in the material and the decorative swirls in the letters made them almost impossible to decipher. Almost.

Nate detached a magnetic pad of sticky notes used for shopping lists from the refrigerator; he started jotting down the letters. “Ve—li—chi—e,” he mumbled under his breath, “Ro—d—ts—.” No, ts didn’t make any sense here; it was more likely to be an i. The Russian letters ц and и did look similar. . . . A moment later he had the whole phrase written down: Velichie Rodiny—v vashikh slavnykh delakh. What exactly did it mean? Something to do with deeds and greatness, but what did Rodiny mean? Nate couldn’t remember. He typed the whole phrase into the search engine. The first result gave a translation: The greatness of our Motherland lies in your glorious deeds. The second hit allowed him to deduce what Anton Kovalyov had done after he left the armed forces.

“Oh, shit!” whispered Nate.

ISS—August 14, 2021, 02:30 GMT

It was o-two thirty ISS time. The station was deeply asleep—the LED lighting dimmed, the ventilation fans running more slowly—and most of the crew were already locked inside their cubicles. But not Lucy. She was in that damned Cupola again, waiting for someone.

They were flying over the side of the Earth that was in darkness, above Europe. City lights glowed like flowing lava amidst the indigo of the night. Higher up—you could equally well say “lower down” or “further along,” as in space these adverbs lost their meaning—among the gleaming stars you could spot the odd rhythmically blinking, roving dot: artificial satellites. There were satellites for research, meteorology, telecommunications, reconnaissance, and navigation, thousands of them, some smaller than a human hand and others the size of a bus. Only one of them, other than the ISS, carried humans. One of the glowworms out there was Tiangong, or the Sky Palace, a Chinese space station. Its first module had been launched into orbit earlier that year, and further modules were on their way. The ISS and Tiangong didn’t communicate at all, not even about hazards. Washington and Beijing’s cold war in space was becoming hotter and hotter. China was the only state whose application to join the circle of countries collaborating on the ISS project had been rejected. The Americans trusted the Chinese even less than they trusted the Russians, and moreover, they were afraid of the Chinese. In space, as in other spheres, China was catching up with the West by dint of dogged persistence, painstaking labor, and—a crucial factor—an extensive program of industrial espionage. Officially, Tiangong was a research station; unofficially, it was a bridgehead in the Space Race. The Moon, Mars, asteroids formed of priceless raw materials—all of these suddenly seemed within reach. The race was, of course, governed by rules: multilateral agreements were signed and assurances of peaceful intent exchanged. Naturally, none of the parties trusted any of the others. First come, first served. The clock starts now!

Lucy tucked her knees under her chin and folded her arms tightly around her legs; her hair billowed in a ring around her face like a halo. She was thinking, resting, and gathering her strength. It was dawning on her that, in her case, being in charge of the station wasn’t just a token honor, a prestigious distinction, and a new patch on her uniform. The fate of the whole station might hang on what she said, to whom, and when. She felt the weight of it, and was determined to do her best.

“Are you admiring the view?” Anton appeared in the entrance to the Cupola.

“No,” she said, moving aside to make space for him.

“No?”

“I’m not in the mood.”

Anton glided through the module, and caught hold of the handrail on the other side. It was dark; some faint light in hues of blue entered through the windows. Lucy could only see Anton’s silhouette outlined against the Earth. He looked around, and then sighed.

“It has been a long time since I was last here. Fond memories . . .”

“Stop it.”

“You don’t even know what I wanted to say,” he replied, as if he were hurt.

“Just stop it.”

Silence. Anton shrugged.

“Did anyone see you coming?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “except perhaps your friends at Mission Control.”

“They switch off the cameras at night.”

“Sure”—Anton rapped his knuckles on the wall—“that is what they tell you.”

“Right. Have you been investigating the workings of the surveillance system recently?”

“Recently?” Anton cocked his head. “No, recently I have been more preoccupied by the cooling system. Do you still not know where the leak is?”

“Do you?”

“I would like to know.” He flashed her a broad smile.

Frigging gibes, she thought, frigging smirking. Fuck you, you bastard.

“You can probably guess why I invited you to this meeting,” she said.

“I have my suspicions, yes.”

You’re not alone there, she thought.

“What happened to Lev?” she asked.

Anton didn’t answer. Outside the windows, the Earth was moving and it was already growing light beyond the curve of the horizon. Now, Lucy needed to play good cop.

“Anton”—she leaned toward him—“you saw what happened, and how high emotions are running. If we don’t start cooperating, if we don’t rebuild trust, it will only get worse. That’s why the two of us are meeting here alone.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Stop it, for fuck’s sake!”

“I punched Lev in the face.”

Lucy was taken aback. She cleared her throat. “Thanks for telling me,” she said. “What for?”

“He disobeyed an order.”

“Uh-huh. I thought you two were equal in rank?”

“Officially.”

The Cupola was flooded with the harsh light of dawn, and Lucy was squinting. “So what was this order?”

“Wait. Slow down.” Anton turned away from the window. “What about me? When do I get to ask my questions? I have many, you know.”

“When I’ve finished.”

“Oh, how typical!” He laughed. “Let’s trust each other—cooperation. Why don’t you throw in human rights and freedom of the press too? Then we will have the whole range of American hypocrisy.”

“Let’s leave politics out of it.”

“Impossible.”

“It is possible. There are only six of us on board,” she said. “Six—that’s all.”

“You do not believe that.”

He was right: she didn’t. “OK, then”—she crossed her arms—“what do you want to know?”

“What are you discussing with Ayers?”

“How do you know we’re discussing anything?”

“Now, now, pal.” He wagged his finger at her as if she were a child. It irritated her. Just as he had intended. “It is my turn now. Show some goodwill, yes?”

“We talked about the situation with the ammonia.”

“And what does Deputy Director Ayers think?”

Should she say? Or not? She wondered how many cards she would have to reveal to get what she wanted. “That it plays to your hand,” she said eventually.

“So it does.” He nodded. “That is not a sin, surely?”

“No—assuming the leak’s accidental.”

Anton nodded. The thinly veiled accusation did not seem to shock him.

“What do you two assume?” he asked.

“What was the order?”

He chortled. Again. She felt like strangling him, but didn’t move a muscle. After a pause, Anton said, “You are persistent; I have to give you that.”

“Will you tell me?”

“No”—he shook his head—“I will not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am not a fool. Oh, look!” He tapped the windowpane with his finger. “We are flying over Russia—a beautiful country.”

“Uh-huh. Very. Such a tourist mecca.”

“You laugh. Russia is beautiful, but ruined. See that river there? That is the Ob.”

“What were you doing during the solar flare?”

Anton didn’t say anything; he was still facing the windows with his back to her. “You spoke of building trust,” he said, “but this is more like an interrogation, no?”

“Because your crew has a guilty secret.”

“And yours does not?”

“What were you doing during the solar flare?” asked Lucy more insistently.

“Minding our own business,” he answered. “Groundbreaking scientific experiments and such.” Then he looked at his watch in an ostentatious manner. “Time to go now. Lots to do tomorrow. I need to plant a fresh batch of lettuces.”

“Anton!”

“Unfortunately, we have no snails left. Perhaps you have some spare snails in stock? Would you hand over a few as part of your humanitarian aid program? You do so like making noble gestures like that.”

“Anton, this is going to end badly,” said Lucy.

“Of course it is.” Anton had already pushed off toward the exit. “Only idiots believe in happy endings,” he added as a parting shot, and disappeared into the next module.

Lucy stayed in the Cupola on her own. Her head was buzzing. An order. What order? She ought to talk to Lev; perhaps she would manage to squeeze more out of him. But when? How? It looked as if the older Russian was under house arrest, and couldn’t go anywhere without Anton’s permission. There was no way Lucy could enter the Russian segment and talk to Lev without anybody else noticing. Perhaps somebody at Mission Control had the clout to arrange it? No, she thought, until the problem with the ammonia is cleared up, the bosses will want to play it safe. The last thing they need now is to give the Russians another excuse to disconnect their segment. Too many thoughts, too many unknowns. She was exhausted, utterly exhausted.

Lucy made her way carefully through Tranquility and Unity to avoid catching on or knocking into anything. She glided noiselessly. Once she reached Harmony, she stopped for a moment. She watched. She listened. Four sleep stations all in a ring—all the doors closed, no light seeping out from any of them, no sounds emerging. Great, she thought, they’re asleep. She had to be wary until Steve decided it was time for her to share her suspicions; they didn’t want to alarm the rest of the crew. Lucy slipped into her cubicle—slowly, slowly, to avoid any unintentional creak or knock that might expose her night-time excursion—then started to undress.

Click. The sound of a magnetic lock being released. A door opening on one of the other sleep stations. From the inside? Or the outside? Had someone else been absent from their sleeping quarters during lights-out? Lucy disentangled her legs from her pants, reached for the doors, and nudged them ajar. Across, up, down. All was calm and quiet; all the cubicle doors were shut. Whoever it was had already slipped inside their cubicle.

Perhaps Ezra had wanted a glass of water before going to sleep. Perhaps Devaki had felt ill again. Perhaps Lafayette had gone to get fresh clothing because he couldn’t stand the stench of his sweat-soaked pajamas any longer.

Or perhaps there was another reason.

Houston—August 13, 2021, 22:51 GMT –5

Nate was pacing up and down the kitchen: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Should I call? Or not? First of all, it’s pretty late, and . . . He realized, of course, how absurd the accusation would sound, and how flimsy his basis for it would appear. One photograph, one phrase. But doing nothing? Kicking himself for the rest of his life? That would be worse. He pulled out his phone and displayed the list of connections. Recent calls, fourth from the top: Jeff Pictou, the astronaut family support officer. No, he thought, this is pointless; it will only lead to trouble. Then he recalled Lucy’s face. Her expression. Her voice. I don’t trust him anymore. They did something on the station. . . . Nate swore under his breath. He tapped the green phone icon. Ring. Ring. Ring. C’mon, pick up. What’s the time? Not even eleven in the evening yet. Surely he’s not asleep already? Though, I suppose—

“Hello?” said a sleepy male voice.

“Hi, Jeff. It’s Nate. I’m sorry I’m calling so late, but—”

“Everything’s OK.”

“Excuse me?”

“The communication links are back up.” A stifled yawn. “Nothing bad happened.”

“Pardon? I know, I know. That’s not what I’m calling about—” Nate stopped mid-sentence. Because he had just understood that Jeff—the friendly man who always smiled, exceptionally easygoing Jeff, your bestie, the man with a grin so broad he could’ve advertised toothpaste—considered Nate a troublesome panic merchant who needed to be patted on the back, cheered up, and sent to bed with some little white lies, just like a child. Everything was alright, everything would end well, and it really was the same hamster as before, only the vet had moved the colored patch to another part of its body. Nate felt a surge of anger—and shame. He realized that it hadn’t come out of the blue—he had earned this reputation.

“In that case, how can I help you?” asked Jeff.

He won’t believe me, thought Nate, no chance. But he launched in anyway. “It’s about the Russians. Specifically, about Anton.”

“Hmm.” A short but loaded utterance. What is it this time? What crisis have you dreamed up now?

“I . . .” Nate closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. “I think there’s something in Anton’s past that Roscosmos is concealing.”

“I see. What exactly?”

“He has connections with the GRU.”

“The GRU?”

“The Main Intelligence Directorate, something like our—”

“I know what the GRU is,” said Jeff, then made a sound as if he wanted to say something but then reconsidered and started afresh. “And . . . sorry, can you tell me how you established this fact?”

“Well, established might be overstating it”—Nate was speaking faster and faster; he just wanted to spit it out and be done with it—“but in one of his photographs—I’ll send it to you—there’s a ribbon with their motto: The greatness of our Motherland lies in your glorious deeds.”

“A ribbon?” said Jeff to make sure. With emphasis.

“Yes. From an order, I suppose.”

“Uh-huh. Listen, uh . . .” Jeff cleared his throat. “I realize this is a difficult time for you—”

“Hang on, that’s not all,” said Nate. He felt like a student trying to convince his teacher that on this occasion his homework really had been eaten by a dog. “There’s a gap in Anton’s résumé. Two years that are a total blank.”

“—and I completely understand that, I really do,” continued Jeff in a placatory tone, as if Nate hadn’t spoken. “My wife had a similar crisis when—”

“Damn it, I’m serious,” said Nate, interrupting again.

Neither spoke for a moment. Then Nate heard crackling on the line, as if Jeff were transferring his phone from one hand to the other, and back again.

“Nate, can I give you some friendly advice?” asked Jeff. “Totally off the record?”

“Of course.”

“Leave Anton alone.”

Nate was dumbfounded. Had Jeff really said that? Leave him alone? “Excuse me?” was all Nate could muster.

“Let this thing go. Nothing good will come of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just trust me. It’s for your own good,” replied Jeff. Solicitously. Was he being genuine? Or putting it on?

Nate jerked upright as if someone had pricked him. Was Jeff placating him again? To stop him from making a fuss? To stop him from bothering Jeff? Or was it a veiled threat? If you pursue this, you’ll regret it! Nate walked over toward the front door, where a mirror hung on the wall. He looked at himself: mangled slippers, gray sweatpants, faded T-shirt, and flushed cheeks. Nate turned around.

“No,” he declared. Firmly. Not his usual style.

“Excuse me?”

“This should be reported.”

“I understand you’re worried about Lucy, but—”

“Stop talking to me as if I were gaga,” said Nate. A sigh was the only reply. “If you’re not prepared to report it, I will.”

“OK,” replied Jeff. “Your call. Can I help you with anything else?”

“No. Don’t worry. I won’t be bothering you again.”

“Hang on! Wait a minute—”

Nate ended the call and put the phone in his pocket. He paced around the room in a circle and tried to calm his breathing. He went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet—the hinges squeaked—and picked up the bottle of alprazolam. The pills rattled temptingly. Maybe just one, he thought. But then he remembered an article he read a few years ago about a woman who took sleeping pills and later didn’t hear her child calling when she fell down the stairs during the night. The article, on page six of the newspaper, was a hundred or maybe a hundred and fifty words long—just a story like any other, column fodder. Most people would have forgotten it by the next day, but not Nate. He remembered everything: the color of the paper, the font, and the black-and-white photograph of the house where the accident occurred. A bungalow in the suburbs, a car tire swing hanging from a tree by the garage, and a crooked mailbox by the drive. Nate was always forgetting his passwords and PINs, the birthdays and addresses of his friends, but this type of story was recognized by his brain as particularly important: it screamed SAVE, was archived methodically, and then was called to mind at the slightest pretext.

He put the bottle of pills away (onto the top shelf so that Eliza couldn’t reach it if she rummaged through the medicine cabinet, despite frequently repeated warnings not to), and then he went out onto the veranda. He needed some fresh air. Despite the late hour, it was still hot. It was always hot in Houston, but at least there was a breeze. The leaves rustled. The cicadas buzzed. Rain was coming.

Nate pulled out his phone, wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, then started writing an email. He addressed it to the deputy director for crewed space flights, Steve Ayers.

Houston—August 14, 2021, 09:00 GMT –5

If someone were to design a custom-made hell for Steve Ayers—say one of his ex-wives, or one of the many employees he had driven to nervous breakdowns—it wouldn’t contain cauldrons of boiling tar, medieval instruments of torture, or devils armed with pitchforks. No, a hell tailor-made to fill Steve Ayers with dread wouldn’t require such flamboyant stage scenery. A few dozen folding chairs—preferably with uneven legs so that they wobbled every time a person moved—a long table covered by a dark cloth, a few jugs of water, and a good number of cameras and microphones would suffice. That sight would make Steve go pale, fall to his knees, and then, with tears streaming down his face, beg hell’s management to commute his sentence to a lighter punishment—like the breaking wheel, Spanish boots, or impalement on a stake.

Journalists—Steve Ayers loathed them. Of course he understood they were necessary; Steve cooperated with the Public Affairs Office to persuade journalists to focus on space exploration, to supply them with striking photographs, and to give them behind-the-scenes access. But, whenever possible, he avoided direct contact with the media. In his view, nothing good could come of it for a bureaucrat like himself who liked to act quietly, without fanfare, and preferably without any witnesses. Steve had no wish to tell the world any more than what was included in the press releases. He thought the sole purpose of any further questions was to provoke him into saying something he never intended to say, and uttering words that could later be manipulated—or blown up—into something completely different. He accepted and, in his own way, respected this: every journalist wanted to make their mark, wring out something extra, sniff out an inconvenient truth that had been assiduously covered up with carefully considered wording—and sink their teeth into it. Steve, along with the rest of NASA’s employees, used reserved, scientific language, peppered with noncommittal qualifiers: it is possible that; we cannot exclude the possibility; in all probability. In contrast, journalists always looked for extremes and used superlative adjectives; everything had to be the first or the last, the biggest or the smallest.

What was worse, every topic had to have a so-called human angle. Have you succeeded in placing a probe on a comet racing through the universe millions of kilometers away from the Earth? OK, that’s quite interesting, but not nearly as interesting as the—wow!—huge bushy moustache of the flight controller who’s just about visible in the background. The poor soul would get five minutes of fame while he stood dumbfounded amidst the flashing cameras like a deer caught in headlights, totally at a loss as to what was going on, without understanding that he should run away as fast as his legs could carry him. Although it was fun initially—with the hashtag #AstronautStache going viral on social media, requests for interviews flooding in, and aunties from Utah and Idaho calling to say, “I saw you on TV!”—the experience usually ended badly. Eventually, someone would dig up a tweet from several years earlier that had aged badly, or a photograph showing Mr. Stache wearing a T-shirt with a jokey caption that, when taken out of context, was no longer funny. And then, instead of writing about the goddamn probe, which had consumed the best years of the lives of hundreds of ridiculously intelligent people, which cost tens of millions of dollars to fly, and brought humanity one teeny, weeny step closer to understanding the universe, journalists scribbled about whatever an ex-girlfriend from high school had to say about the guy with the huge moustache.

Hence, Steve Ayers avoided journalists like the plague. But, unfortunately, sometimes he had to face them. Today was one of those days when he was forced to sit behind a microphone and reply to idiotic, unnecessary, or trick questions (there was no other kind of question, according to Steve), fully aware that if, miraculously, everything went well, the world would forget the whole event within minutes of the press conference ending; yet, if he let slip even one ill-considered word, or allowed himself a scowl, or adopted an aggressive tone, even briefly, it would cost him dearly. In short, there was nothing to gain, but a lot to lose.

That was only one aspect of the whole painful performance. Steve’s words had to simultaneously soothe the public, reassure Washington, and warn Moscow. He felt like an actor—not a professional, but an amateur forced to take the stage—who had been ordered to make half of the audience chuckle while moving the other half to tears. In a word: hell.

“Next question, please,” said Helen Chen, from the Public Affairs Office, into her microphone.

“Roger Douglas, Associated Press,” said a gray-haired reporter in an elegant navy jacket. “Is it true that the concentration of ammonia on the International Space Station has now exceeded two parts per million?”

Classic, thought Steve. That piece of information was in the press release: either the gray-haired anchorman hadn’t bothered reading it, or he had posed the question solely to get his stirring question and concerned expression on camera on the evening news. Perhaps that was why he was dolled up—trying to look striking and make an impression. And that irritating formulation: Is it true that . . . , implying that NASA was trying to hide something. As if that dandy had just discovered a scandal comparable to Watergate. Steve would have concealed information with immense pleasure if he could’ve. But he couldn’t: he had to play an open hand.

“Yes, it is true,” he answered, clearly articulating every syllable. “The last reading was two point one, which is above our accepted norm. To clarify, ammonia is only perceptible at concentrations above fifty parts per million, and that is the maximum permitted in workplaces by OSHA. Ammonia is not hazardous to humans unless it exceeds the threshold of eighty parts per million. Let me repeat: the astronauts are not in any danger.”

“In that case, why has the limit for the ISS been set so low?” asked the fearless, indomitable, gray-haired truth seeker.

“Because we do not have any scientific evidence regarding the consequences of long-term exposure to low levels of ammonia,” replied Steve. “We prefer to play it safe because the astronauts’ safety is our top priority.”

“So, in fact, we don’t know whether two parts per million is hazardous? Have I understood correctly?”

No, you haven’t, you nitwit, thought Steve. Hardly. You didn’t even try. But he had to refrain from cutting replies and sour facial expressions.

“No,” he replied in a calm voice. “There is no danger over durations of a week or a month. However, we do not yet know the effects on the human body of exposure to that concentration over a period of six months or a year. That is why we must act now.”

“What actions have you taken?” asked the journalist, ignoring his colleagues’ raised hands.

“We have activated additional filters. We continue to investigate the source of the leak. In the coming days, our astronauts will undertake an EVA—a space walk—to check whether the cooling system apparatus on the outside of the ISS has been damaged, for example, as the result of a collision with a micrometeorite.”

“How dangerous would such a collision be?”

“Next question, please,” said Helen, rescuing Steve from the barrage. “Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to a woman in the front row.

Steve reached for a glass of water, but then decided against it. I might spill it, knock the glass over, or slurp, he thought. I won’t give them the satisfaction. So he pulled his hand back slowly to prevent the cameraman, who was as alert to motion as a bird of prey, from capturing this awkward moment.

“Maggie Kohl, CNN,” said a woman in a scarlet jacket. “The signals reaching us from Moscow seem to indicate that the Russian side isn’t satisfied with these assurances. Roscosmos has asked for an emergency meeting of the Multilateral Coordination Board. Do you know what demands the Russian side will present at the MCB?”

No, we don’t, thought Steve. Rybkin wasn’t picking up his calls. Once he found out that the fire alarm had been activated manually in the American segment of the station without any visible signs of fire, Rybkin put two and two together and understood that Ayers was saying: I’m checking up on you. Rybkin was highly displeased—that much was clear.

“We’re pleased that our Russian partners treat the issue of crew safety so seriously,” began Steve, then added in his head, It’s a shame they didn’t show such sensitivity when the submariners on board the Kursk were gasping for air on the ocean floor. “We assure our partners that we are treating the matter with the utmost seriousness and will do everything possible to resolve the situation. Once more, I would like to make it clear that no one is in any danger.”

“Next question,” said Helen before the CNN journalist could open her mouth.

“Jennifer Suskind, Air and Space magazine,” cut in a journalist in a black turtleneck, before anybody had given her the floor. Jennifer could get away with it, as she was well-known in the field and commanded respect. Unlike her colleagues in the room, Jennifer Suskind really knew her stuff when it came to space; she had a special interest in crewed space flights and, unfortunately, she had sources inside NASA. Steve sat up straight in his chair and intertwined his fingers. He knew Jennifer; they had met before. In his version of hell, she would be the interrogator.

“Leaked information indicates that Russia intends to present formal notification of its intention to decouple its segment of the ISS ahead of schedule. In an internal document, the words”—Jennifer glanced at her notes—“‘antiquated, dangerous, and unacceptable’ were used to refer to the cooling system in the American segment. Has NASA received any indications of this? If true, how will this affect the operation of the ISS in the immediate future? What about the impact on the prospect of crewed space flights to the Moon within the Artemis program?”

Steve decided he would, after all, have that drink of water and buy himself a few moments to gather his thoughts. The question was a particularly difficult one to answer. The Russians were playing hardball, but it was probably a bluff aimed at their home audience. At last, they had an opportunity to criticize the Americans for a technical failure—it would be a shame not to seize it, and prolong the crisis. Nevertheless, there was a possibility—a small chance, but not negligible—that their threats were not empty, and it would not stop at glowering expressions and table thumping. What’s more, the Russians probably engineered this crisis. The information Lucy had conveyed seemed to point to that.

Although it was not by any means proven that the ammonia leak was the Americans’ fault, Steve was ready to accept a slap on the wrist and act humble. He might even send a heart-shaped box of Hershey’s chocolates to Roscosmos and a card that played a sentimental melody and had PLEASE ACCEPT MY APOLOGIES plastered across it in glittering letters. Steve was aware that the increasing asymmetry in the Russo-American relationship was making the whole arrangement unstable and felt he should let the Russians finally score some points; let Rybkin acquire a few medals and sit in the front row at one of their military parades wearing one of those ludicrous military hats the size of a frying pan. But if the Russians took a single step further and threatened either NASA’s future in low Earth orbit or, equally important—if truth be told, more important—Steve’s legacy, he would be prepared to do anything in his power—absolutely anything—to stop them.

Helen caught his eye. She shook her head very slightly; the gesture was barely visible. This was a signal for him to push back the question and say “no comment.” Steve pretended not to notice. Since Rybkin wasn’t picking up his calls, Steve had to reach him via the media.

“No, we haven’t had any indications of that,” replied Steve. “We’re eager to meet our Russian partners and hope the meeting will be fruitful. We will do our utmost to make sure that it is. We sincerely hope that our partnership will continue, as that would benefit both us and, all the more so, Moscow. But, if the Russians decide they wish to terminate their participation in this program, we will take note of their position. However”—Steve paused and scanned the room, hunting for the camera lenses (I’d like a close-up now, framed with the US flag in the background, he thought)—“in that case, we will insist that the strict conditions we establish are met. I will not allow a situation to arise whereby Roscosmos’s withdrawal negatively impacts the continued operation of our segment of the International Space Station.”

“But the ISS is dependent on Russian oxygen generators,” said Jennifer. “The engines that adjust the flight path are also in their segment. The ISS was designed without considering the possibility that a segment might be decoupled.”

I know, thought Steve. More’s the pity.

Instead he said, “We’re working on a solution.” And it was true: immediately after the press conference he had a meeting with representatives of SpaceX. Apparently, they already had some ideas.

“I understand,” said Jennifer, nodding. “But will you be ready in time? If push comes to shove?”

“I’m afraid that’s all we have time for,” cut in Helen.

“It’s my job to make sure we’re ready,” replied Steve with a chilling smile.

“Thanks to all of you for joining us,” said Helen. “Additional material will be available on the NASA Technical Reports Server. Take care.”

Steve thanked her with a nod, and stood up—slowly and cautiously. He wasn’t safe yet. He had to take care not to tip his chair over, or trip on a cable, or scatter his papers; the cameras might still be on him, and an apparently innocent incident like that was enough to end a career. Only once he was out of the building could he relax. There, Steve pulled out his phone, which was silenced for the press conference, and checked what messages had come in: the flight director’s end-of-shift report, an email from Jenny asking when he wished to fly to Washington and whether she should book the Conrad or the Grand Hyatt this time. . . . Steve scrolled further, looking for urgent messages. He stopped at an email from Kevin Wallgreen. News from Russia.

From: Kevin Wallgreen <kevin.wallgreen@nasa.gov>

To: Me <steve.ayers@nasa.gov>

Subject: URGENT

Hi Steve,

I’ve just spoken to some friends in Moscow—off the record. Yesterday, Rybkin went to an ad hoc meeting at the Kremlin; a representative of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs also attended. On his return, Rybkin summoned Pushakov to his office. Immediately afterward, Pushakov took a plane to Baikonur. On his own. I don’t know what it all means, but it’s probably bad news.

Kevin Wallgreen

Russian Interface Officer

Steve didn’t know either, but he had his suspicions. The Kremlin only took an interest in space when there were political implications. If Rybkin was summoned to Moscow for a meeting, it certainly wasn’t to discuss the explosion of a supernova in the Orion Nebula or an object recently discovered in the Kuiper Belt—not a chance, with diplomats in the room as well. As for Yevgeniy Pushakov, he was responsible for all crewed space flights departing from Baikonur, but the next Soyuz wasn’t due to depart for another three months, so what business could he have there that was so urgent? His presence could also relate to a returning Soyuz. Before each flight back to Earth, a recovery team, which would pick up the astronauts from wherever they landed, had to be assembled, and Pushakov liked to supervise these preparations in person. But, surely, the Soyuz crew still had half a year to go in orbit? Unless the Russians’ plans had changed.

Steve swore and wiped his sweaty brow. He could see two possibilities. The Russians might really be planning to use the ammonia as a pretext to disconnect their modules and evacuate the crew—thereby sentencing the whole station to death—or this information leak was deliberate, and the friend had contacted Kevin through unofficial channels at the request of his superiors. If that was it, it was only a bluff: Look, we’re not joking; we really can pull the plug and end it all with a bang, so be prepared to make major concessions when the time comes for us to finally sit round a table. Concessions like signing a contract for a further five years of Soyuz flights—aka attaching an intravenous dollar drip.

I need to meet up with Kevin, Steve thought, to ask him exactly what he was told, how, and when. Then, during the forthcoming trip to Washington, I’ll call in at the White House—the situation is escalating beyond my level of authority.

Steve hastily scrolled through his remaining messages to make sure no other time bomb had landed in his inbox. An email from an unrecognized sender caught his attention; an alert, highlighted in yellow, informed him that it had been sent from an external server. Such warnings were necessary as, from time to time, hackers from Russia, China, or Iran would send NASA employees messages stuffed with malware on the off chance someone might click the link and unwittingly open a door . . . then the hackers would be able to get into the servers and copy, delete, and destroy. The sender’s last name seemed familiar. . . . Oh yes, Steve remembered now. It was Lucy’s husband. He was tempted to delete the message without reading it. After all, he had better things to do than babysit crew members’ spouses. NASA had people allocated to that role. But the subject line of the email persuaded him to change his mind.

From: Nathaniel J. Hunt <nate.j.hunt@protonmail.com>

To: Me <steve.ayers@nasa.gov>

Subject: Anton Kovalyov

Dear Sir,

Please forgive me for writing to you directly. I realize you’re an extremely busy person, but in my opinion the facts I wish to convey are sufficiently important to justify my attempt to contact you.

I have reason to believe your Russian partners are concealing significant information about Anton Kovalyov, a cosmonaut currently aboard the ISS. Material I have gathered shows that Kovalyov had links with the GRU, yet this fact has never been made public. Recent events on the ISS lead me to believe that Kovalyov’s past may be of particular relevance.

I have attached the aforesaid materials to this email.

Nathaniel J. Hunt

The GRU—interesting, thought Steve. Or rather, extremely interesting. He hesitated for a moment, then opened the attached document. He read its contents, took a deep breath, then deleted the email—without replying. Not because Nate’s suspicions (based on an amateur armchair detective’s work) were unjustified. No, quite the opposite: what Hunt suggested seemed plausible, so the matter had to be treated seriously; hence, Steve had to prepare for the worst and cover his tracks. Steve wanted the option, theoretically at least, of denying he had ever received such a communication and that it could ever have caused him to choose one course of action over another. The plan now formulating in his head was extremely risky, and could result in Steve being questioned in the public eye.

Steve dialed his secretary’s number, then held the phone to his ear.

“Jenny?”

“Yes, Mr. Ayers? How can I help?”

“The flight to Washington.” Steve pressed the button to summon the elevator but then, getting impatient, decided on the stairs after all. Time was short.

“Should I reschedule?”

“No,” he replied, “cancel it.”

ISS—August 14, 2021, 16:12 GMT

Lucy opened the door to the Quest airlock. Inside, two EMU spacesuits hung opposite each other like suits of armor adorning a medieval chamber. Just like armor, these Extravehicular Mobility Units were huge and ungainly—a reminder of how hard it was for a human to survive in space, and how many safeguards were necessary to withstand bombardment by cosmic particles and extreme fluctuations in temperature. An EMU was a cocoon to protect the soft, delicate human body, but it was also a trap. Were something to go wrong during a sortie, there would be no way of getting out of the suit—no escape. The most dangerous incident to occur during a space walk so far was caused by a leak from the water tubes in an astronaut’s suit. The fluid started to collect in the astronaut’s helmet, slowly at first, drop by drop, then faster and faster. Before long, the water, which in a microgravity environment sloshes around freely this way and that, started to fill the astronaut’s nose, mouth, and eyes. He began to choke, could barely see, and was forced to rush back to the airlock—with his eyes closed—to undress. On the way back, had his hand slipped, had he fastened the carabiner on his safety cable inadequately, had he tripped . . . he would have joined a multitude of space junk and satellites circling the Earth.

“How do you want to go about this?” Lafayette’s question startled Lucy out of her reverie. He squeezed past her and slipped his feet under a rail to anchor himself.

“You configure the computers,” she replied. “I’ll check the suits and the tools.”

“I’m on it, Captain.”

Until just recently, Lucy had been looking forward to her imminent space walk. It would be her first time outside the station amidst the stars with the Earth moving beneath her feet. But now that the time to go was approaching, she felt tense and stressed. Partly because the goals for the EVA had changed entirely—instead of repairing the solar panels on array wing S6, she was to inspect the cooling apparatus to check for damage and any signs of an ammonia leak. Not a big deal, but space walks were so difficult and demanding that the smallest deviation from the previously rehearsed plan increased the risk dramatically. Plus, the term walk was misleading, as it sounded like something pleasant and calm—an unhurried stroll. More appropriate words might be space marathon or cosmic mountaineering, but even these didn’t convey the scale of the challenge.

The spacesuits were bulky and uncomfortable; it was hard to bend over and impossible to turn your head. The worst part was the gloves, which, despite years and years of trials and millions of dollars spent, still chafed your fingers till they bled.

Once outside the station, it was incredibly easy to become disoriented and get lost. The sun rose and set, first blinding you, then shrouding everything in impenetrable darkness. The human eye was not accustomed to the speed at which shadows slid along the station’s surfaces, activating atavistic defense reflexes: Beware! There’s something here! It’s creeping up behind you and might pounce at any moment! Add a misted visor and beads of sweat dancing around your face, and it was a struggle at times to maintain enough sense of direction to know where you came from and where you were headed.

In a microgravity environment, physical tasks turned into onerous drudgery. The screws and nuts would flutter away from your fingers; it was an effort to tighten bolts and push them into place. The astronauts spent months practicing on a life-sized mock-up of the station that was submerged in a vast pool at the Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory in Houston. Under water, in conditions resembling those in orbit—neutral buoyancy wasn’t a bad approximation to weightlessness—the astronauts repeated the same tasks in the same places, time after time, until they knew the relevant sectors of the station like the backs of their hands and were able to move around them with their eyes closed. This time, Houston decided that Lucy should venture into the unknown. That would have been manageable—after all, Lucy was drawn to the unknown; its siren song had lured her into orbit—if it were not for the issue of trust. To feel safe on the far side of the airlock, Lucy needed to know she could rely on the rest of the crew in every respect. She couldn’t.

“OK, ready,” said Lafayette, tapping the touchscreen. “I’ll check the oxygen masks.”

“Uh-huh. Thanks.”

Lucy opened a box attached to the wall. She smiled, but it was a wistful smile rather than a happy one. The tools inside the box reminded her of the garage next to her family home and of her father, Mike—Michał in Polish—who had arrived in the United States in 1982 from a village near Kraków after the Communists declared martial law in Poland and things turned from bad to worse.

Mike never mastered English and Lucy never learned to speak Polish fluently, so they lacked a common language and, more importantly, came from different worlds. Lucy wasn’t familiar with the country her father had left behind: she didn’t long for the taste of borscht or rye bread; her heart didn’t beat any faster at the sound of the Polish national anthem, or upon seeing images of weeping willows growing along the borders of country lanes. The echoing calls of the bison horn in Mickiewicz’s epic poem held no resonance for her. In turn, Mike didn’t understand Lucy’s day-to-day experiences and dilemmas. He didn’t know the rules of baseball or American football; he didn’t know how to make s’mores and couldn’t help with her homework.

Growing up, Lucy was embarrassed by him: his strong accent, his unfashionable moustache, and the awful Polish songs he played at full blast while he was mowing the grass. When Mike was away and her schoolfriends were coming over, Lucy would hide the tacky portrait of Pope John Paul II and the plaster bust of Marshal Piłsudski displayed on top of the TV. In turn, Mike resented the holes in her jeans, the piercing in her nose, and the T-shirts that displayed her midriff; he disapproved of her long-haired boyfriends and her tattooed girlfriends. He saw himself as the head of the family, whose place it was to tell her where, how, and with whom she should live her life. And in return, Lucy told him where to stick his advice: Whatever, Dad.

The only place where they got along, and managed to tune in to a shared frequency, was the garage. At first, Mike would shoo Lucy out, saying, “Łucja, go and help your mother in the kitchen.” But once he realized that his daughter had a flair for fixing and tinkering, he let her into his male domain. For a long time, Lucy knew the names of tools only in Polish. She didn’t understand the words; she just memorized the alien, exotic sounds bristling with consonants that twisted your tongue and grated against your palate: Pass me the sh-ch-ip-tze (pliers) and a few gvoh-zh-dzhee-kee (small nails). Great, now the poh-zho-mee-tza (spirit level). They spent whole weekends together building a toolshed or renovating a rust-ridden car that Mike had bought for a few hundred dollars (and, after they had fixed it up, sold for several times that amount). In the garage, and only there—covered in grease, sweaty and busy—Lucy felt loved.

Her mother, who never felt at ease in her new life outside Poland, weighed their family home down with her unhappy silence and deep sighs. Even though she didn’t work outside the home, she had no time for Lucy: she didn’t express delight at Lucy’s scribbles and scrawls; she didn’t listen to the stories Lucy brought back from the playground. Only A-pluses on school tests and gold medals in sports competitions made any impression on her. Only then would she smile and hug Lucy.

“The masks are in working order,” reported Lafayette, calling Lucy back from her thoughts.

“Good. Now test the communications caps and then the pressure in the SAFER units,” she replied.

“OK.” Lafayette floated over to the other side of the airlock. “Lucy?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you spoken to the Russians yet?”

She was glad she had her back turned to him so he couldn’t see her lips go thin and her jaw tighten. She forced herself to relax the muscles in her face and spun to face Lafayette. He was looking at her expectantly. “About?” she asked.

“About what happened yesterday. About Lev.”

Why is he asking me about that? thought Lucy. Pure curiosity? Or is he anxious? She wondered whether it was because he heard her coming back from her secret rendezvous with Anton the previous day. Maybe it was his way of challenging her leadership and her decisions. Maybe the broad smiles and dutiful nods had been a ruse all along. Still, Lucy was tempted to tell Lafayette everything—to share both her suspicions and the burden placed on her shoulders. But she knew that if she did, the spiral of mutual accusations would intensify, and Anton would shun the American crew altogether. Besides, Ayers’s instructions were clear. Everything was to be kept between the two of them. They would deal with the matter off the record, discreetly, without involving the higher-ups, or provoking Moscow, until they had hard evidence. Lucy glanced at the clock; in ten minutes she had another virtual meeting with Steve Ayers. Perhaps he would have some good news for her for a change.

“Yes, we touched on that subject,” she replied.

“And?” he inquired.

Lucy shrugged her shoulders.

“They didn’t tell you anything?”

“Not a word,” she said.

“Perhaps it was just a squabble,” said Lafayette. “You know what they’re like after a drink or two.”

“Maybe,” she said. Officially, alcohol was forbidden on the station, yet somehow it always found its way on board. Especially to the Russian segment. Either in personal luggage or in the guise of a reagent for an experiment.

Lafayette nodded, but Lucy could see that her replies hadn’t satisfied him and the conversation had further to go.

“Listen, Lucy, I understand that you can’t tell us everything . . .”

“But?”

“But you need to say something”—Lafayette lowered his voice—“because the crew are getting very worked up.”

“Who are you referring to?”

“I’d rather not single anyone out,” he said, putting the caps away in the cabinet.

“There are only four of us.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“You mean Ezra?” she asked.

Lafayette remained silent. Lucy closed the toolbox. One of the adjustable wrenches tried to escape, like a fish desperately trying to jump out of a net. She pushed it into place and fastened the clips.

“If you are aware of information that pertains to crew safety, it is your duty to share it with the commander,” she reminded him.

“Nothing in particular has happened.”

“Something must’ve.”

“I can see he’s agitated. The steam is coming out of his ears.”

“We all have bad days. I certainly do.”

“Yes, but I’ve never been afraid of you.”

Lucy scrutinized Lafayette. Was he really that anxious? Or was he taking advantage of the situation to undermine a colleague he didn’t get along with? Hoping his accusations would end up—anonymously, written in Lucy’s hand—in Ezra’s file? Charges like that could ground an astronaut for a good while. Or forever.

“Let’s talk about it later,” she said. Time was short: only five minutes until her meeting with Ayers.

“I’m not sure I have anything else to say.”

“We’ll see. Will you finish up here?”

“Sure,” said Lafayette. “Lucy . . .”

“Hmm?”

“You can count on me,” he said emphatically, looking straight into her eyes. “In every situation.”

There was a gravity in his tone she hadn’t heard before. For a moment, Lucy felt she got a glimpse of the real Lafayette: eager to defuse dangers before they blew up in his face, deeply wary of people who thought they were better than everybody else, cautious, thinking several steps ahead.

I’d like to believe your assurances, she thought. Time will tell. She nodded her thanks, then pushed off the wall—the clock was ticking—and glided through the coldly lit modules.

Lucy was already longing for the feel of the ground beneath her feet and air that didn’t stink of acrid sweat and overloaded electronics. It’s funny, she thought—although she didn’t feel like laughing at all—on Earth I dreamed of being in orbit, whereas in orbit I long for Earth. I’m not content anywhere; I’m never satisfied, although, theoretically, I have everything I need to be happy, and millions want what I have. What’s wrong with me? But she muted these thoughts and pushed them aside: she didn’t have time for them now. A moment later, Lucy was back in her cubicle. She shut the doors behind her and put on her headset. Her laptop screen lit up and Steve’s face appeared. One glance was enough for Lucy to know that no good news was coming her way.

“Hello, Lucy. How are you doing?”

“OK, thanks,” she replied, wanting to get the courtesies over and done with.

“Anything new to report?”

She nodded, and told him about her conversation with Anton: about Anton hitting Lev for refusing to carry out an order—even though, officially, they were equal in rank; even though, officially, the only tasks they had to carry out in orbit were tending the lettuces and feeding the snails. Steve rubbed his chin. He looked like a man who was weighing his options—a professional poker player calculating the probability that his opponent held an ace.

“Thank you for everything you have done so far, Lucy,” said Steve once she had finished her account. “I appreciate how much you risked and how difficult that must have been for you.”

“I try to do my duty.” Lucy knew Steve must have a purpose in buttering her up; nevertheless she felt pleasantly flattered.

“We both know that what I asked you to do wasn’t strictly within your duties,” added Steve, “and what I’m about to ask you to do will definitely be outside those bounds.”

Aha, she thought, this is getting interesting.

“What is it?” she asked.

“As you must know”—Steve leaned toward the camera—“there is a firearm on board the station.”

Of course she knew that; it was one of the many things she had to know. There was a 9mm Makarov pistol and two magazines in the Soyuz she had arrived in, more precisely in the compartment under the navigator’s seat, in case the astronauts were forced into an emergency landing in a place far from where the recovery team was waiting for them. Like in the middle of the Siberian taiga, where they might encounter wolves and bears. Or in a war-torn country, like Somalia, Afghanistan, or the like, where they wouldn’t necessarily be welcomed with open arms.

“Yes,” she replied, the word sticking in her throat. Because his statement was clearly only a preliminary.

Steve nodded. “Tonight, I want you to secure it.”

Lucy froze. Did I hear him right? she wondered.

“Excuse me?”

“You are to go to the Russian segment of the station,” said Steve slowly and emphatically, “locate the weapon in question, remove it, and conceal it in a safe place. Obviously, you will do it without any of the crew knowing.”

Lucy didn’t speak at first. The thrum of the air conditioning reverberated in her head.

“Why?” she asked eventually.

“Because otherwise it is likely someone else will use the weapon.”

“Who? And when?”

“Well . . . as you know, there are many indications that our Russian friends are playing dirty.”

“I know, but . . .” Lucy paused. “I’m not sure that they’ve given us grounds for this step.”

“I’m not sure either, but we have to act on the basis of the information available and take into consideration the stakes involved.”

Lucy saw her own face in the window in the corner of the screen. She was deathly pale. “I’m not the best person for this kind of assignment,” she said.

“I understand. We haven’t prepared you for anything like this, but you must realize we’re not in a position to send backup.”

“Yes, but there are crew members who have experience suited to—”

“I have decided that we will entrust this task to you,” said Steve, not letting her finish.

Lucy took a deep breath. Then another. She felt boiling hot; her clothes were irritating her skin.

“May I inform the American crew members?” she asked.

“No.”

“If something goes wrong”—Lucy’s mouth was dry—“will management admit that I was acting on instructions?”

“No, but we won’t leave you without any support.”

“Can I refuse?”

Deputy Director Ayers looked at her intently without answering. Lucy realized that she was afraid of him. Afraid of this bureaucrat who was half a head shorter than her and sixty-odd years old.

“Of course you can,” he replied at last. “But should you?”

7

December 10, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: How long have you known Deputy Director Ayers?

RATHKE: Since 1989. Over thirty years.

LAMAR: How would you describe his character?

RATHKE: Sorry, what connection does that have with this case?

LAMAR: Please answer the question.

RATHKE: Of course. Steve is a task-driven individual. He achieves his goals.

LAMAR: Whatever it takes? Even if it means trampling on others?

RATHKE: Your words, sir, not mine.

ISS—August 15, 2021, 18:27 GMT

Lucy felt a tingling in her palm—a physical echo of a memory. Sandy, infertile soil. Matchstick-thin pine trees. A sky, pale blue like faded jeans. Empty cartridge cases glistening among the dry litter of pine needles, defenders squashing her ears, a bead of sweat running down her cheek, and her finger pressing the trigger. The bang, the recoil, the energy radiating throughout her body, and a ragged hole blooming in the black silhouette outlined on the target—at head height, between the eyes. All in a fraction of a second. The Russian instructor nodded in appreciation, and put a check mark against an item on his form; the smell of burnt gunpowder lingered in the air. Lucy put the safety catch on and pulled the magazine out of the Makarov, then placed the pistol back on the sun-beaten folding table—a training program credit gained.

That was a year ago at the training ground just outside Zvyozdny Gorodok, a cosmonaut town not far from Moscow. One week focused on survival exercises in the nearby forest, the next, a test of their knowledge of Soyuz technical diagrams. An endless list of tasks to be completed to earn the longed-for ticket for a flight into space. That was how Lucy viewed it at the time. The minute she gained her training credit at the shooting range, she forgot about the whole event. It had never crossed Lucy’s mind that knowledge about the Makarov might ever crop up again, or that the shooting exercises were anything other than a pure formality—no astronaut, from Gagarin onward, had ever fired a pistol in space. The Makarov was taken apart and reassembled, it was oiled and tested, and degraded ammunition was replaced. This process was repeated again and again until the stresses and vibrations inevitable in space flight eventually put the pistol out of action.

Lucy found it hard to believe that a crew member might really use the weapon and aim it at one of them, let alone actually pull the trigger. Perhaps they weren’t friends, but they had worked together for years, knew one another’s families, had drunk Russian vodka together, and had shared American barbecues. Besides, firing a gun on board a spacecraft, where only a few centimeters of plate metal separated them from a lethal void, would be suicide. If a bullet perforated a wall, it would lead to decompression; perhaps not as sudden as in the movies, where the crew was instantaneously sucked out as if by a cosmic vacuum cleaner, but there was no doubt it would lead to an extremely dangerous situation. But perhaps Lucy was wrong; perhaps her assumptions were false. Perhaps the age of cooperation was well and truly over, and they were already enemies. Maybe the Cold War never truly ended—only paused briefly. The events of the last few days seemed to point to that conclusion.

Lucy shut her eyes; her shoulders rose up involuntarily as if they belonged to a drowned body tossed by waves. I can refuse, she repeated over and over in her head, trying to calm herself down and bolster her own self-confidence. But should she refuse? If she listened to Ayers and retrieved the Makarov pistol, she would be eliminating a potential danger, just like a sapper cutting the wire in a detonator. If she didn’t, she might regret it later. In her mind’s eye, she saw the black silhouette on the target again. And the gaping hole in the middle of the head.

The watch strapped onto her wrist vibrated: dinner time. She didn’t feel like eating—the stress was making her stomach clench so violently it caused acid reflux, which stung and irritated her gullet. However, Lucy had to turn up at dinner, put on a brave face, set an example, and assess the crew’s mood. So she swung open the doors of her cubicle and floated toward Unity. The others were already there. Lafayette was just taking a tray out of the microwave when he dropped it with a sudden intake of breath; it must have been too hot. On Earth, it would have fallen to the floor and broken; here, the tray hung in the air like an animated object in a cartoon that had forgotten what to do next. Devaki was next to Lafayette, bending over a bowl of oatmeal that had gone cold—the only dish she was able to stomach at the moment. Her face was pale and drained; she was clearly miserable. Ezra was hovering near the hatch with his arms folded across his chest. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in the food. He was waiting—for Lucy.

“A videoconference with the bosses?” he asked.

“That’s right.” Lucy nodded, then opened one of the cupboards. Her message was clear: None of your business; the conversation is over. “Is there any salmon left?”

“Afraid not,” replied Lafayette, then he blew on his scalded fingers.

“What about curry?”

“Please no,” wailed Devaki. “Not curry, or else I’ll throw up again.”

“Sorry, Devaki”—Lucy touched her on the shoulder—“I wasn’t thinking.”

“No worries.”

“What did you talk about?” said Ezra, not giving up.

“About the mission,” she replied without looking his way, leaning over the open cupboard. Ezra shut it, right in front of Lucy’s nose. It went quiet. All eyes were focused on Lucy and Ezra. Slowly and deliberately, to show him she wasn’t intimidated even though her heart was racing, Lucy turned to face Ezra. He was right beside her—close, far too close, looming over her. Aha, she thought, so Lafayette wasn’t exaggerating.

“Don’t brush me off,” he barked.

“I’m not brushing you off, Ezra,” she answered, meeting his angry gaze. “I told you as much as I could.”

“So you can’t tell us anything?” asked Devaki. You too, Brutus? thought Lucy.

“It’s not a topic I can discuss with you,” she said.

“The Russians are trying to wreck the station, and you’re telling us it’s not a topic you can discuss?” said Ezra. “So what the hell can you discuss?”

“Uh, how ’bout your behavior, bro?” said Lafayette, dropping the formal tone, switching codes, disdain dripping from every word. “You’re talkin’ to the commander.”

“Thank you, but I can manage on my own,” said Lucy, raising an open palm.

“Are you sure?” said Ezra. “The Russians are laughing in your face, and you’re letting them.”

“Lucy has spoken to them,” said Lafayette.

“Oh really?” retorted Ezra. “And what was the result of that conversation? Do you know?” Lafayette looked away without speaking.

“You don’t,” snorted Ezra. “She hasn’t told you shit.”

“I’m not obliged to,” snapped Lucy.

“We have to do something.” Ezra slammed the table. “We have to act.”

“We do,” said Lucy. “Leave it to me.”

Ezra gave her a contemptuous look. You? said the look. You?

“Ezra, you left the military, or did they chuck you out for insubordination?” asked Lafayette.

“Ezra’s got a point,” said Devaki. “The ammonia concentration is going up, the Russians are up to no good, and nobody even bothers to—”

“You know fuck all about the army,” growled Ezra, “so keep your trap shut.”

“Or else?”

This conversation isn’t heading anywhere good, thought Lucy. Not at all. “Hey! Hey! Calm down, both of you,” she said. “I understand your frustration. Believe me, I’d love to be totally open with you, but I’m not allowed to be. Those are my instructions from Houston. Surely you’ve come across this sort of situation before, Ezra? Where you just had to trust your commander?”

Ezra nodded. “I have, but he earned my trust. He flew side by side with me, and risked his own life.”

“Whereas in my case?”

Ezra didn’t answer. Lucy knew what he thought: she didn’t deserve to be the commander of the expedition. She only got the role because it looked good—a woman at the helm, twenty-first century, equality and rainbows. That annoyed her. But that was an understatement: it fucking pissed her off. She had earned this promotion through grueling, hard work. She had paid for it with sweat and tears. She had sacrificed her marriage and her relationship with her daughter for it. Lucy felt like screaming all that at Ezra. She wanted to scold him, and threaten to write a report about him the likes of which he’d never seen—a report that would stop him ever flying in space again. A report that would get him kicked out of NASA—onto his stupid fucking ass.

She restrained herself. Lucy was entrusted with the role of commander precisely because she was the type of person who wouldn’t lose self-control, or flex their muscles, or try to prove to all and sundry that they had the biggest dick. The main thing Mission Control expected of her was that she would keep her composure. Even if all around her was burning and collapsing, she was to follow procedures and instructions. NASA now needed managers and diplomats in space—not cowboys. So Lucy took a deep breath, and although it wasn’t easy, she swallowed her pride.

“And I haven’t,” said Lucy, answering her own question and looking straight into Ezra’s eyes. “You don’t know me well, and you’ve never seen me in a crisis. You’re judging me on the basis of what you see. That’s understandable, but remember that you don’t see everything, or know everything. Also remember that, at the end of this expedition, I will be the person writing your report card. A lot will depend on my assessment.”

Ezra shook his head, and looked away. He didn’t apologize or show any humility, but at least he didn’t talk back. Good enough.

“I realize the situation is exceptionally stressful,” continued Lucy. “Yes, the Russians have given us numerous reasons to suspect the worst, but we have to proceed cautiously to avoid unintentional escalation.”

“You say we have to,” cut in Devaki, “but no one is telling us anything. No one is consulting us about the decisions. We are not even being told what the decisions are!”

Oh great, thought Lucy, simmering, now the CEO wants to grab the reins. How about you go comb the puke from out of your hair, bitch?

“It’s frustrating, I know,” she said calmly, forcing her lips into a reassuring smile. “I can only repeat that I’m asking for your trust and patience.”

“You can count on me,” said Lafayette. For the second time that day. Why? What’s he up to?

“Me too. Goes without saying,” said Devaki, nodding.

Ezra left Unity without a word.

Houston—August 15, 2021, 13:13 GMT –5

Every relationship has its own definition of privacy. Some couples have a policy of total openness: the partners know each other’s email passwords and phone passcodes; they have joint bank accounts with statements showing every single transaction; some don’t even bother to close the bathroom door behind them on the basis of we’re humans, and nothing human is alien to us. Other couples mark out clear boundaries and then guard them assiduously. If a boundary is crossed, it provokes an immediate diplomatic crisis: don’t open my letters, don’t rummage through my handbag, don’t look in the bottom drawer of the desk. Sometimes this stems from a guilty conscience, but more often from a need to mark out a separate identity—the I that can gradually be subsumed in the we after years in the same relationship. Negotiating where these boundaries lie is always tricky, frequently painful, and can lead to breakups.

In Nate and Lucy’s case, the issue was clear-cut. They both worked on projects of national importance and were bound by nondisclosure agreements. Right from the start, it went without saying that there were matters they couldn’t discuss with each other, and that the question What’s going on at work? had to be excluded from the household’s repertoire of small talk. This understanding extended to a prohibition on touching each other’s work computers and devices. Lucy’s personal laptop was on the desk and, if the need arose, Nate could use it whenever he chose. In contrast, the computer issued to her by NASA lay under the bed in a protective case when Lucy was away from home. Although it had never been expressly stated, Nate knew that he shouldn’t ever pull it out from under the bed, let alone switch it on. Yet that was what he now intended to do.

Deputy Director Ayers had not replied to his email. Nothing. Not even a Thanks, I’ll take a look at it, or at the very least, Safely received. Regards. In other words, Nate was ignored. Of course, it wasn’t the first time he’d been ignored. Eliza turned a deaf ear to his requests that she tidy her room; Lucy brushed aside his alarmist demands to leave an hour early in case of traffic jams, or to buy an electric generator just in case another hurricane tore down the power cables. Nate accepted it with the tranquility of a person who spent years gazing into the night sky at billions of galaxies, each containing billions of stars and trillions of planets; he was fully aware of his own insignificance. Not just aware, but reconciled to it.

But this time, he didn’t let it go, which was unusual for him. This time it wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about his own fragile sense of well-being, which, as he established with the help of a therapist, was the product of numerous factors, not all of them rational. This time it was about Lucy. The sense that she was in danger activated hitherto hidden reserves of determination. He thought of yet another article about a tragic accident that he once read—they really did stick in his memory—about a mother who, with a surge of primal, animal strength, managed to lift a wrecked car to extract her child trapped underneath. Perhaps this crisis flipped a switch or something finally clicked for him; perhaps, faced with a real problem rather than an imagined one, his brain abandoned the ruts in which its wheels had previously spun fruitlessly, and chose a new course. Whatever the reason, the emotions that ordinarily inhibited Nate—uncertainty, anxiety, and hesitancy—retreated into the background. NASA didn’t want to help him? So be it. He would manage on his own.

He pulled out Lucy’s work laptop, plugged it in, and switched it on. Now came the hard part—the password. Nate tried a few obvious guesses (Eliza2014, NateAndLucy2008, Poplaski1981) without any success. He swore under his breath, rubbed his chin. What now? Maybe there’s a sticker with agency-issued login credentials on the bottom of the computer? he wondered. Government agencies did that sometimes, or at least used to, before cybersecurity became a thing. . . . But no, no such luck. Nate swiveled in his chair, thinking. He had read an article about cracking passwords. Where was it that he saw it? WIRED? Gizmodo? He queried online, but couldn’t find it. Maybe he had shared it with his contacts? He had a habit (annoying, some would say) of forwarding interesting pieces to likeminded nerds. Nate typed password and cracking into the search bar of his inbox. No trace of the article, but something else caught his attention, making him forget about it entirely. An email from Lucy, dated 2015.

From: Lucy <lucy.poplaski@protonmail.com>

To: Me <nate.j.hunt@protonmail.com>

Subject: Re: password

Sure, I’m on the phone now, go ahead. And mum’s the word!

N.

Fri, 14 August 2015 at 13:15 Poplaski, Lucy <lucy.poplaski@protonmail.com> wrote:

Hey honey,

I kinda urgently need a file from my work computer, which I very smartly left at home today. Would you please log on and send it to me? It’s lpfinal2 in recent files. I’ll send my password over Signal (unless you’d like a go at cracking it). Obviously it’s highly unprofessional so please don’t mention it to my future biographers, OK?

Love,

Lucy

He had totally forgotten about this exchange! Nate fumbled for his phone and pulled up Signal. They used it intermittently, mostly when they tried—and generally failed—to get into sexting during Lucy’s many work trips. (Whatever he wrote always sounded so raunchy he cringed rather than got aroused. And what if their pics ended up online? What would that do to Lucy’s career?) Had he set the messages to self-disappear? No, thankfully not. Nate searched for password again, and there it was, right in his chats, bookended by poorly lit mirror selfies.

Here’s the password:

BinaryStar2015!@#
please delete after

Yes! Nate pulled up the login window, put in the password—trying not to feel guilty about having ignored Lucy’s request to delete it—decided he had probably mistyped it, so he tried again, and hit Enter. . . . No good. Well, fuck that. So close! But then it occurred to him that 2015 wasn’t a random string of digits; it was the year. Some employers required you to change passcodes annually. Gingerly, he tried BinaryStar2021!@#.

Welcome popped up on the screen. Nate pumped the air, stifling a triumphant cry (he really didn’t want Eliza to show up asking what was going on), then paused. Lucy had sent the password with the implicit expectation he’d never use it without her knowing. However, in the current circumstances, he felt that the goal justified the means. Of course, he should have talked to Lucy first and checked whether she had any issues with him carrying out a little investigation using her work account, but how could Nate be sure nobody was listening to their conversations? Jeff Pictou, the family liaison officer, had acted weird earlier, downright suspiciously, in fact. Leave Anton alone. Just trust me. It’s for your own good. It was a line that could have been lifted, word for word, from a film about the Cosa Nostra; it was something Don Corleone might have said as he scratched his purring cat behind its ears. What could it mean? Did the Russians have allies within NASA who didn’t want the truth about Anton’s past to come to light? Or perhaps it wasn’t a closed chapter, and Anton still had links with the GRU? Perhaps Anton hadn’t flown to the station to breed snails, but had been entrusted with an altogether different mission? Did somebody in Houston want him to succeed? Was he serving masters other than the Kremlin?

Let me see what I can find out, he thought. The next step was to connect to NASA’s servers using a VPN tunnel. Nate froze with his finger hovering above the mouse button. This step would be logged and might attract the attention of the network administrator. Lucy was in orbit, so why would she be connecting from her private address on Earth? Can’t be helped, thought Nate. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice; perhaps they’d ignore it, and if not, he’d come up with some excuse. A few moments later, Nate was rooting around in the Mission Control archives: EXPEDITION 37, then DATA, and then CCTV. Several hundred files. Several thousand hours of monotonous recordings. Nobody had watched them; they were stored for posterity, just in case.

Ideally, Nate would have looked through the recordings from the current mission, from a week or so ago, but they hadn’t yet been uploaded to the archive server he had managed to access. Nate assumed that, if Anton really did have something on his conscience, if he was indeed at the beck and call of the GRU, then he would also have had a special task to carry out during his first stay on the station. The Russians wouldn’t have risked blowing Anton’s cover. In 2013, when notions of a fresh start and reconciliation still prevailed, Anton was able to move around the American segment of the station without arousing undue suspicion. But—yet another lesson Nate had learned from his space research—an observer spots much more once they know what they are looking for; only then is it possible to distinguish relevant data from the noise. Maybe he would manage to find something in the archives that confirmed his suspicions—something NASA would not be able to ignore.

Nate set the playback speed to times ten and started scanning the recordings; the astronauts darted this way and that, like rats in a maze. Occasionally, Lucy appeared on-screen: younger, with her old hairstyle, and grinning from ear to ear. It was her first flight in space—her dream come true. Nate didn’t allow himself to get emotional and distracted; he sought out Anton’s face amidst the crew. Anton spent most of his time in the Russian segment—the Russian camera feeds weren’t stored in the archive, so he rarely appeared on the recordings—only once every few days. September 17: he was at a shared meal in Unity. September 22: he helped repair the CDRA filters in Harmony. September 24: he borrowed some electronic equipment from the Japanese module, Kibo. September 26: he helped unpack the Cygnus cargo capsule. And so on and so forth. Routine cosmic activities.

After an hour, Nate’s eyes were sore; after two, his head was busting; and after four, he had to get away from the computer. He splashed cold water on his face, ate something—without a plate, standing over the sink—and returned to work. As he sat down at the desk, he felt a surge of empathy for the unfortunate souls who made their living by editing video footage of other people’s weddings. Eventually, on the recording from November 4, he saw something interesting. Anton turned up in the Cupola, the observatory module, at night—Nate could tell because the lights were dimmed. He stopped the recording and checked the precise time: twenty-two forty-three, so, in theory, the cameras should have been switched off. Why were the cameras recording? Unusual. Nate checked the date again—the fourth of November, the day after Daylight Saving Time ended. On the ISS, the UTC time standard applied so there was no need to reset any clocks, but the computers of the controllers back on Earth were subject to national regulations. It seemed the surveillance cameras were temporarily out of sync—due to a mistake or omission—and behaving as if it were an hour earlier than it really was. First puzzle solved. Another remained, and it was far more intriguing: What was Anton doing there in the middle of the night, with all the crew members asleep in their cubicles? What was Anton looking for in the Cupola?

Nate pressed PLAY—this time at the default playback speed—and craned toward the computer. For the next few minutes, he followed the movements on-screen—in silence, and with growing disbelief. When the video came to an end, Nate staggered to the bathroom, and swallowed two alprazolam pills.

ISS—August 15, 2021, 22:46 GMT

Lucy set an alarm even though she knew she wouldn’t fall asleep. She tried to distract herself: first with a book, then a TV show, followed by music, and finally some silly YouTube clips (the creator of “The Twenty Worst Romance Movies” probably never suspected that their work might be replayed in orbit one day), but Lucy wasn’t able to focus on anything; everything irritated her. Her body was already pumping stress hormones into her bloodstream; her heart rate had already risen. She felt like running—or jumping, or shadowboxing—but she couldn’t. She had to keep up appearances and follow the timetable, which designated the current period as sleep time. So she hovered in her sleep station, stifled by the lack of space, with that din all around her—like an animal in a cage too small for it or a spring held clamped between two palms—and she waited. Lucy knew what she would do when her alarm went off, but she had no idea whether she was doing the right thing, or whether she was making a mistake. Lucy didn’t have enough information to decide; she didn’t understand what the game was about, or its rules.

As a teenager, when she was starting to develop a serious interest in space, Lucy read that the vast majority of the universe—over ninety percent of it—was probably filled with dark matter that humans could not see, touch, or experience in any other way; its existence could only be deduced from the behavior of gravitational fields. At the time, it seemed a shocking concept—so distant from her own everyday experience and the basis on which her world operated. Now, Lucy felt that dark matter was an excellent analogy for a human life, whose course depended on thousands of interdependent factors that were invisible and unintelligible. In her opinion, there was no way of describing, or mentally encompassing, or even naming the really important things in life. Despite that, you had to find a way to function in the fog of ignorance, to make decisions—and then live with them.

She glanced at her watch. The crew had returned to their sleep stations about an hour ago; they should all be asleep now, but Lucy preferred to play it safe and wait another half hour. Her thoughts circled around the pistol; she wondered where to hide it. It had to be somewhere inaccessible and improbable—a place where no one would find it by accident—yet within easy reach, so that she could get the pistol if it was needed. Imagine that! Perhaps a trash container in BEAM? A crate in the Leonardo module? Or the reagent cabinet in Columbus? She hadn’t yet decided; none of these places was ideal. It doesn’t matter, Lucy silently told herself, attempting to calm herself down. Cross that bridge when you come to it. It will all work out somehow. Well . . . it will if nobody catches me red-handed.

How many minutes had passed? Ten? Fifteen? Lucy glanced at her watch and swore under her breath. Time really was relative. I can’t, she thought. I just can’t wait any longer. For another moment, she listened attentively for any sound that might be detected above the thrum of the air conditioning: a voice, a beard trimmer whirring, or perhaps gym equipment creaking. Lucy couldn’t make out any sound at all, so she nudged the doors of her sleep station open a crack. The remaining sleep stations above, below, and facing hers—all at very close quarters—had their doors closed and their lights out. For a moment, she strained to see if there was anything floating in the air: a bead of sweat, a crumb of food, or a hair. Any tiny remnants of that kind would be carried along by the movement of the air being sucked into the fans, slowly traveling toward them, then settling on the filters. If Lucy saw anything at all in the middle of the module, it would mean that someone had been there quite recently and left tangible afterimages, like the dust tail that trails behind a comet. But there were no traces. Nothing. The path was clear.

Lucy pushed off from the wall of her sleep station, shut the doors behind her, and turned the world around by 180 degrees. She bounced away lightly and glided through one module after another—Harmony, Destiny, then Unity. She was still buzzing with the energy she had no way of releasing, no way of burning. Lucy felt as if the blood pounding through her arteries was about to make her head explode.

At the entrance of the connector to the Russian part of the space station, she stopped and looked around. Once more, Lucy listened intently for any sound that might be detected above the background noise—that incessant metallic racket. Nothing at all. The station seemed to be sound asleep. She crawled into the dark, narrow passage. The gap at the other end was the width of her shoulders. She moved slowly, propelling herself forward with one finger, taking great care to avoid catching on anything or making the slightest noise. Soon, Lucy emerged on the other side, in Zarya. The module was suffused with a yellowish half-light; it stank of old plastic and mold; the cables, stretching from wall to wall to secure luggage that would otherwise float away, looked like the wires of a mousetrap. Just under her feet was the entrance to the Soyuz capsule in which she had arrived at the space station. There, she would find the Makarov pistol and the magazine of ammunition—murderous, kinetic potential lying dormant in metal and black powder. Just a few meters away was Zvezda, the module where, beyond an open door, the Russians slept like zombies, their arms rising involuntarily into the air. Unlike the Americans, the Russians didn’t have individual cubicles. Sleeping bags strapped to rails jutting out from the wall served as their bedrooms. It wasn’t easy to fall asleep in this kind of environment, surrounded by rumbling computers with flashing diodes, so some cosmonauts wore eye masks and earplugs. Lucy hoped that Anton and Lev were making use of these conveniences. Especially Anton.

She let her breath subside, turned herself upside down, tucked up her legs—then floated off toward the Soyuz. She needed to adjust her course to avoid hitting the boxes fixed to the walls, so she used her hand to push off from a rail. Lucy was already doing this automatically, without any conscious thought. She had grown accustomed to weightlessness, and had almost forgotten what it felt like to walk. By the time she returned to Earth, the soles of her feet would be extremely smooth, like a baby’s . . . unless the mission ended prematurely, of course.

The entrance to the capsule was almost completely blocked by a huge steel cone crowned with metal teeth. This was the part of the SSVP docking system, which enabled the Soyuz to make contact with the station and latch onto the docking hatch. Even though quite some time had passed since her flight, a whiff of space still lingered in the air, with notes of heated wire and freshly welded metal. It wasn’t entirely clear what caused the smell; maybe the slow oxidization of the station’s metal plating, or perhaps it was the last breath of stars that had died eons ago.

Lucy was wary of moving the cone—the hinges might creak, or someone might notice afterward that it had been moved—so she emptied the air from her lungs, held her breath, and gradually squeezed herself through the narrow gap. She made it into the Soyuz’s orbital module, which would be ejected before they landed on Earth to burn up in the atmosphere. Hence, it was already full of trash and stank of sweat and rotting food. It was so cramped in this part of the spacecraft that Lucy had to press herself against the wall. Here and there, Cyrillic letters in fluorescent paint gleamed through the darkness.

Lucy had just caught sight of the descent module hatch in front of her—yet another bottleneck to negotiate—when something yanked her foot and she stopped abruptly. Her first thought was that she had been spotted. Her heart rate rocketed, her stomach clenched, and blood rushed to her brain. She only just managed to stifle a cry, then looked behind her. Lucy heaved a sigh of relief: her foot had caught on a leather belt for securing luggage, that was all. She managed to free herself in just a few movements without making too much noise, or so she hoped. Eventually, she reached the landing capsule. A small oval porthole with a view of space. The mascot hanging above the cockpit—the one she stared at, full of excitement, as they were taking off—rocked gently in the air, and Lucy could see her own distorted reflection in its beady eyes. She curled into a fetal position and turned toward the navigator’s seat. Underneath it, in the locker, she should find the Makarov pistol.

But it was missing.

Lucy froze. What happened to it? Surely the Russians hadn’t changed the agreed packing protocol and stored the pistol elsewhere in the Soyuz? No, that wasn’t it. Baikonur ground control tested her knowledge on that point prior to departure. Unless they intentionally misled her; unless the documentation for the capsule didn’t match reality. That was one possible scenario. Another: the pistol had never made it aboard. The procedures did allow for such an eventuality if it was necessary to reduce the overall weight of the capsule by a few hundred grams to make space for other, more essential cargo, but wouldn’t they have made a note of this to the captain? A third scenario: the Makarov pistol had been here until just recently. And someone had removed it.

Suddenly, Lucy heard a scraping, and out of the corner of her eye, she registered movement behind her—but too late to take any action.

Anton appeared in the entrance to the capsule.

Houston—August 15, 2021, 18:12 GMT –5

When he was a toddler, Nate liked to imagine what it would be like to be up in the clouds. In these early daydreams, the clouds had the consistency of marshmallow; they were warm to the touch—slightly warmer than your skin, like a freshly baked bun—and had the pleasant scent of a bubble bath. The clouds were so fluffy that, if you lay down on them, you could forget you weighed anything at all; it was hard to say where your body started or ended—it seemed to merge with the cloud. It was so comfortable in these clouds that it felt like being snuggled up under a duvet on a sunny Saturday morning, eyes not yet open, at the boundary between sleep and wakefulness, when thoughts stretch out like bubblegum; there was nothing you needed to do, and the world seemed good.

That was the state Nate was now in, after taking the two alprazolam tablets. He lay on the bed and stared at the fan spinning below the ceiling. When he narrowed his eyes a little, the fan seemed to slow down; when he opened them, it appeared to speed up—it was very engaging. Everything was alright. His cell phone rang for the umpteenth time; Nate didn’t pick up, and that was alright. He badly needed to pee but the bathroom was a long way off, and that was alright as well. Even the goings-on he saw on the archived recording from the station were alright. What could he do? It had happened, so that was that.

At first, Nate had experienced a rush of excitement as he thought he had found what he sought. In the video he pulled up on Lucy’s work laptop, he could clearly see Anton was up to no good. His body language, the way he glanced nervously in all directions—it all plainly pointed that way. So why did Anton go to the Cupola? Was he waiting there to secretly retrieve a sinister package using the Canadarm2 robotic arm without the rest of the crew knowing? Was he going to take photographs of events playing out on Earth, as if he were on a spy satellite? Nate smiled to himself because these thoughts were very silly, so silly they were preposterous—and would seem even more so when he saw what happened next. It turned out that Anton was quite simply waiting for someone. That someone was Lucy. They talked for a while. They looked out the windows together; they admired the sun rising. And then they started to kiss. The cameras didn’t capture what happened next—as eleven o’clock struck they switched off for the night—but it wasn’t hard to guess.

Nate understood Lucy to some extent. It was her fourth month in orbit by then; everybody has needs. He even understood why she had chosen to be unfaithful with Anton. Obviously, she needed a real man. A tough guy with two-day stubble as scratchy as a striker on a matchbox. A man who only went to the car mechanic to get the paperwork stamped, as he did all the repairs himself. Nate knew he wasn’t able to give her that. It was amusing if you thought about it: a person could speak eloquently and knowledgeably about quarks and quanta, or look at the light emitted by a star millions of light-years away and determine its temperature, mass, and chemical composition on the basis of a spectrographic breakdown of its rays, but that same person sometimes just had to fuck. At such times, all weighty matters are pushed into the background, arguments for and against no longer count, and rational thinking is switched off; all that matters is the here and now, the immediate gratification of neurons craving stimulation. Humans were now capable of building a rocket that could take them to Mars, but could they cope without orgasms on that long a trip? No, they were more likely to kill one another. Perhaps Lucy’s infidelity had served the cause of science and investigation of the further reaches of the universe; perhaps copulating in the Cupola was indisputable evidence that, at times, a person just has to get some.

What Nate couldn’t understand was why Lucy never admitted to her infidelity. They weren’t an ideal married couple, and he wasn’t an ideal husband, certainly not for her. But he tried his best. He could see how important Lucy’s work was to her—though, in truth, was it really the work? Or the thrill of having her ego stroked? Not only did he accept that she subordinated her life to her work, but Nate subordinated his own life to Lucy’s work. He had hoped it would be enough to sustain the love that joined them, and had certainly believed it would be enough to make her treat him with respect. However, Lucy pretended the incident had never taken place—even when he asked her about that mission and the people she had met there, about her adventures. (Adventures! he scoffed. God, I’m so fucking stupid!) Why? Surely there wasn’t anything you couldn’t discuss, work through, and apologize for? Surely the sign of a mature relationship was the ability to survive a crisis by learning from mistakes and promising to do better, rather than just storing them up as ammunition to be fired whenever a quarrel arose? But you had to want to do it. To find the time and energy for difficult conversations. To hear out some uncomfortable truths. To atone for your sins. Lucy clearly had better things to do.

Even though everything was still alright, even though Nate was still floating atop a fluffy cloud, he cried.

ISS—August 15, 2021, 23:21 GMT

Lucy froze on the spot: a pointless reflex reaction, an echo conditioned by the experience of distant ancestors who froze to merge into their surroundings, and so deceive the predator and escape death. But she had nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. As if! There wasn’t even enough space here for her to straighten her arms or legs. Lucy could only cower. Anton squeezed through the capsule hatch and blocked the exit with his body. They were mere centimeters apart. Lucy could feel his breath on her skin.

“What are you doing here?” asked Anton. He wasn’t smirking or sneering now. It was a simple question, but there was no reasonable answer. Anton wouldn’t fall for a lie, but Lucy couldn’t divulge the truth. She kept quiet.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated, more loudly this time. “Thinking of flying somewhere?”

“I’m not obliged to tell you.”

“Is that what I am to pass on to Moscow?” asked Anton.

“Depends. Will you call Roscosmos? Or somewhere else?” They held each other’s gaze.

Anton shook his head. “You were unlucky. Do you realize that?” He sighed.

Lucy was silent. She was desperately weighing her options. There weren’t many, and none of them were good.

“On another day, I would have been asleep, snug as a bug, as you say,” continued Anton. “But today I just happened to feel like finishing my book. You know how it is. . . . On the last chapter, and you are dying to know how it ends.”

“Can we deal with this tomorrow?”

“Well, I was disappointed,” said Anton, ignoring her question altogether. He sighed again, dramatically. “The author did not tie up all the threads. Very bad ending.”

“Anton!”

Anton turned to face Lucy directly. His expression was now serious. “I will not let you go until you tell me what you were doing here,” he stated.

“You have no right to do that.”

“No, I do not,” replied Anton, continuing to block the exit.

“I haven’t broken any of the protocols.”

“Very well. How about I tell you the story to pass the time? The year is 2037, and the human race—”

“Stop it!”

“Then tell me what you were doing here.”

“I had to check something.”

“Aha, you see, that’s more like it”—Anton gave Lucy an encouraging smile as if to a dull-witted student who had finally worked out the sum of two plus two—“but I need more specific detail.”

“Where is the Makarov?” asked Lucy instead of explaining. There were no microphones here, no cameras, so no need to speak in code.

Anton raised an eyebrow. “The pistol?” he asked.

“No, the hockey player!”

“Under the navigator’s seat, of course,” he answered.

“It’s not there.”

“What do you mean, it is not there?”

“I mean, it’s fucking missing.”

Anton examined Lucy’s face as if suspecting a trick. Then he squeezed past her and dove toward the locker.

“Pizdets!” he swore under his breath. “You are right.”

“Cut the theatrics.”

Anton ignored her. He pulled out one small drawer after another, looked in various bags, and rifled through boxes. If he was doing it for show, he was certainly putting his heart and soul into it. Lucy glanced toward the exit: it was clear. She could push off, get away from Anton, and reach the American side of the station. However, she decided against it. She needed answers.

“Could Lev have taken it?” she asked.

“No,” said Anton, shaking his head, “definitely not.”

“Then who?”

“There is no one else here on our side, Commander, yes? So it is one of your team,” said Anton with a mocking smile.

“Sure, that’s logical,” agreed Lucy, “assuming that you’re telling the truth.”

“I am.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Let me think . . . perhaps because of our shared past?”

“Fuck off,” she hissed.

Anton just laughed.

“I’ve asked you not to bring that up again,” said Lucy. “Many times.”

“I can’t help it. I enjoy teasing you. You are cute when you are annoyed.”

“That’s unprofessional behavior.”

“True,” agreed Anton, “but, just recently, everything around here has been unprofessional.”

Fucking men, Lucy fumed, chest-thumping, dick-swinging dipshits.

“It’s your wounded male pride, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?”

She drew nearer, stared him right in the eye.

“You thought that, if I slept with you once, I’d be soft on you forever, didn’t you? ’Cause what, you think you were so good? Is that why you just can’t let go now? You can’t accept that—for me—it’s a closed chapter, can you? A mistake I’d prefer to forget.”

“Is that really what we should be discussing now?”

“No, it isn’t. That’s my point.”

They fell silent. Neither looked at the other.

“I am telling the truth,” said Anton after a pause. He was looking out the window. At the night sky. At sleeping cities.

“Then prove it.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” he asked.

“Tell me what happened between you and Lev,” demanded Lucy. “What was it about?”

“You know I cannot do that.”

“In that case, we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

Anton’s heavy sigh fogged up the windowpane and the stars briefly disappeared.

“On one condition,” he said.

“I’m all ears.”

“What I say remains between the two of us. Not a word to Ayers or anyone else.”

Lucy didn’t answer straightaway. She realized that this was a key moment, that she was walking a very fine line between prioritizing the crew’s well-being and treachery.

“I can’t promise you that,” she replied eventually.

“You have to.”

“It depends what you tell me.”

“No, Lucy. Either we both play an open hand, or neither does.”

Somebody on this space station has taken the pistol, thought Lucy. Without me knowing and, apparently, without the Russians knowing. That’s not something you do with good intentions. That’s not something I can ignore.

“OK, deal,” she said. “Now, tell me.”

“I have your word?”

“Yes.”

She waited to see how Anton would respond. Would he point out that she also made promises to her husband and mock her for her infidelity? But no, Anton just nodded.

“You must be aware that all is not well at our end,” started Anton, “and that our adventure in space is ending, whereas yours is just beginning. For obvious reasons that—excuse my French—pisses us off. Because we started all of this, no? For ages, you were the ones trying to catch up with us, and then it all went to hell . . . because of you.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Yes, yes, so you guys tell yourselves. I know that. It is not important,” he said, brushing it aside. “What matters is that the space station is slowly fizzling out. You will build another one, but we will not. We can’t afford it. We do not have the equipment. We do not have the staff. At best, we will be—how do you say it?—flunkies to the Chinese, although I doubt that will lead anywhere in the long run. They do not know how to work as a team. In that respect, they are even worse than you guys.”

“Let’s leave the geopolitics out of it.”

“Fair enough. Anyway,” said Anton, wiping his brow, “someone high up on our side decided that—short of anything better—we would take a free ride with you. Hitchhiking in the galaxy, yes? Not literally, of course . . . but we would keep an eye on what you were getting up to in orbit. To do it, we needed to install a device in one of the modules that would likely be reused when building the next space station. We were going to do it a bit later, but a good opportunity arose. . . .”

“You mean in Tranquility? During the solar storm?”

Anton confirmed with a nod. “Ideal circumstances, no? We could be one hundred percent certain that you would all be in your cozy cubicles and that your cameras would actually be turned off.”

“The device . . . what was it?”

“A small white box the size of a cigarette case. As to what exactly was inside it . . .” Anton shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know. Not my area of expertise. I do not ask unnecessary questions.”

“Unlike Lev?”

Anton brushed his hand along his chin, then scratched his cheek. “Mmm . . . Lev had his doubts, and I had to clear them up for him.”

Good old Lev, thought Lucy. An idealist, a wishful thinker, a dying species. After a pause, she said, “You left traces . . . which I found.”

“The screwdriver?”

“That and other things,” said Lucy, “although I only saw it on the recording.”

“I came back and tidied up.”

“When?” asked Lucy, but before Anton could open his mouth, she answered her own question. “Oh, I know. When you brought the caviar.”

“See, nothing escapes you . . .”

“Nice of you to say so.”

“. . . once you’ve been pointed in the right direction.”

She let the taunt pass without comment. She was puzzling over something.

“Why now?” asked Lucy.

“Huh?”

“Why right now? The station will be operational until at least 2024, so you had another three years, likely more. Why anticipate events? Why run the risk of creating conflict?”

Anton stared into her eyes. Once again, he was weighing what he could say and what he should keep to himself.

“Perhaps those in command know more than we do,” he answered eventually. “Perhaps they have plans. Big plans.”

“Plans that would make our ways part in any case? Something down on Earth?”

“Perhaps. Things seem to be heating up, no? But I am only guessing.”

Lucy recalled a map with Crimea included in Russia’s territory. That stacks up, she thought. Unfortunately.

“So?” asked Anton. “Do you believe me now?”

“I don’t know. Why are you telling me all this? Why are you helping me?”

“Some people are never satisfied!” Anton rolled his eyes. “When I did not tell you anything, you were not satisfied. Now I have told you, and you are still not satisfied. It is like the Rolling Stones song.”

“Answer me.”

“No, that one is by Nat King Cole,” he said. “I meant ‘I can’t get no—’”

“Anton!”

“I am helping you because the sooner you accept that one of your crew took the weapon, the more chance we have of returning home alive.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” she protested. “Who would do that? Why?”

“I do not know, but it probably has something to do with the ammonia.”

“That wasn’t you guys?”

Anton shook his head. “Tell me, is it really true that the ammonia leak is not coming from the cooling system, or is that just your party line?”

“It’s true.”

“Huh!” Anton seemed genuinely surprised. “Interesting.”

“Very.”

They both fell silent, absorbed in their own thoughts. Outside the window, the sun began to rise again, and a sharp, glaring light streamed into the capsule.

“Time to return to our beds,” said Anton, his eyelids drooping. “Get some beauty sleep.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Not a word?” he checked. “Not to anyone?”

“Scout’s honor. And you? Will you hold your tongue?”

Anton zipped his lips. Lucy nodded, grabbed a handle, and pulled herself up toward the exit. She was utterly drained by the events of the day, by this conversation, and, above all, by the conclusions she had drawn.

“Can I make a friendly suggestion?” called Anton as Lucy retreated.

“What?” She looked over her shoulder.

“If I were you,” said Anton, looking straight into Lucy’s eyes, “I would lock the doors of my cubicle from the inside.”

8

December 11, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: Did you instruct Mission Specialist Poplaski to secure the pistol?

AYERS: Absolutely not.

LAMAR: In that case, what did you discuss on the fourteenth of August?

AYERS: I don’t recall.

LAMAR: When did you find out that a shot had been fired on the station?

AYERS: I don’t recall.

ISS—November 4, 2013

Zzzzzziip. A zipper slid open. Hastily removed clothing floating in the air, each garment spinning separately. A minty kiss. Moaning deafened by the thrum of the air conditioning. Sun rays striking bare skin.

After it was all over, Lucy asked herself why she went ahead and did it. She was aware of how much she was putting at risk and how much it would hurt Nate if he found out. Had she started kissing Anton in a fit of passion, or while under the influence of alcohol, she could have told herself—even justified herself by saying—the urge was irresistible. Lucy was certainly attracted to Anton. He was infuriating, but there was definitely chemistry between them. Sparks flew. It hadn’t happened that way though: Lucy didn’t cheat on Nate in the heat of the moment. She and Anton planned it. They arranged to meet in the Cupola just after the cameras were switched off. She had time—long hours—to cool off and change her mind. So why did she do it?

Lucy went over it in her head again and again, mostly during her countless, seemingly unending flights after returning to Earth—Toulouse–Paris–Houston, Houston–Frankfurt–Cologne, and Cologne–Dubai–Tokyo. Often, it would be shortly before landing, when she was too tired to read or watch anything, but couldn’t fall asleep because it was uncomfortable, or because she was yet again changing time zones, or because a baby was bawling behind her—irritating in itself, but also a reminder of the distance separating Lucy from her own daughter. Lucy’s conscience usually failed to get a hearing when it knocked at the door—I’m sorry, Lucy is busy now. She has to prepare for an exam. She can’t allow herself to be distracted—but, at these times, it returned with a vengeance.

On one of these occasions, while sipping astringent red wine from a plastic wineglass, she concluded that her desire to be in control had been at the root of it. She realized that her adrenaline addiction and the accumulating problems in her relationship with Nate played their part; she also wanted, for once in her life, to have sex with a man whose feelings did not concern her at all—without worrying about her partner’s fragile happiness. But, above all, the fling was tempting because it wasn’t on the timetable—it wasn’t an activity inserted into her life by someone else. She had done it just because she wanted to—not for her career, nor for science, nor for humanity—just to satisfy a whim. This ran contrary to all the expectations and principles that had governed her way of life for almost twenty years. It did not, in any way, fit with Lucy’s single-minded endeavor to overwrite her real self with the persona of a perpetually smiling, supremely dedicated model astronaut.

Anton made the first move when they were still on Earth—in the cosmonaut town outside Moscow. Provocative behavior, smirking, and suggestive comments. Just high-school-style flirting. All with a mocking undertone as if he were taunting an animal in a cage. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t do it, would you? he seemed to be saying. Not until you have permission from Mission Control. You wouldn’t unless your omniscient flight director were to announce, after conferring with the other controllers, “Poplaski, Houston here. You have permission for sexual intercourse. I repeat, you have permission for sexual intercourse. Time allocation: fifteen minutes. Over.”

On the station, with less space and fewer witnesses, Anton became even more eager. At first, Lucy ignored him, but when that didn’t help, she decided that, OK, she would tell him: Let’s see if you walk the talk. Then she would see if he really was prepared to do it, or whether he was bluffing.

Anton wasn’t bluffing. He brought condoms with him. This wasn’t standard issue station equipment. He must’ve brought them in his personal envelope, together with family pictures. He’d planned it well ahead.

And yet, the sex itself was second-rate. They didn’t know each other’s preferences or each other’s bodies, and Anton wasn’t the kind of man who wanted to learn about his partner’s needs. Hardly! He couldn’t even admit to himself that there might be any need to learn, or that he might not be the ideal lover for every woman—at the first encounter and forever after. Also, it was cramped. The Cupola was barely three meters in diameter by one-and-a-half high, and all the walls were covered in protrusions like handrails, joysticks, and tubes of all sorts. Finally, weightlessness hindered rather than helped them.

Love in space—it sounds amazing! A bed is superfluous. No need to concern yourself with which way is up and which is down. The only limit on the repertoire of positions is your imagination. An orgasm with the Blue Planet as scenery! Images come to mind of closely intertwined bodies floating in the air, with hair billowing, and countless stars reflected in eyes glazed over with ecstasy.

The reality was less attractive. When Lucy told her best friend (the only person she confided in) about the incident, she compared it to two roller skaters wrestling on a staircase in puddles of oil. In essence, sex involves a lot of—using the exact, if not very sensual, terms employed in physics—motion in one plane at a regular frequency. As everybody knows, since Newton, interactions are mutual, every action is accompanied by a reaction, and so on. On Earth, gravity and friction anchor bodies to the spot—the vectors counteract each other—but on the station every movement of their hips pushed them away from each other. They had to find a way to brace themselves: in the end, Lucy hung on to a rail with her left hand and hooked her right foot under the ledge of the module’s hatch while Anton gripped a window rim with his fingers.

They got by in this way for a short time—it was even beginning to be pleasurable—but their progress was soon thwarted by sweat. Their hands and feet started slipping; wet skin squelched against fogged-up glass. They tried to get a better grip—awkwardly, panting, bumping their foreheads against each other—until the point when Anton thrust too hard, and they went into a sideways spin. In the trashy romantic novels that, as a teenager, Lucy used to sneak from her mother’s bedside cabinet, the heroine’s world would always start to spin at the point of orgasm. It sounded amazing, but in practice being spun around wasn’t much fun at all. They crashed into a wall: Lucy whacked her elbow, and Anton cut his knee. At that point, they quite simply gave up, unsated and embarrassed. As far as Lucy knew, it was the first attempt at sex in space, and—as with most first times—nobody was satisfied. If she were to sum up the whole episode in a report, it would probably have included wording such as: Practicing in pairs beforehand is essential. Training conditions should mirror the environment of the station as closely as possible. The task could be facilitated by a system of adjustable harnesses fastened with Velcro or clips.

Afterward, Lucy wondered whether or not to tell Nate. Of course, in a world of binary choices, absolutes, and lofty principles the answer was clear: she had broken her word and betrayed his trust, so she ought to own up and show contrition. She would have done so straightaway if it were not for the fact that—what could she do?—she was 408 kilometers above the Earth and communicated with her husband using channels monitored by government organizations (not to mention various nefarious actors, who constantly tried to break into NASA’s networks and often succeeded). She was given assurances that nobody would listen in to her private conversations, but could Lucy really be sure of that? Better to wait until she returned home.

But with every passing day, then every passing week, the whole episode appeared increasingly absurd, ridiculous, and insubstantial. Lucy listed the pros and cons in her head. Was it worth wounding Nate for the sake of telling him about something that would never happen again? Could her need to confess be a more harmful manifestation of egotism than the liaison itself? Wouldn’t she be making Nate suffer for the sake of easing her own conscience? Perhaps it would entail greater sacrifice on her part—and be a better decision—if she were to bear the guilt on her own in the clear knowledge that nobody would ever give her absolution, or forgive her, and that she would always bear this burden alone? Wouldn’t that be better for their relationship? And so on and so forth. She twisted the facts this way and that. Thinking in circles in front of a mirror. Which would be the right moment to talk about it after returning to Earth? When Nate greets me with flowers in his arms? In the airplane on the way back to the States? After going to bed together? The following day, when Nate’s parents join us for breakfast? And thus, in Lucy’s head at least, the whole issue faded and became encrusted like a scab—it continued to bother her, but she decided not to pick at it.

ISS—August 16, 2021, 11:00 GMT

The laptop beeped angrily, reminding her of the emergency call she had managed to get squeezed into Steve’s schedule. Lucy blinked, took a deep breath, and clicked the Connect button. Ayers’s face filled the screen, but the quality of the image was poor; it kept breaking up. Perhaps the Sun had sighed again, sending out more flares.

“Lucy? Can you hear me?”

She really didn’t want to talk to Steve. Lucy didn’t have the strength for it, but she knew she had no choice. “There’s interference, but I can hear you.”

“So? Did you succeed?”

“No,” she said, “the Makarov wasn’t in the locker.”

“That means the Russians are a step ahead of us. We have to—”

“I have reason to believe it wasn’t them,” said Lucy, interrupting.

Ayers was taken aback, his voice caught in his throat. Then he said, “What do you mean it wasn’t them? What reason?”

“Let’s call it intuition.”

Ayers cocked his head, his thoughts easy to infer from the deep furrow creasing his forehead. Did she really just say that?

“Respectfully, Madam Captain,” he said after a beat, “that’s bullshit.”

Clearly, Ayers wasn’t going to let it go at that. Lucy weighed her options. She could answer honestly, but . . . first, she had promised Anton. Second, it would lead to further questions, such as: How come you trust Anton so much? What’s the story here? So Lucy chose her words carefully. Staying at the boundary of truth and falsehood was important to her, both to salve her own conscience, which was already burdened enough, but also in case the matter arose again on Earth.

“Think about it. It doesn’t make sense. If the Russians took the pistol, they would’ve covered their tracks,” she answered. “They would’ve found an excuse to lock the Soyuz—like a technical failure—so that nobody could go inside without their knowledge and consent. At the very least, they would’ve put a padlock on the locker to stop anyone checking quite so easily what was inside, or what might be missing. Yet they didn’t take any of those steps, did they?”

“Perhaps they didn’t suspect we would go ferreting around their segment.”

“What? After the sham fire alarm?!” she said. Lucy’s tone made her meaning clear.

The picture came into focus. Only now did Lucy notice how dreadful Steve looked: bags under his eyes, greasy hair, and dark sweat stains on his collar.

“Then who, Lucy?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You must have suspicions. You all live in a steel tube the size of a bus. In those conditions, it’s impossible to hide anything. If somebody . . . If one of our crew is engaged in some sort of”—Steve took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes; he was searching for a euphemism to replace the words that caught in his throat: sabotage, betrayal, setup—“er . . . inappropriate activity, you must have noticed something unusual in his or her behavior.”

Ezra, she thought. It wasn’t a considered thought, as it didn’t involve any conscious analysis. His name just floated to the surface—on its own, uninvited. But Lucy couldn’t say it out loud, could she? Yes, Ezra repeatedly questioned her authority. For sure, he almost came to blows with Anton. Also, Lafayette had indicated that he was afraid of Ezra. But that wasn’t enough.

“Every crew has its conflicts, sure, but—” she started saying.

“Who?”

“We’re talking about a very serious accusation. I don’t want to say anything I might later regret.”

“In other words, you have nothing to report?”

“Not at this stage.”

A pause. Steve clasped his hands together, and pressed them to his lips. Then he continued, “I assume I don’t need to explain the gravity of your situation. The future, not just of the station but of the whole space program, depends on what you do now. Or what you fail to do. If we end up with some sort of . . . escalation . . . it could put us back by decades. It could change the course of history.”

Lucy nodded repeatedly, feverishly debating whether she should, after all, tell Steve about her conversation with Anton. Or not? She had promised not to tell but, considering the stakes, breaking her word could be justified. The downside: she would lose Anton’s trust altogether. He wouldn’t tell her anything else. She wouldn’t be able to count on his help, and Lucy realized she might need it. So she kept quiet.

“I see you want to be fair to your colleagues,” continued Steve, “and, usually, that would be commendable, but not in this situation.”

“As soon as I have evidence and a theory, I’ll let you know.”

Ayers looked straight into Lucy’s eyes. It was hard not to flinch from his gaze.

“Alright.” He nodded slightly. “But you need to understand that the time for being an agreeable captain, liked by the whole crew, has just ended. From now on, we are only interested in consequences. Not in people.”

“I understand.”

“The pistol has to be found,” said Ayers, stressing every word. “The person who removed it from the Soyuz must be put out of action following procedure ISS MED/3A dated the fourth of September, 2004.”

She remembered the procedure. Lucy knew them all.

Step one: Unpack the duct tape, bungee cords, and medical kit.

Step two: Use the tape to tightly bind the wrists together and then the ankles. Wind the elastic cord around the shoulders and chest.

Step three: Administer 10 mg haloperidol orally or, if subject uncooperative, 5 mg intramuscularly. Be aware that this may cause convulsions.

Ayers disconnected without saying goodbye.

Lucy’s heart was pounding so hard she felt sick.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 08:44 GMT –5

To function normally, people need axioms—established truths that do not have to be debated afresh every day. Without any certainties, we go completely crazy. Examples: every sunset will be followed by a sunrise; if you throw an object into the air, it will fall to the ground; and my partner is honest with me.

If faith in these basic truths is undermined, life gets very tricky. You start seeing the past in a wholly different light, and the future fills you with dread. People will undertake erratic, sometimes drastic, actions to return their world to normal. Like the Aztecs, who tore out the beating hearts of hundreds of prisoners of war to guarantee that the world would not succumb to eternal darkness—to make sure that a new day would dawn.

Nate brooded. What else was a lie? When Lucy said she was going on a two-day training course in Orlando, was that really where she went? When she claimed to be meeting a female friend from university for coffee, did Lucy actually meet up with her or someone else? Should he believe Lucy’s assurances that John, Greg, or whoever was only a friend?

Nate tried to drown out these questions by occupying his mind with other things. There was plenty to do because his amateur detective work, which he now regretted ever starting—he regretted not heeding Jeff’s warnings—meant he had neglected their home. Dirty dishes were stacked high in the sink, the self-propelled vacuum cleaner beeped ever more insistently, demanding to be emptied, and withered tulip petals were scattered all over the table. Worst of all, that damned alprazolam made him late picking up Eliza from her robotics class—by over two hours! To say the organizers were displeased would be putting it mildly; Eliza had tears in her eyes and didn’t speak to Nate for the rest of the evening. After that incident, Nate tried to prove—to himself above all—that he was a responsible father, reliable, and a grown-up. So he sorted the house out and took care of all the minor jobs he had promised to do for Eliza—changing the batteries in a toy, sewing up a stuffed animal that had come apart at the seams, and putting up an extra hook in the hallway for Eliza’s coat—all the while trying to keep his spiraling paranoia at bay. He was failing miserably.

On the way to their vacation in the Florida Keys, Lucy had been on her phone the whole time—was she really texting with her cousin, or had it been another man? Did she really buy those fancy lace panties with the ribbon and heart-shaped crystal with Nate in mind? Was Eliza really his daughter?

Of course she is, Nate immediately told himself, angry that he had allowed such a thought to occur. Even if it were true (although of course it wasn’t—that was going too far), what counted was parenting Eliza, not providing the genetic material.

But is that genetic material yours? Or not?

Nate was tempted to take another pill and free himself from these questions and the nagging voice at the back of his head—in effect, from himself—but no, he had resolved not to do that again; he would cope. Nate unloaded the dishwasher. He did the laundry, scrubbed the showers, and tidied up Eliza’s toys.

Am I a sucker? Has she left me here to sit on the roost, to cook and clean because she finds those chores boring? Is she with me because she loves me, or because it’s convenient? What else is she hiding from me?

The dryer beeped. Nate cleaned out the lint trap, took Eliza’s clothes to her room, and put them away. He brought his own to the walk-in closet next to the master bedroom. His drawers were on the left; Lucy’s on the right. He folded his T-shirts, rolled up his socks, and ground his teeth.

Next, although Nate didn’t quite know why, he opened Lucy’s drawers and started to empty them item by item.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 09:03 GMT –5

People, sighed Steve Ayers. The weakest link. All other elements of the station could be measured, tested, improved, and their parameters expressed in elegant formulas, but the astronauts were always a riddle. They all had something to hide.

Naturally, space agencies did what they could to vet crew members beforehand; each agency approached the task in its own way. In line with the frontier spirit that was their heritage, the Canadians sent their candidates on survival camping trips to the Arctic and screened out anyone who didn’t perform well there. The Europeans, with their penchant for paperwork typical of the EU, made their candidates sit through countless assessments, evaluations, and examinations. The Japanese, who believed patience was the most important virtue, ordered each potential conqueror of the cosmos to fold a thousand origami cranes, and checked whether the final bird was folded with as much loving care as the first—and only those that passed this hurdle were admitted to the next round of training. And then there were the Russians, who . . . But there was no point getting worked up about it.

Ding. The elevator arrived. Its doors opened, someone nodded to Steve, and another person pretended not to see him. He stepped in and pressed a button. Third floor.

The agencies’ methods varied, but none of them were one hundred percent effective. Some people who should never have been allowed into space slipped through the tightly woven net. Sometimes the problem related to health (candidates concealed medical problems that disqualified them from joining their national space agency), sometimes character (a wide smile could act as camouflage for a psychopath), or a faulty moral compass (like the crew of the Apollo 15, who raked in money on the side by smuggling postal covers into space). Usually, the cat came out of the bag before liftoff but, unfortunately, sometimes the problem only became apparent once the person was in orbit. One way or another, the space agencies usually managed to sweep these cases under the rug, only revealing them years later, once nobody was interested except historians. Usually, but not always.

The most notorious exception to the rule was Lisa Nowak (of Mission STS-121), who decided to kidnap the lover of her fellow astronaut and ex-boyfriend. For some reason, Nowak decided she had to do it immediately—right then (perhaps that Japanese patience testing was justified)—despite her victim being nine hundred miles away. Lisa Nowak therefore decided to drive the whole way in one night, so—to limit the number of pit stops—before leaving she put on an astronaut’s diaper. The journalists had a field day with the diaper. One of the headlines was Always Dry, Always and Forever: Jealous Astronaut Attack. Another screamed, Houston, Urine Control! The whole world laughed at her.

Ding. Steve came out of the elevator. He turned left, then right. If only you could read people’s minds, he fantasized. Insert a little cable into their thick skulls, and peep inside to check whether they were hatching any plots. If they were—ping—an electrode would be activated to send the signal down another path. Crisis averted. They’d need an extra controller, who could be called the REHOC: REmote Human Operation and Control. REHOC, repeated Steve in his head. It has a ring to it. For the time being, it was in the realms of science fiction, but at the current rate of technological progress, who knew what might be possible. DARPA was already financing experiments with helmets that both registered and reacted to brain activity, and the Pentagon was keeping a watchful eye. Enabling direct control of military equipment using only the mind, without involving the hands, was the official goal, but once they found a way to see the thoughts inside a human head, the technique could be used for other, far more interesting things—the path to the brain was bidirectional. Steve deeply regretted that it was not likely to happen in his lifetime. He would have known how to make use of such an invention.

One more turn, right at the water cooler, and he was standing outside the door of the chief of the Astronaut Office. The chief was a woman, Sarah Faizan.

Steve went in without knocking. Sarah was sitting at her desk, bent over some documents.

“Please do come in,” she said without lifting her head.

They didn’t like each other much.

“I’ve got an issue.” Steve sat down in the armchair opposite the desk. The leather creaked.

“Right. Go ahead.”

“It’s about the astronauts currently on the station. I’d like to take a closer look at their backgrounds.”

“Because?” Sarah still hadn’t looked up.

“Because it’s within the scope of my responsibilities.”

At this, Sarah finally looked up at Ayers, set her documents aside, and tucked her hair behind her ears. She was trying to guess what he was after. “You already have access to the crew’s dossiers,” she replied.

“Naturally, but I’m interested in the information that didn’t make it into the files.”

Sarah leaned back in her chair. “Is it about the ammonia leak?” she asked.

“No,” said Steve, shaking his head.

“Then what is it?”

“That piece of information is not within the scope of your responsibilities, Sarah.”

Sarah met this with a cold smile. “Coffee?” she asked. He wasn’t surprised to be asked. Steve had caught his reflection in the mirrored elevator door. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. Which was pretty much true.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“There’s some in the jug.” Sarah pointed to the percolator in the corner of the room. “It’s freshly brewed.”

Hmm, thought Steve, nice move. He was her boss, not the other way round. If he stood up, he would put himself in the weaker position, admit he was on Sarah’s territory and playing by her rules. He could say, Be a dear and pour me a cup, but then he would come across as a misogynist old fogy, and NASA was now very sensitive about these matters. Sarah could use it against him. What should he do then? Change his mind and say he no longer wanted a coffee? No, that would be worse. He’d come across as weak and effectively admit that Sarah had scored. He would have to make light of it.

“Would you like one?” asked Steve, smiling broadly, as he got up.

“No thanks.”

Steve ambled toward the coffeepot. He was thinking how best to continue the conversation. His interactions with Sarah had been tense from the very start. It was inevitable.

Sarah had been an astronaut herself not that long ago, so she knew all the members of the crew personally—she had trained with them and even been in orbit with some of them. She understood the crew’s dreams, dilemmas, and fears better than anyone. She understood, as no one else could, how much they sacrificed for their work and how great a blow it would be to take it away from them. And so, even though Steve was the deputy director for crewed space flights, Sarah wasn’t totally frank with him. Clearly, if an individual crossed a red line, like neglecting their duties in a way that put other crew members in danger, Sarah acted without delay or mercy, but she was ready to forgive minor transgressions and peccadilloes, especially if they occurred outside work hours and far from NASA’s concrete ziggurats. Sarah did more than forgive; she swept them under the rug, without a trace. No abnormalities reported in the paperwork. No harm, no foul. You were up to your neck in debt at the casino? Oh well, as long as you didn’t take spacesuit components to a pawnbroker, it didn’t concern her. You enjoy partying at Miami’s nightclubs? If there weren’t any traces of drugs in the urine samples, why should it bother her?

Steve didn’t share this philosophy. In fact, he thought most of the astronauts were spoiled brats. They had won the lottery and yet, rather than showing gratitude and toiling day and night, they were always complaining. All the fucking time! About the excessive number of tasks on their schedules. About the food being bad. About not getting enough trips into space—Why did that person go, and not me? Why, oh why, has nobody patted me on the back yet today or given me a sticker with a smiley face? And did the complaining stop once they were up on the station? No, of course not. The toilets stank. The air was stale. The work was boring. The food was bland. Boo-hoo-hoo. Steve had zero patience for this, and little leniency. For him, the rules were straightforward: one strike and you’re out—there are thousands eager to take your place. Unfortunately, he was alone in this respect.

He poured himself a coffee, sat down again, and took a sip.

“I thought you took sugar.”

“I’ve stopped.” Steve shrugged. “Doctors’ orders.”

“We were talking about areas of responsibility,” said Sarah, putting her elbows on the desk, making it clear she had little interest in his medical history.

“I want to know everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything.” He put his cup down. “Judgment Day for Lucy, Lafayette, Devaki, and Ezra. Have any of them ever lost a key card and failed to report it? Have any of them ever claimed nonallowable expenses? Even for a doughnut. Or claimed reimbursement of fuel charges when they actually took a flight? I want all of it on my desk.”

Steve wasn’t entirely convinced that one of the American crew had taken the Makarov. He still thought it was more likely the Russians removed it and didn’t cover their tracks for one of two reasons: either because they wanted the American side to know the pistol was in play, or simply because they were incompetent—that would be nothing new. However, Steve had to admit that Lucy’s hypothesis made sense. Yet he couldn’t trust Lucy one hundred percent either; Steve had heard the rumors of her inappropriately close relationship with their Russian friends. Who knew what other skeletons she had in her closet.

“An astronaut’s dossier contains all the information that is relevant to the further—”

“By this afternoon,” interrupted Ayers, “by two o’clock.”

Sarah adjusted her glasses, as if to see him better, read him better.

“Why the hurry?” she asked.

Steve’s only reply was a grin, but she got the message: That’s way above your pay grade, dear. Sarah Faizan looked out the window and crossed her legs. She was thinking.

“I might not find anything,” she said eventually.

“Is that so?”

“I’m afraid there’s a chance that might happen,” she said. “My apologies in advance.”

“Aha.” Steve nodded once. It was time to roll out the big guns. “I’m afraid there’s a chance that, soon, your astronauts won’t have a space station to visit.”

Sarah remained silent, but Steve could see from her expression that his words had had the desired effect.

“By two,” repeated Steve as he stood up.

He left his half-drunk coffee on her desk.

ISS—August 16, 2021, 15:13 GMT

Lucy was directly opposite Ezra, centimeters apart. He was looking straight into her eyes. Probing, curious. No sign of friendliness.

“How’s that?” asked Lafayette. He was floating down by their feet, which they’d slipped under rails.

“Please tighten it a bit more,” replied Lucy.

Lafayette undid the Velcro fasteners that secured the cooling system enveloping Lucy’s body. He pulled the adjustment strap so hard it rasped.

“Now?” he asked.

“Now it’s OK, thanks.”

“Right, Ezra, your turn.” Lafayette used his finger to push away from the floor and made a half turn. “Please can you bend your knees a little?”

“Sure,” replied Ezra. “Thanks for your help.”

They were both playing nice. Hardly surprising, as they were being livestreamed. Lucy knew that lengthy discussions had taken place in Houston about whether they should skip the live transmission this time. On the one hand, the imminent space walk was the centerpiece of the expedition’s program; it would undoubtedly win people over and drive clicks and follows (don’t forget to subscribe!). All those likes, hearts, and comments could later be converted into hard currency in Washington: Honorable members of Congress, it is clear that American taxpayers take an active interest in our mission, and definitely want to see it continue. Just look at these engagement statistics! On the other hand, the crew had enough to worry about: the ammonia level in the air had increased to three parts per million. Voices calling for drastic measures, such as limiting the number of astronauts on board until the problem was resolved, were growing louder. So why add the pressure of cameras all around? One simple reason: any change of plan could spark rumors that NASA had something to hide and that the situation must be worse than conveyed in official communiqués; hence they were keeping to the standard procedure.

“Is that OK?” asked Lafayette.

“Perfect,” replied Ezra. “Good job.”

“I’m glad. Attention, please. I’m now going to connect your EEH.”

Lucy lowered her eyelids, took a deep breath in, and slowly, steadily let it out. From that point on, Mission Control would be monitoring her biosignals: her heart rate, body temperature, and perspiration rate. The purpose was to keep the astronauts safe, but the assembly of diodes and cables also acted as a lie detector. If a problem arose, Lucy would no longer be able to conceal it from Houston. She could carry on reporting that the work was going according to plan, but whatever she said, her heart trace would let Houston know she had been agitated. Astronauts had to be on their guard: if their biosignals went outside the normal range—even if the space walk went well and all its goals were fully achieved—an astronaut could be marked as vulnerable to stress and disqualified from future EVAs.

“OK,” said Lafayette, reaching into the cupboard. “Time for the caps. Who wants to go first?”

“Ladies first,” said Ezra.

Fuck off, thought Lucy.

“Thank you,” she said, flashing a smile.

Like all other female astronauts, she loathed remarks that emphasized her gender and implied she should be treated differently than her male peers; she loathed insinuations that women required special treatment, adjustments, and adaptations. All these cordial pleasantries were proof the patriarchy held firm; they had an unarticulated subtext: the men saw women as a problem. Well yes, a woman will want to take hairspray and a pumice stone for her heels; she’ll expect separate toilet facilities, tampons, and makeup remover. Every gram sent into orbit cost a fortune, so wouldn’t it be simpler to just stick with male astronauts?

Ezra was fully aware of this. He was one of the authors of this narrative. Did his best to keep it alive. Southern gallantry, my ass, she thought.

“OK . . . ready?” Lafayette was hovering right in front of Lucy. He held a Communications Carrier Assembly—a cotton cap with cables running around it. Lucy noticed he seemed stressed. He was sweating profusely and avoided looking her in the eye. Why?

“Sure,” she said, trying her best to sound reassuring.

Lafayette stretched the cap over her head and fastened it so tightly under her chin that the strap dug into her skin. And good thing it did. Were it to come loose later, during the space walk, she would have no way of adjusting it. If it slid down her forehead and obscured her view, it would likely kill her.

“Lucy, this is CAPCOM.” It was Anna Rathke’s voice coming through the headphones. “Can you hear me?”

“As if you were right beside me.”

“Ooh! I wish! Those days are over.”

Lucy smiled. She liked Anna and was pleased the EVA would take place during her shift. Anna had lived on the ISS and knew what it was like to be there; what’s more, she knew what the experience was like for a woman.

“Yes, I can hear you,” said Ezra, who was now also connected. He kept staring at Lucy as if he wanted to drill a hole in her skull with his eyes. Lucy fought the urge to look away, as she knew that was what Ezra wanted. To make her uneasy. To make her tense. To make her pulse race. It would allow him to claim: Didn’t I say that she wasn’t cut out to be a commander?

“OK.” Lafayette pushed off from the wall and floated to the other end of the airlock. His skin was gleaming with sweat. “Now we’ll proceed to putting on the LTAs.”

“Gentlemen first,” said Lucy, waving Ezra forward with a courtly gesture. He grimaced. Good, she thought, choke on a bag of dicks.

Lafayette held out the Lower Torso Assembly, the all-in-one pants and boots. Ezra had to slip into it like a toddler into pajamas. Lucy was surprised Houston assigned Lafayette for the task. It was obvious he didn’t get along with Ezra, but more importantly, did they really want a Black astronaut putting a white astronaut’s—a Southerner’s—boots on for him? Politics. It was all politics; there was no escaping it. Politics followed them into space uninvited, like a stowaway.

Someone must have thought about it—the whole process was televised—then bickered over it, in endless email chains and at multiple committee meetings, while their schedule was being hammered out years before they arrived on the station. In the end, the optics must have mattered less than the practicalities. Lafayette was the best person for the job: he had both the training and the physical prowess. It was clear, however, that he did not relish the task and the arrogant smirk lingering on Ezra’s lips didn’t make it any easier. Right where you belong, it seemed to be saying, and how about you give these boots some polish while you’re there?

At least Ezra had to focus on something other than silently undermining her authority, so Lucy could check her watch. The EVA preparations were already into their fourth hour (not counting the prebreathe protocol), and they still had about another two hours to go. In a movie it would be: One-two-three-and-in! the astronaut pulls on a spacesuit (elastic, close-fitting, and thin—like a second skin); Click! the doors of the airlock close; Psst! decompression takes place; and Ooh! out admiring the stars. But reality was much more complex. More hostile.

The pressure inside the station was one atmosphere; outside it was zero, as you’d expect in the vacuum of space. If a spacesuit was filled with air at the compression normal on Earth—14.6 pounds per square inch—then outside the station, where there was no external pressure, it would swell up like a balloon. Not only would it be difficult to move around—you could forget about manual dexterity altogether—but it would be impossible to fit through the hatch and get back into the station. Alexei Leonov, the first person to walk in space, discovered this the hard way—and was a hairbreadth away from floating off into space forever.

To avoid any repetition of this incident, American Extravehicular Mobility Units are filled with air at a pressure of one-third of an atmosphere. That degree of variation in pressure can lead to a problem familiar to all scuba divers—decompression sickness—so, to avoid getting the bends when they return to the station, astronauts have to remove as much nitrogen as possible from their bloodstream before an EVA. Hence, the first step in their preparations is breathing pure oxygen for thirty minutes. The presence of pure oxygen significantly increases the risk of fire, so additional safety procedures are necessary. . . . And so it goes on . . . and on, and on.

Lucy closed her eyes. She couldn’t wait to be outside stretching her hand out toward the Earth. Even buddied up with Ezra. Even with the awareness that the station was filling up with ammonia. Even with the knowledge that one of the crew had stolen the Makarov and ammunition from the locker and hid them elsewhere.

“Didn’t you sleep well?” It was Ezra’s voice. Evidently, he now had his pants on. Easy does it, thought Lucy. Don’t let your blood pressure shoot up. Don’t spook Houston.

“I’m gathering my strength,” she replied, making a point of keeping her eyes closed.

“Good idea. Space walks are physically very demanding.”

“I know.”

“One thing knowing, another experiencing it!”

You like rubbing it in, don’t you? thought Lucy, grinding her teeth. He’s done it once before—and I haven’t. Yet another reason he doesn’t take me seriously. During her last visit, Lucy was supposed to go on an EVA, but it transpired that they didn’t have a spacesuit in her size. The only size available at the time was large—as in Large Man.

“We’ll find out shortly,” she replied, opening her eyes.

“Lucy, lift your leg higher.” Lafayette was hovering beside her, his head facing down.

“Yes,” Ezra agreed. “Soon the truth will come out.”

His words chilled her. What truth? What the hell is he talking about?

“What truth?” she asked.

“The truth about the ammonia. Whether the cooling system really has been damaged on the outside of the station and is causing the leak. What were you thinking of?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Ezra cocked his head.

“I’m sorry, what are you driving at?”

“Nothing at all.” He smiled for the first time since they had met in the airlock. “Take it easy. Nye volnuysya, as our Russian friends would say.”

Lucy felt the hair at the back of her neck rise. What is he implying? she thought. What does he know? She closed her eyes and bit her lips. He was trying to rile her up again. She was already visualizing the graphs on the screens in Houston, the furrowed eyebrows of the on-duty biomedical engineer, and the anxious glances exchanged with the CAPCOM: The astronauts haven’t even left the station, and Poplaski is already losing her self-control! Lucy breathed in deeply through her nose until she felt the straps around her ribs dig into her skin.

“It takes a lot more than that to upset me,” she answered, returning his smile.

Ezra made no reply, but his eyes said, Good, I’ve only just started.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 14:09 GMT –5

The documents were waiting on his desk, as Steve requested. Four thick folders. Well, I never, he thought. There’s nothing as effective as a thinly veiled threat. Steve went to draw the heavy drapes across the windows.

“Jenny,” he called through the open door.

A chair scraping and the tapping of heels. His secretary stood in the doorway of his office.

“Yes, Mr. Ayers?”

“Please clear my calendar”—Steve obscured the last window—“for the rest of the day.”

“But at two thirty you have the meeting with Rocket Lab. . . .”

“Tell them I’m ill.” Steve sat down at his desk and switched on his favorite lamp.

“They flew in from California yesterday.”

“Then tell them I’m seriously ill.”

Jenny nodded. They had worked together for many years. She knew there was no point discussing it any further, and that the documents lying on his desk, with a shaft of light focused on them, were all that mattered.

“What if anyone calls?” she added.

“I’m unavailable.”

“Any exceptions?”

“The president”—Steve adjusted his glasses—“and Rybkin,” he added after a moment’s thought.

Steve still hadn’t heard from his Russian counterpart. Moscow was displeased by the false fire alarm; they hadn’t been taken in by the “accidental activation of the alarm system caused by a programming error” line. Rybkin needed to respond in a way that demonstrated—to both the Americans and his own bosses—that NASA couldn’t thumb its nose at him without consequences. The question was, What else could Rybkin do? He had already played the strongest card in his hand by threatening to abandon the station. How could he up the ante after that opening move?

Hence the prolonged silence. Hence the meetings at the Kremlin reported by Kevin Wallgreen. The next step in the dance, once the Russians decided on a course of action, should have been something along the lines of a little foot stamping, a little shouting, and a little sword waving to force the Americans into compromises. Steve was ready for that. He had already agreed with the State Department on a list of concessions that he could put forward to placate the Russians. Perhaps you’d like a contract to send a satellite into orbit? Sure, we’ll pay. Or perhaps it might suit you if a few of your scientists were removed from the list of Russian Federation citizens subject to sanctions? No problem. It can be arranged.

But the Russians didn’t seem to be in any hurry to start negotiations. That worried Steve. Maybe—rather than behave predictably, logically, and in a way that would further their own interests—they had, in fact, decided to do something stupid. For example, something that required a GRU-trained cosmonaut and a loaded Makarov pistol. Or perhaps they were, quite simply, stumped and therefore silent. Maybe the Russians didn’t take the pistol. That thought led Steve to the folders laid out on his desk.

Each contained a few hundred pages. Even a cursory read of all these documents would have taken a whole week. Fortunately, Sarah Faizan had been so kind as to flag the most interesting fragments. Steve had no doubt that each of the four astronauts had something on their conscience. In this respect, Steve, a self-declared atheist, shared the views of the inquisitors from the Middle Ages: there are no innocent people, only those who have not been vetted thoroughly enough. All Steve needed to check was whether any of the astronauts’ peccadilloes could be relevant to ongoing events and linked to the mysterious ammonia leak or the Russians’ behavior.

Steve reached for the first folder: Devaki Anand, the space tourist. At least she paid her own way, he thought. Her official photograph showed a broad, genuine smile. I made it! I’m going into orbit! Yay! Quite a contrast with the message her expression conveyed during his last videoconference with the crew. How much longer? I can’t bear it! Help!

I wonder what has caused her nausea, thought Steve. Is it definitely just motion sickness? Perhaps she’s pregnant? They tested female astronauts for this eventuality before departure, but tests weren’t infallible. Either way, Devaki stood to benefit if the mission were cut short, thought Steve. She had reason to engineer an early evacuation of the crew, as that would, at last, end the nightmare she herself had initiated, paying millions for the pleasure. Of course, Devaki had the option of requesting an early return through official channels. If the doctor monitoring the crew’s health decided her life was in danger—a conclusion that didn’t require much embellishment of the facts, as Devaki had been teetering on the brink of dehydration for weeks—the mission would be cut short. What an uproar that would cause. Her name would be dragged through the mud; her reputation would be in tatters. Silicon Valley didn’t tolerate weakness. Who knows how much her company’s share price would drop if the news spread that she was the cause of a crisis in space? So Devaki had a motive.

Steve leafed through the documents in Devaki’s folder until he reached the first flag; here was an issue worthy of attention. He read the excerpt highlighted in fluorescent yellow marker: It is a cause for concern that fifty-one percent of AIRevolved, the company set up by Anand, is currently owned by a Chinese investment fund. If you controlled that much of the pie, you could dictate terms. The fund was probably a private enterprise, but in China, the boundaries between government and business were porous, and the plans of the Middle Kingdom and the West regarding the future of space were not aligned, to put it mildly. The Chinese would be keen to learn more about the inner workings of the station—and keener still to throw sand in the gears. If the ISS went down prematurely, Tiangong would be the only space station in orbit. What a win for the chairman. So perhaps the Chinese had made her promises—How about we buy more shares at a higher price and drive up your valuation and reputation? Or maybe they’d threatened to drive her beloved company into the ground. . . . With a controlling stake they certainly had the power to do that. Would she be able to steal the pistol while puking at every turn? wondered Steve. Maybe she was faking it. . . .

Steve flicked through further flagged documents. Accused of workplace bullying by an ex-colleague in 2003. Allegations she transferred assets to tax havens in the Caribbean. Also interesting, but there was no evident connection with the current situation. Time to move on.

The next folder. Lucy Poplaski. The captain, and Steve’s eyes and ears on the station. The first highlight: According to anonymous sources, Poplaski’s relationships with certain members of the Russian cosmonaut corps go beyond the bounds of intimacy usual in a friendship. This gossip didn’t surprise him at all. Workplace romances were as old as workplaces themselves; back in the Stone Age, hunter-gatherers probably had affairs on untanned mammoth pelts. You could promise each other, You’re the only one for me, until death do us part, or so help me God, but all it took was a few months’ separation, hormones, and alcohol for the reality that humans didn’t live up to their ideals to become apparent. The question was whether the Russian side knew about Lucy’s fling, and therefore if it could exploit it to blackmail her. If Lucy had confessed all to her husband—or if such flings were accepted within their relationship—the Russians wouldn’t have much leverage. However, if Lucy wanted her infidelity to remain secret and her marriage was at stake . . . the Russian side would have plenty of rope to hang her with.

How might that play out? thought Steve, leaning back in his chair. Let’s say the level of ammonia rises to four parts per million, then five. The Multilateral Coordination Board meets; it decides to reduce the size of the crew until the problem is resolved in order to limit the volume of ammonia exhaled. It would make sense for the Dragon crew to return first because the American segment needed relieving the most. So then, Ezra, Lafayette, and Devaki would return to Earth, while the three who arrived in the Soyuz remained on the station. The two Russians and Lucy. That would be a very attractive scenario for Rybkin. Shit, thought Steve. I should’ve vetted Lucy more thoroughly before involving her in my plans and showing her my cards. Moscow might already know everything. Oh well. He sighed. Spilt milk. Limited trust from now on.

Steve looked through the rest of Lucy’s folder, but the remaining items really were trifling, like thirdhand stories of improper parking. Apart from that one transgression, Lucy was the personification of an ideal astronaut. Steve reached for the next file—Lafayette Summers—and opened it to the first flagged document. He immediately noticed the Houston Police Department logo at the head of the page. Curious, he thought. What mischief has our beaming botanist gotten up to? Drugs? Assault?

The first few sentences were enough to show that this was an incident of an altogether different nature. It was a story we hear every day in the United States—it happened all the time. Lafayette was stopped by a traffic police patrol, allegedly because he hadn’t signaled when changing lanes, but more probably because he was a Black man driving an expensive car—which alone seemed suspicious to the police officers.

The accounts of what happened next varied significantly. According to the police officers’ testimony, Lafayette refused to cooperate, displayed an aggressive attitude, and then suddenly and unexpectedly reached into the glove compartment. According to Lafayette, the policemen refused to tell him why he had been stopped, and when he tried to show them his license and registration, one of them pulled out a gun while the other grabbed him by the back of the neck and twisted his arm. In any case, Lafayette was arrested and charged with dangerous driving and assault, and he sued the department for police brutality in return. The heap of papers included court records submitted as evidence, including a medical report that showed Lafayette had not been handled gently while detained at the police station.

Further documents: correspondence between Lafayette and Helen Chen at the Public Affairs Office. Lafayette wanted his case publicized; he wanted to take advantage of his position to draw attention to the burning issue (as he saw it) of police brutality. Helen admitted that the incident in Houston undoubtedly merited condemnation, but claimed that blowing it up did not serve the long-term interests of NASA. Unfortunately, she was right: Cape Canaveral was in Florida, where the state authorities reacted hysterically to any attempts to air the subject of racism. What’s more, Lafayette was gay (it wasn’t recorded in the documents; those days were over) so, for the local conservatives, he would be like a red rag to a bull. The Right already saw Lafayette as a DEI hire. So Helen Chen got her way. The whole affair was swept under the rug. The policemen weren’t even reprimanded.

It makes you wonder, thought Steve. Perhaps the Russians—or the Chinese, or Iran, or another country; there was no shortage of candidates—exploited this incident to recruit Lafayette, persuading him that a country that still treated Black people as second-class citizens didn’t deserve his loyalty and support. That a universe dominated by the United States was a hotbed of future conflicts. That, for the good of the human race, the scales had to be rebalanced, as they had been with atomic weapons. That there was a need to create a world order with compromise at its foundations, not—

The telephone rang. An internal call. From the next room. From Jenny.

“Hmm?” he muttered into the receiver, making his displeasure known. He’d told Jenny not to disturb him.

“I’ve got Director Rybkin on the line,” replied Jenny. “Shall I put him through?”

Steve set the stack of documents aside and sat up straight in his chair. At last.

“Yes, of course. I’m ready.”

Click and he was on another line.

“Hello?”

“Rybkin here.”

“Great to hear from you, Yuri.” This time Steve didn’t make an effort to speak in Russian. “How are you?”

Rybkin got straight to the point. “We have information showing that the fire alarm was activated manually.”

OK, let’s get this over with, thought Steve. “The specialists at the operations center say it was a coding error,” said Steve, sticking to the party line.

“My cosmonauts have, yet again, been exposed to danger by your actions.”

“Let’s not exaggerate. False alarms occur from time to time, but I do understand your frustration, believe me, and so I’ve been authorized to—”

“We don’t want your handouts,” snarled Rybkin.

Steve choked back what he was about to say. That’s new, he thought. A bagful of dollars was usually enough to calm the waters.

“You think you have us on a leash,” continued Rybkin, raising his voice, “and can kick us, then just toss us scraps from your table to fix it. You think we will take what we are thrown with our ears drooping and our tail between our legs.”

“That’s far from the approach we take in our partnership.”

“You forget we have teeth and can bite.”

“Yuri, really, that sort of language won’t take us . . . Hello?” Rybkin had disconnected. The bastard had hung up on him.

Before Steve could put the receiver down, his personal cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Kevin Wallgreen, the Russian interface officer.

“Yes?”

“Steve, I’ve just received a cable from Moscow”—Kevin paused as if he could hardly believe what he was about to say—“about plans to test the ASAT systems.”

“What?”

“The anti-satellite rockets. As a show of force, they plan to shoot down one of their own space probes, which is already—”

“I know what ASAT means,” barked Steve. “When?”

“In fifteen minutes.”

“What!” Steve jumped to his feet. His office chair went rolling to the other side of the room.

“That’s what it says in the cable.”

“The EVA?”

“It’s already begun,” replied Kevin. “Ezra and Lucy are already outside.”

“The orbits?”

“Adjacent. They may intersect.”

Fucking hell! thought Steve. That means they’re in danger of being hit by shrapnel.

“Cut the live transmission. I’ll be in the flight control room within five minutes,” Steve shouted as he rushed off with the cell phone pressed to his cheek.

Without looking through the last folder.

About Ezra Wendley.

9

December 11, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: Were your actions premeditated, or did you act on impulse?

WENDLEY: I acted in accordance with my conscience.

LAMAR: You haven’t answered my question.

WENDLEY: I believe actions speak louder than words.

LAMAR: I would like to remind you that you swore an oath to tell the whole truth.

WENDLEY: I swore to defend my country. I will defend it until I die, so help me God.

ISS—August 16, 2021, 19:12 GMT

Lucy felt tiny.

The Earth was above her head; it filled her field of vision, and Lucy found its vastness overwhelming. She fought off the notion that it was about to fall out of the sky and crush her into a pulp. She had to keep calming her nervous system, switching off the fight-or-flight alarm system inherited from her ancestors and suppressing the reflex reactions: Grab hold! Retreat! Tuck in your head!

They were floating over the Pacific. Water everywhere. Clouds. No greenery. No lights. It looked like an alien, hostile world. Even though Ezra was working right beside her, Lucy couldn’t hear his tools scraping against the station or the clang of plate metal. Only her own breathing. Nothing else. In space, stars were born and died in deathly silence; sound was the exception, not the rule. It was an incredible, shock-inducing contrast to the interior of the station, with its incessantly rumbling fans and horizons restricted to an arm span. It made Lucy’s head spin.

“Wrench,” said Ezra over the radio.

“Which one?”

“Number ten.”

Lucy gripped the tool in her gloved hand first, and only then did she undo the clip and pass the wrench to Ezra; otherwise, it would have floated away into the blackness, and then, a day or two later, it might have returned like a boomerang and torn a module apart like a paper lantern.

“How’s it going?” asked Lucy. They were already behind schedule. As ever.

“One sec.”

Ezra was struggling with one of the bolts. Hardly surprising: their gloves were so thick it was impossible to feel anything through them. You couldn’t use touch to tell whether a part was still loose or sufficiently tightened—think changing tires in oven mitts. Yet another sense that was stifled in space. Yet more habits that had to be unlearned. Some people argued that, rather than sending the able-bodied into space, it would be better to let people with disabilities wear the spacesuits. A person who cannot hear would not be affected by never-ending noise; someone whose inner ear didn’t function wouldn’t ever feel nauseous, even if they were spun around twenty-four hours a day. A person who was unable to use their legs would adapt better to a place where your hands did almost all the work. An astronaut who didn’t usually have full control of their body, and was accustomed to functioning in a world created to suit other people’s needs and capabilities, might get used to the additional restrictions imposed by space more quickly. This line of reasoning could be taken further. Surely a person who didn’t feel the need for contact with others would bear the isolation better? Wouldn’t a person on the autism spectrum, who adored structure and order, have more patience with the demands of the timetables set by Houston?

“All done.” Ezra grabbed the handrail and straightened up. His face was red; beads of sweat were gathering around his eyes. He had no way of wiping them away.

Lucy put the tools back in their places and slammed the toolbox shut.

“CAPCOM—we’re heading for segment S1,” she reported.

“Go ahead,” replied Anna Rathke from four hundred kilometers below. “Status: minus twenty-nine minutes. Speed up, if you can.”

Lucy saw Ezra’s face tighten. Another woman telling him what to do.

“We’ll try,” said Lucy.

She unclipped the carabiner securing one of her safety tethers to the station, and reattached it to a metal loop (the technical term was tether point), then she gave it two hard tugs to check that the latch had caught. Then, and only then, not a second earlier, could she safely transfer the second carabiner too, checking as she did so that the locks on the two carabiners were turned in opposite directions and that the tethers hadn’t caught on anything or become tangled up. Simple enough but, in a rush, with limited dexterity, you might slip up . . . and a single carabiner could give way. Then, the slightest movement that triggered reverse motion, even pressing a button, would be enough to make you float away from the station’s surface into the icy void.

The Earth obscured the Sun. In an instant, the station was enveloped in total darkness, as if someone had drawn a brush over it, dipped in tar. The afterimages of glare spots, which only a second before were reflecting off the station’s metal plating, exploded in Lucy’s eyes; it was enough to disorient her. Lucy had no idea which way she was supposed to be going, she couldn’t hear anything, she couldn’t feel anything, and she was partially blinded. The blood pulsed at her temples, her breathing became erratic, and the animal hidden within her medulla started to panic. Shit, she thought, Houston will see this. Lucy did as she had been taught in training: closed her eyes, calmed her breath, and counted to five. It helped.

Her helmet light illuminated no more than two to three meters ahead. Next to her, she could see the beam from Ezra’s light but beyond that, total darkness. In a normal EVA that had been fully planned in advance and repeatedly rehearsed on Earth, Ezra and Lucy would have worked separately, each carrying out their own task. But Houston decided that, in these circumstances, it would be safer if they stuck together. If one of them encountered a problem, the other could help straightaway. They couldn’t count on anyone else. Their air supplies would run out long before another crew member managed to put on a spacesuit and reach them.

From the first carabiner to the second, the astronauts pulled themselves along half a meter at a time. They made slow progress, looking carefully to both sides. The plan for the space walk was simple: they were to inspect the places where, hidden beneath the station’s metal plating, the pipes carrying liquid ammonia entered the habitable modules. It was possible that a fragment of cosmic debris had perforated the plating and damaged a pipe at an entry point, and a slow leak of ammonia was seeping into the station interior through microscopic cracks. Not very likely, but possible.

“Can you see anything?” asked Ezra.

“There are a few dents, but no perforations.”

He turned his head toward her and flooded the area beneath her feet with light. Ezra didn’t trust Lucy; he preferred to check himself.

“What about in your area?” asked Lucy, trying to get Ezra to mind his own business.

“Nothing yet.”

“I’ll check the pump. You go to the opposite side.”

“OK,” he said reluctantly. Ezra transferred his carabiners and disappeared behind the edge of the truss—the station’s spinal cord, which linked all the modules and solar arrays. He was on the opposite side of it from Lucy, so they couldn’t see each other and had to communicate step by step to remain in sync.

“And?” she asked, yanking the panel covering the pump.

“Zilch. We’re wasting our time here.”

Moron, she thought. Mission Control is listening; your tone will be noted.

“Well, we’ve been told to investigate,” she replied.

Ezra just snorted.

She was tempted to ask him what was so entertaining, whether he had anything he wanted to tell her, but no—that was just what Ezra wanted. Provoking her to make her look like a nitpicker or, even better, a neurotic woman. Lucy levered up the edge of the panel with a screwdriver. It gave way; she peered inside. As if summoned, the sun came out again; everything suddenly blazed with light, making Lucy squint. The pump seemed to be intact. She looked for the blue crystals of frozen ammonia that would indicate a leak. There weren’t any.

“Poplaski, Wendley, CAPCOM here.” The words burst in through their headphones. Lucy was perturbed by Anna’s tone of voice; it heralded trouble. “Return to the airlock. I repeat: return to the airlock.”

“CAPCOM—what’s going on?” Lucy was already closing the panel and packing up her tools without waiting for a reply. She knew that Houston would not have made a decision like that lightly.

“The Russians are about to blow up one of their satellites.”

“What the . . . ?!”

“You are in adjacent orbits,” said Anna. “A collision is possible.”

“When are they planning to do it?” asked Ezra.

“In twelve minutes.”

Lucy felt cold sweat run down her back. It had taken them two hours to get from the airlock to the spot where they were now. If the satellite was destroyed in twelve minutes’ time, the first shrapnel would reach the vicinity of the station in an hour at the latest, perhaps earlier. They wouldn’t manage to get back before then.

“Get on the phone,” snarled Ezra. “Tell them they have to call it off.”

“We’ve tried already.”

“Ezra, stop discussing it—just pack up,” shouted Lucy.

“You’ve tried—with what result?” persisted Ezra. Lucy still couldn’t see him, as he was on the other side of the truss.

“They claim the decision to proceed was beyond Roscosmos’s control.”

“Is that all they told you?”

“We’ll fill you in with the big picture at the debriefing,” replied Anna, “once you’re back inside. What matters right now is getting inside.”

“They’re pushing us around.”

“That’s not how it is, Ezra. Our response will be proportionate and adequate to the situation.” Anna was trying to keep calm, but Lucy could hear her losing patience with Ezra. “I can’t just call the Kremlin. I’m not responsible for our country’s foreign policy, but I am responsible for your safety. Lucy, are you on your way back?”

“Yes, I’m just moving my carabiner.”

“What about you, Ezra?”

There was no reply. Lucy couldn’t see or hear him.

“Ezra?” asked Lucy.

Still nothing. Silence. Has something happened to him? she thought. Perhaps his radio has malfunctioned? Perhaps the air circulation in his suit isn’t working properly? Too much nitrogen and he’s fainted? Or he’s got his tether tangled up, and won’t admit to it, as he’d rather die than ask me for help? Fucking hell! I’ll have to check. Lucy transferred her carabiners, but instead of going toward the airlock, she sidetracked toward the edge of the truss.

“Lucy, CAPCOM—is everything OK?” she heard through her headphones.

She paused, her eyes wide in disbelief. What do I do now?

“Lucy, do you copy?”

“Yes. All’s well,” she lied.

She saw Ezra making his way toward the Russian segment of the station.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 14:28 GMT –5

Steve was in the VIP gallery of the flight control room. Normally, he would sit in a corner on a leather armchair with his laptop on his knees and a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside him. But now he couldn’t sit still. He had ants in his pants. Steve wanted to be on the other side of the glass divider. At the microphone. At the helm. But all he could do was listen.

“Lucy, CAPCOM—is everything OK?” he heard Anna Rathke say. Anna’s desk was in the center of the room, next to the flight director. She was a little overweight, had an unfashionable perm, and was wearing a baggy, cream-colored cardigan. Staring at her computer through her large glasses, she looked more like a retiree playing a game of solitaire than a capsule communicator. But appearances were deceptive—Anna knew the station inside out, and her three-dimensional spatial awareness was the envy of many pilots. They were lucky that she happened to be on duty. It was going to be a long day.

“Lucy, CAPCOM—can you tell us what’s going on?” asked Anna, doing her best to remain composed.

The bastards! thought Steve. He had to admit he really didn’t understand the Russian soul—Kevin was right about that. He had assumed that, however hot it got, neither side would want to burn bridges. Sure, they had stopped being partners long ago, despite official declarations to the contrary; both sides behaved spitefully, and threw wrenches into the works—he accepted that. It was the way the world worked. It was politics: you couldn’t get far without lies and hypocrisy. But up till now, the exchange of blows had followed a rhythm and certain principles. This time, Steve sat down to play chess, and got punched in the face.

“Hav . . . prob . . . hear . . . you,” Lucy’s voice was breaking up. “. . . ly . . . ment . . .”

Not good. Steve switched to the flight director’s channel.

“CRONUS, Flight—status?” said Robert, calm as ever. Even if everything were crashing and burning around him, even if the sirens were wailing, Robert would still speak in measured tones. He was a human rock, practically a machine. But Steve knew there was more to it than that; he was aware of the personal cost of absorbing all that stress. Steve knew what could happen later, at home, when it all seeped out again with inevitable consequences for Robert’s health and family. Steve had been through it all himself.

“Flight—all green here. Full bandwidth on all bands.”

“Thanks. EVA, Flight—any spacesuit malfunctions?”

“No sign of any.”

“Carry out a full telemetry check of the EMUs. Update me in three minutes.” Robert adjusted his headset. “BME?”

“I have minor upturns on all screens for both astronauts,” answered the biomedical engineer, “but it could be the result of stress related to the communications breakdown.”

And now this extra comms issue, thought Steve wearily. As for the damn satellite, it was Soviet junk, only good for the scrap heap. The Russians had shattered it into a gazillion pieces just to demonstrate their displeasure and show what a menace they were. How incredibly amazing! They have a rocket, the capacity to send it into orbit, and can even hit a target. Technology from the 1970s. Well done! Obviously, the Americans and the Chinese also had rockets like that, loads of them—if you want peace, prepare for war—but they no longer tested them for one simple reason: there was no way to clear up all the junk orbiting around the Earth. It would stay there forever unless—and this didn’t necessarily happen—its orbit sank low enough for the junk to scrape against the upper layer of the Earth’s atmosphere and burn up. How many tests could be carried out before the Earth was so densely encircled with scrap that it became impossible to send further spacecraft into orbit? Maybe ten or fifteen, maybe even a hundred, but no more than that. The Russians clearly didn’t give a shit, which wasn’t surprising because they weren’t far off from rolling out a rusty Moskvich car wrapped in fireworks onto the launch pad and calling it a spacecraft. Their time was almost up. What mattered was ensuring others didn’t win. This was the end: the end of cooperation, the end of the ISS, and the end of pretending the human race was gazing at the stars together in harmony. The only unknown now was the timeline. Was it possible to stretch it out for a few years? Or was it already on?

If either of the astronauts were hit by shrapnel—even if they survived, even if it turned out only to be a scare—the shit would hit the fan instantaneously. There were people in Washington who couldn’t wait for another war, who were already salivating at the thought of the trillion-dollar contracts for military equipment that could be pushed through in wartime. That sort of contract had plenty of leeway to cover the odd million for lobbying or expert advice. All those people needed was a pretext, and the death of an American citizen in space at Russia’s hands would fit the bill to a tee.

“Flight, EVA—” Steve halted midstep, detecting anxiety in the controller’s voice. “Communication was switched off manually.”

“EVA, say again.”

“Communication in the EMUs was switched off manually. For both of them. First Wendley, then seventy-three seconds later Poplaski. Only the direct link between the two of them is on.”

Complete silence, at first. Then, a murmur rippled through the room.

“CAPCOM?” Robert summoned Anna. “Can you confirm that?”

“Flight, CAPCOM—yes, that’s correct.”

They carried on talking, but Steve wasn’t listening to them; he was thinking. They had both switched their comms links off. Why? Because they were fed up with controllers interfering and wanted some peace? It had happened before, but Poplaski would never do something like that. It wasn’t her style. She was the star pupil type. In that case, was it because they had something to hide from Mission Control? But what? And why? The logic diagram in Steve’s mind branched out further: perhaps Wendley and Poplaski had hatched a plan together, and were now executing it. Possible, but very unlikely. First, they didn’t get along—Steve had heard that Ezra had submitted several complaints about Lucy being too soft, that she was lacking experience and failing to gain the confidence of the crew. Second, why right now while the Russians were shooting down satellites on a whim? They can’t have known about that in advance. Or maybe they had?

“Flight, BME—” The controller’s voice had risen; it broke Steve’s train of thought. He scanned the room and spotted her. She was clutching her desk as if it might, at any moment, jolt, buck, and toss all the monitors into the air. “Poplaski is showing massive spikes. Perspiration rate, pulse, breathing—all of it.”

“CRONUS, Flight—can you see them on the cameras?”

“Yes, Flight, on camera eighteen.”

“CRONUS—please confirm. Eighteen?” Robert was astounded.

“That’s correct, Flight.”

“CAPCOM—is camera eighteen on the astronauts’ route back to the airlock?”

“Flight—negative. It’s in the opposite direction.”

“OSO—load the stream from camera eighteen onto the main screen.”

“Flight, RIO—” interrupted Kevin Wallgreen. “I have Pushakov on the line. He wants—”

“Not now, RIO,” said Robert. “We have more urgent issues.”

Steve walked right up to the glass divider. The main screen, which usually showed a map of the globe with the station’s flight trajectory superimposed, now displayed the view from camera eighteen. Lucy and Ezra were visible in the frame. They could only be differentiated by the patches on their arms. Ezra had his back to the camera and was climbing toward the Russian segment; he was approaching Zarya and had just clipped one of his safety tethers onto the next anchor point.

He couldn’t transfer the other tether.

Because Lucy was holding it.

ISS—August 16, 2021, 19:33 GMT

“Let go,” snarled Ezra. Lucy couldn’t see his face, as the visor of his helmet had darkened to protect him from the Sun.

“And what happens then? What’s your big plan?” asked Lucy as she wound Ezra’s safety tether around her wrist. The blood was thumping at her temples.

The Earth was underneath Lucy’s feet. She was aware that one false step could send her flying downward to a fiery end amidst the clouds, like a meteor.

“I’m not going to ask again,” Ezra warned.

“Are you going to tear off their antenna? Or spray a giant fuck you on one of the Russian modules?” Lucy unclipped one of her own carabiners and pushed off from the station’s surface to get closer to Ezra. One small step for Lucy, one giant leap for the future of the International Space Station.

“You don’t understand shit,” he bristled.

“Tell me. What next?”

“This,” replied Ezra, and he yanked the line Lucy was holding to restrain him.

A sudden movement. Sharp pain in her shoulder. The world began to spin rapidly. Earth, station, Earth, station, Earth, station. Faster and faster; she was in a corkscrew spin. Her breathing got louder and louder. Beep! Beep! Beep!—all her suit’s alarms were going crazy. Then another jerk—and Lucy stopped abruptly. Her forehead hit the helmet visor.

Lucy’s stomach cramped. She felt like she was about to vomit; semi-digested food was already forcing its way up her gullet, burning and irritating it. She closed her eyes and clamped her jaw so tightly shut that her teeth clacked. Lucy knew that if she threw up now she would die. Her helmet would fill with the burning contents of her stomach; the thick acidic lumps would slosh one way, then another, like in a lava lamp; they would obscure her visor and pour into her eyes, nose, and mouth; in short, she would start to drown in her own vomit. She did it; Lucy suppressed the reflex and swallowed the bile stinging her throat. She opened her eyes—and screamed.

She was about four to five meters away from the station. A single safety tether was her only link to it. Like an umbilical cord. Her second tether was floating freely around her, writhing like a snake—not attached to the station. . . . Ezra really hadn’t given her a second warning. Just as Lucy was transferring her tether, Ezra had yanked the tether wound around her wrist, and set her spinning like a top.

Through her headphones Lucy heard Ezra saying, “I’ll come back and get you when I’m finished.” He was already tethered to Zarya, pulling out his tools.

“When you finish doing what?”

“We can’t let them treat us like doormats.”

“Ezra!” she shouted. “Stop, for fuck’s sake!”

“I’m not taking orders from you.”

“You’ll be court-martialed, discharged from—”

“I’ll come back and get you,” he repeated. “Over and out.”

“Ezra! Ezra, DON’T!”

He didn’t reply. No chance—he couldn’t even hear her. He had switched off the last channel, the one for communicating with other crew members on the EVA. The son of a bitch! Lucy bit her lower lip, then she exhaled slowly through pursed lips. She started to tremble; her eyes filled with tears. Calm down, she told herself. Just calm down. You can cope. Don’t panic. Think! What next? What should you do?

She could switch on the channel to Houston and ask for help. She shouldn’t have lied and switched it off in the first place, but she hadn’t wanted Houston to know she’d lost control of the crew, failed to meet the challenge—in short, that she wasn’t perfect. If Houston heard her and Ezra arguing, they’d both be taken off the flight roster forever—the ground crew wouldn’t bother to investigate who started the spat. She’d end up as a cautionary tale for future astronauts, like the Apollo 7 crew, who bickered with their CAPCOM about how and when to blow their noses. Remember, rookies: you don’t want to end up like Poplaski! And so—stupidly and in vain—she had attempted to defuse the situation before Mission Control even realized anything bad was happening.

That hadn’t worked out. Oh well, too late now. If she reopened the communication channel now, how would it help her? She would spend forever explaining what had happened, yet Mission Control couldn’t send her any reinforcements or remotely deactivate Ezra’s spacesuit. Since she had done A, she had no choice but to move on to B. She had to act on her own. But there was one person she ought to contact and forewarn. Lucy flicked the switch.

“Lafayette?” she called. “Can you hear me?”

“Oh my God! At last!” Lafayette’s voice was wavering. “Lucy, what’s going on?”

“Nothing good.”

“Is it Ezra?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“What happened?”

“I don’t have time to explain.”

“But you’re OK, aren’t you?”

“Let’s say so,” she answered as she floated in infinite blackness.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Do you remember procedure ISS MED/3A?”

“Oh, Jesus . . .”

“You do remember. Prepare for it. Over and out.”

Lucy switched off her communication channel to Lafayette because she needed peace and quiet now. She glanced toward Ezra. He had a bolt remover in his hand. The situation was bad, very bad. One thing at a time, and all in their turn. Now, she had to focus on the first step: how to get back to the station. Ezra obviously assumed Lucy would remain dangling there, paralyzed with fear, until he had completed his task—whatever that was—and rescued her; he planned to pull her back onto the deck as if she were an inert mooring buoy. Screw that! She had no intention of waiting for Ezra.

Lucy was still attached to the station with one safety tether. If she pulled it lightly and tautened it, she would float toward the station. Apparently straightforward; however, at the end of the line there was only a single carabiner link with a spring-loaded gate. Had they been rock climbing on Earth, the carabiner latch would also have been secured with a metal locking sleeve that would stop the gate from opening. But their gloves were too thick to handle such a small component. The only thing separating Lucy from infinite space was one tiny little spring. If she yanked the line too hard at the wrong angle, the carabiner gate would press against the tether ring, damage the spring—and the gate would give way. Rather than pull on the tether, Lucy had the option of using her SAFER system. Both she and Ezra were wearing backpacks filled with compressed nitrogen. If they ever—perish the thought!—lost contact with the station, the gas could serve as a jet fuel. There were twenty-four tiny openings on the corners of the SAFER jet pack. Using a control box attached to the chest of their spacesuit, an astronaut could select which ones to open: if gas was released on the right-hand side, the astronaut would fly to the left; if the openings on the top edge were activated, the astronaut would fly downward; and so on. The supply of nitrogen was limited though—enough for one or two bursts. It was all too easy to overdo it, shift the switch too far—and then bounce off the surface of the station like a ball. Lucy thought it better to keep this life preserver as a last resort. So back to the first option: the tether.

She pulled on it very lightly and delicately, as if she were playing pickup sticks. Less haste, more speed—best to avoid excessive force. She floated fifteen to twenty centimeters closer; the carabiner was still holding. Good. Once more, then again—gingerly, resisting the temptation to get it over with in one good yank and let her feet hit the plating. One small movement at a time, and within a few minutes, Lucy was back on the station. Immediately, she secured herself with the second carabiner—and only then did she allow herself to check what Ezra was doing. He was hovering by Zarya’s solar panels, which were spread out like a dragonfly’s wings. Ezra was unscrewing them.

“Son of a bitch,” whispered Lucy. Without those solar panels the Russian segment of the station would have no power and, without power, it would quickly become useless.

Ezra was on a war footing, applying the Code of Hammurabi: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He had clearly concluded that they were under attack—not without cause, it had to be said—and decided to pay the Russians back in kind immediately, without waiting for orders from above. Let the Russians know who they were dealing with; show them that, if they spat in Americans’ faces, there would be no pretense that it was rain. But where would that lead? What was at the end of that spiral? War? Lucy had to stop Ezra before he did anything irreversible that would result in problems back on Earth. But how? He was stronger than her, much stronger, as he had just proved with dire consequences for Lucy. She would have to come up with an idea later; right now, she had to act. Quickly.

Ezra was in the same geometrical plane as Lucy and about three, or perhaps four, meters away. On Earth, she could have covered that distance in a few seconds, but here, yet again, she couldn’t rush. She didn’t want to make a mistake and end up floating in the void once more, and she had to sneak up without Ezra noticing. Fortunately, Ezra wouldn’t feel the vibration of her footsteps on the metal; he couldn’t hear or see her because he was working with his back to Lucy and his field of vision was limited to about forty degrees. As long as Ezra didn’t turn around—to do so he would have to turn his whole body, not just his neck, because the spacesuit helmet was screwed into a fixed position—or pull out the folding mirror from his tool bag to check what was happening behind his back, Lucy should be able to creep up behind him unnoticed. The only thing she had to watch was her shadow, which slid around wildly, seemingly at a faster rate than on Earth. A moment of carelessness, and it could slip into Ezra’s field of vison and betray her—then it would all be over.

So, slow and steady. The first tether point. Lucy’s shadow fell at seven o’clock, behind her back. Good. She refastened her carabiner half a meter farther on.

What next? The thoughts were racing at the back of her mind as she proceeded. Tie him up with a tether? She wouldn’t manage it; he was too strong. He could easily push her away, then overpower her.

The second tether point. Her shadow was now at eight o’clock, behind her left shoulder. Still at a safe distance from Ezra.

Should she smash Ezra over the head with a heavy object? No, he was wearing a helmet and wouldn’t lose consciousness. If the helmet were breached, she would be sentencing Ezra to death; the size of the crack would determine whether it was a quick death or a slow one.

The third tether point. Lucy’s shadow was at nine o’clock—dangerously close. Time to move to a different geometrical plane. Lucy skipped sideways and hid behind an edge, on the wall of the truss. Her feet were now on a surface at ninety degrees to the one Ezra was on. He wouldn’t be able to see her since they were on perpendicular planes.

Would it be enough if I took away his tools? thought Lucy. I could toss them away into space. No, that would be dangerous—it’s bad enough that we’re about to have fragments of blown-up satellite whizzing around our heads—besides, if he really put his mind to it, Ezra could destroy the panels with just his hands.

The fourth tether point. Lucy was very close to Ezra now, on a side of the truss to his left. She was just waiting until their position relative to the Sun changed so that her shadow fell backward again to four o’clock. She was breathing heavily, letting the air escape through her parted lips, and her visor fogged up.

There was one other option, she realized. Extremely dangerous for both of them. But it might work.

She glanced at the Sun. Now. Push off, gather in the safety tether, and Lucy was back on the same surface as Ezra; she stood right behind his back. They were now ten, at most fifteen, centimeters apart. On Earth, he would have heard her straightaway, perceived the air current, her breathing, and her smell. Not in space. She could just as well have been at the other end of the galaxy. Lucy scanned Zarya, and shuddered: Ezra had already unscrewed five of the eight bolts. Not much more to go before the solar panel sheared off the module. She had to act immediately.

Lucy moved as close to Ezra as she could, almost flat up against him. She waited until he raised his arms, and then stretched out one of her arms as if she wanted to hug him—until she touched the SAFER unit control panel on his spacesuit. The hundreds of hours she had spent studying documentation, training in the pool, and on simulators all paid off now: Lucy couldn’t see the controls, but she knew exactly where they were, and which way to turn them. She had to move the control switch two settings to the right: from OFF to STANDBY, and then ON. Ezra saw her, realized what she intended, and started turning toward her, but Lucy managed to shove the switch with her fingers.

For a moment, they both disappeared in a cloud of gas.

Then, Ezra went drifting toward the stars.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 14:54 GMT –5

The flight control room was seething. Shouting down the phone. Running for the door. Sounds of crying. Robert Schiff stood surrounded by a ring of subordinates: grim faces, disheveled clothing, and sweaty palms. Listening through the headphones was intolerable: a hubbub on every channel, people talking over one another, frantic attempts to find a solution. However, Steve knew there was no solution.

It’s happened, he thought. An astronaut’s cracked. They had worried about this possibility right from the start. So much stress, exhaustion, overstimulation, isolation—it was bound to happen eventually; all the experiments indicated it would. If you locked two rats in a cage under similar conditions, they would eventually start biting each other. Always. Every time. During a training course for flight directors, they had once worked through similar scenarios, simulating psychosis, a suicide, and a crew at war with one another. In the end, they gave up on the tests because there was nothing to be done. In that sort of scenario, the flight director, god of the orbit, could only pray.

So, thought Steve, I need to think a step ahead. I must accept the fact that I have zero influence on the current situation, block my emotional response, and concentrate solely on the future. He left the flight control room VIP gallery and walked toward his office. Steve pushed forward against the current as everyone else seemed to be running in the opposite direction. Thudding feet. Soles squeaking on the linoleum. Telephones ringing in abandoned rooms.

Steve entered his office and reached for the last folder. Ezra Wendley. Steve didn’t know him well. Ezra came across as a guy who preferred actions to words. He kept out of the limelight at official functions, and they had to force him into giving interviews. The other astronauts didn’t like him much, but Wendley compensated for the low ratings from his colleagues with excellent results in fitness tests and examinations. A huge plus: he was superb at piloting the new Dragon capsules (by default, they docked automatically, but there was an override in case of a system malfunction). Besides, he was a vital piece of the political jigsaw.

The new intake of astronauts irked senators and congresspersons from the red states. All the long hair, earrings, tattoos, doctorates, unpronounceable foreign-sounding names, and personal pronouns thrust in your face. Not a jot like the golden days of Apollo missions, when all the astronauts were cast in the same reliable mold: first the army, then space, crisply ironed shirts and sensible ties, a nicely made-up wife and a bevy of well-behaved children, barbecues on Saturdays and church on Sundays, and Stars and Stripes rather than a rainbow flag. If NASA wanted to keep the support of these politicians—losing it wasn’t an option—it had to make sure the crew in orbit always included at least one astronaut these politicians would want to be photographed with—someone they could pat on the back while saying, Make us proud, son, free from any worries that the person might be offended or accuse them of made-up microaggressions or other forms of paternalism. Ezra fit the bill well. Perhaps too well.

Steve untied the file. The first stack of documents: divorce papers. No surprise there—astronauts’ marriages tended to be short-lived. A long time spent away from home, constant stress and public scrutiny, countless opportunities to cheat (saying you’re an astronaut was usually enough to secure a tryst)—it all added up. But this breakup appeared to be exceptionally acrimonious. Lengthy court proceedings, mutual accusations, and disagreements on every little thing. The police had to intervene several times: Ezra’s ex-wife accused him of returning the children late after his weekends with them—by as much as a day, sometimes even two. But for Ezra, it all occurred outside the workplace and did not impact his work, so, playing by Sarah Faizan’s rules, what was the problem? Turn a blind eye, and let’s move on.

The second set of documents was correspondence between the Astronaut Office and the Public Affairs Office. Tactful reminders from the NASA PR people that serving astronauts should not actively engage in politics. Ezra had appeared on the stump with a friend who was running for governor of Wyoming. Ezra high-fived his friend onstage, in front of the cameras, wearing a NASA T-shirt. It didn’t help: Ezra’s friend didn’t win the nomination. But his program was still available online and it was clear he was part of the “Make America Great Again” red cap team. That was enough to cause consternation in the Astronaut Office, but what could they do? Dismiss him on that basis? It would be a sure way to cause a storm—Fox News would have had a ball with it for a week solid, and there would have been endless phone calls from Washington.

The third stack of papers was more court documents. They showed that three years earlier, in 2018, Ezra was involved in a car accident. The other driver was at fault, but an argument ensued, followed by a brief tussle, as Ezra’s lawyer had called it; it was clearly quite some tussle because medical assistance was required. Ezra had no injuries, but the other man left the scene in an ambulance. The judge was understanding—he was dealing with a veteran, hero, and astronaut, after all—and it was all swept under the rug; Ezra was sentenced to a few hours of community service and an anger management course.

Only, according to the dossier, Ezra never completed it.

ISS—August 16, 2021, 20:13 GMT

Their roles were now reversed: Ezra was spinning around in the blackness. The expelled gas had given him quite some velocity, and Ezra was rotating several times a second—pirouette after pirouette. Once he had floated the length of his safety tethers away from the station, the lines suddenly grew taut. The jolt helped him to stop rotating, but Ezra still wasn’t in full control; he was being tossed in all directions. There was no friction to help him brake, and there wasn’t anything to grab hold of—apart from the tethers. Ezra grabbed them and pulled first on one, then the other to try and counter the forces tossing him around. He looked like a coachman yanking the reins to try and restrain skittish horses.

Lucy kept glancing anxiously at the carabiners holding Ezra. Fortunately, they held. Ezra countered the forces tugging at him and finally settled into a gentle bobbing. He turned in her direction. Lucy had been waiting for that. She held a clenched fist up to her helmet. It was the signal for switch your radio on. Ezra didn’t respond at first; he made no move and his arms and legs were stretched out at his sides—Vitruvian Man against a starry background. But then his hand moved slowly, feeling its way toward the communication panel. Click.

“Hello? Ezra?” called Lucy.

At first, she heard only wheezing and ragged breathing: Hrr . . . ghr . . . Made sense: just a moment earlier he had been bouncing around like a yo-yo; that would take its toll on anyone, even a military pilot.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he croaked eventually.

“No. I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Is that what you call it?!”

“You gave me no choice.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

Ezra grabbed one of the safety tethers and started pulling himself up toward the station. One hand, then the next without any hesitation; Ezra wasn’t afraid to place all his bets on one card. He would reach Lucy soon, and what then? He’d hit her. Overpower her. Finish what he’d started. Ezra would make the crisis worse, and Lucy couldn’t let that happen.

She reached for the carabiner securing the line Ezra was pulling on—and unclipped it. Ezra flew backward, head over heels, and then he tumbled backward again and again until the other tether, which was still attached to the anchor point, stopped him.

“Fuck!” screamed Ezra.

“You need to talk to me first.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Calm down.”

Ezra managed to brake with his hands on the tether and stop rotating; he was drifting again.

“First, they try and poison us with ammonia,” he croaked. “Plots. Barefaced lies. Now this. Blowing up a satellite during our EVA. They’re spitting in our face. And what do you do? Nothing! NOTHING!!!” he roared, making the headphones crackle.

“Please, Ezra. Let’s go back to the airlock.”

“We can’t . . .” He broke off briefly. He was panting. No doubt his head was spinning and his vision was blurred. “We can’t just let them fuck with us like that.”

Ezra certainly has a point, thought Lucy, but it’s not our place, our role, or our responsibility. And it’s definitely not the right time!

“We have clear instructions,” she said.

“We do,” snorted Ezra. “Instructions from paper pushers.”

“Listen, Ezra—”

“There are more important things,” he shouted. “Higher allegiances.”

He’d regained control and was preparing to pull himself up the second—and last—tether.

“Ezra, stop!”

“No way.”

“Stop! Or I’ll unclip the second tether!” shouted Lucy. Ezra was gripping the tether with his hands. He was about to yank on it. He would get to the station in no time and be right beside her.

“You won’t do that,” said Ezra, and pulled on the tether.

In the same instant, Lucy unclipped the carabiner attaching Ezra’s tether—but gripped it with both hands before it could float off into the void. In his spacesuit Ezra weighed more than two hundred kilograms, but despite that, she felt only gentle resistance, like flying a kite on a windy day. If Lucy let go, Ezra would fly off into the vast expanse of the universe.

“What the fuck are you doing?” shouted Ezra. For the first time, Lucy heard fear, rather than anger, in his voice.

“Has it entered your head that this is what the Russians want?” she shouted in reply. “That they’re trying to provoke us? Whose interest does it serve to finish off the station? The Russian segment is a load of scrap, worth absolutely zilch. They’re looking for a pretext to provoke a clash so they can say it was because of us—that it’s our fault! They want to drag us under with them—and you’re helping them.”

“So what are you saying? That we have to dance to their tune to avoid upsetting them?” Ezra grabbed the tether. He only had to pull it once and he would be back on the station.

“Don’t move,” shouted Lucy, “or I’ll let go!”

“You wouldn’t do that,” said Ezra again, but he sounded less sure of himself.

“Don’t force me!”

They held each other’s gaze. Ezra released his grip.

“If they want a war, let them fucking bring it,” he shouted, “because it all has to end somewhere. They invaded Crimea, and what did we do? Nothing! Sent diplomatic notes! They poisoned people with Novichok left, right, and center—in England, in Bulgaria, and in Turkey—and? We shrugged. They promised the Taliban a bounty for our boys’ heads—and? We wrung our hands. Where will it end, if they think they can get away with anything? Well? Answer that.”

“I will,” called Lucy, “once we’re inside.”

“Why do you let them get away with it? Because Ayers told you to? Or because the manual says so? Or is there some other reason?”

“Ezra, please, I beg you . . .”

“Pull me back in. Now!”

“First, we have to come to an agreement.”

He floated there, motionless. For a while, all she heard was his heavy breathing.

“I know about you and Anton,” said Ezra, breaking the silence. “I saw you coming back in the middle of the night.”

Lucy felt a stab in her gut; her throat tightened. Shame. Guilt. Anger.

She bristled and said, “You don’t understand.”

“What did you chat about?”

“How to avoid a situation like this one.”

“Bullshit,” sneered Ezra. “He’s using you. Anton’s got you twisted round his little finger. That’s why you’re so soft.”

It’s not Anton that’s the threat, thought Lucy. It’s the person slowly releasing ammonia into the station’s atmosphere. The person who took the Makarov pistol. One of us. You, Devaki, or Lafayette. All of a sudden, Lucy felt shattered. Despite the cooling system working at full capacity, she was drenched in sweat; her legs were shaking and her hands were so chafed they were bleeding. Should she tell Ezra everything? Would it help at all, or would it just make matters worse and wind him up even more?

“You do what he tells you because you’re screwing him, right?” continued Ezra. His words were loaded. Mockery. Contempt. Disrespect. Lucy wanted to yell at him—in fact, she wanted to crack his visor with a wrench and watch his eyeballs freeze. But she had to swallow it all down. For the good of the mission.

“I assure you that’s not what’s happening,” answered Lucy as calmly as she could manage.

“What is, then? Do they have something else on you?”

Lucy opened her mouth to reply. She wanted to object, but at that instant, she noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye. Something small, the size of a nail or a penny, whizzed past her head and glinted in the sunlight, like a camera flash.

Then, in the midst of absolute, funereal silence, it tore off a steel satellite dish one-and-a-half meters in diameter, along with the bolts securing it to the station.

The first pieces of shrapnel from the blown-up satellite had reached them.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 15:15 GMT –5

Eliza adored gruesome stories, which surprised and, to some extent, dismayed both her parents. Contemporary books about the power of friendship, overcoming your own weaknesses, and following your dreams made her yawn, at best. No, Eliza liked dark horror: witches with a taste for human flesh, hunters slitting open wolves’ bellies and poking around the steaming innards, barefoot orphans abandoned in the biting frost. She discovered these tales while staying with the Poplaski grandparents; they read to her from an old Polish edition of Grimms’ Fairy Tales with beautiful, if somewhat disturbing, illustrations.

A family friend, a child psychologist, reassured Lucy and Nate that they had nothing to worry about: the fairy tales were simply a way for Eliza to grapple with difficult emotions. Eliza had confessed fear that her mother might one day disappear in the clouds, or that her stressed-out father couldn’t protect her. So Nate and Lucy read aloud to her each night the grisly stories of dark forests, vast, gloomy castles, and huts on chicken legs contrasting with her cute pink bedroom. Eliza would ask them to use scary voices and to reread the bloodiest passages over and over.

Her favorite fairy tale was the one about Bluebeard, and her favorite part was when Bluebeard’s wife stands in front of the iron doors that she is never, ever, under any circumstances, supposed to open. She hesitates and is about to leave, but her curiosity gets the better of her and she turns the key; inside she finds the desiccated bodies of her predecessors, who also failed to resist the temptation to open the door.

Nate read this horrific story out loud many times and wondered what it was that fascinated Eliza so much. Fear of the unknown? Of what adult life might bring? Was it the subliminal suspicion of a child that its parents have a secret, darker side? No matter how much they told Eliza they loved her, cuddled her, or called her the best daughter in the world, maybe she feared that sometimes—perhaps just once—her parents were fed up with her and regretted ever deciding to have a child? That they would like to abandon her, return her, send her away, or exchange her for a better-behaved child? Or perhaps this fairy tale touched on a more universal fear that knowledge brings pain—curiosity killed the cat. Perhaps, as there were other stories along these lines: Pandora, never open this box; Eve, don’t dare to pick that apple; Psyche, under no circumstances should you look inside the golden box.

Maybe there was some truth in it, thought Nate. Does believing that the universe was the result of blind chance rather than a loving God make people happier? Have we felt any better since scientists proved that the chain of cause and effect does not apply at the quantum level? That the world is fundamentally devoid of logic and entirely unpredictable? What about the awareness that everything is collapsing, cooling, and heading inevitably toward maximum chaos? Or that we’re all being boiled alive (or rather, we’re boiling ourselves alive), but, like a frog in a saucepan, too gradually to jump out in time?

Nate didn’t really know what he expected to find at the bottom of Lucy’s underwear drawer. A list of her lovers’ names with ratings on a scale of one to six? A secret cell phone for checking Tinder? The result of Eliza’s DNA test, proving beyond doubt that he was a cuckold?

But he looked. And eventually he found something: a sealed envelope. It was right at the bottom of Lucy’s shirt drawer, wrapped up in an old T-shirt that Lucy never wore. It wasn’t addressed. When he held it up to the light, he could see a closely typed page folded inside the envelope.

Should he open it?

Or not?

10

December 12, 2021

Hearing Transcript

LAMAR: During the space walk, did Mission Specialist Poplaski break the rules applicable on the station?

FAIZAN: Yes, without a doubt.

LAMAR: In the situation she faced, were there any options open to her that were within the rules?

FAIZAN: No.

LAMAR: Thank you. I have no further questions.

ISS—August 16, 2021, 20:15 GMT

Lucy stared at the severed satellite dish: the whirling bright spot in the midst of inky blackness was getting smaller and smaller. It doesn’t make sense, protested Lucy’s brain, accustomed as it was to the speeds and forces prevailing on Earth: the shrapnel that hit the dish was no bigger than a penny. Sure, it could have scratched the metal, or even dented it—but to destroy the dish, crumple it up like a piece of paper, and tear it off the station all at once? Impossible! It had no right to happen! An ant couldn’t topple an elephant. But then, the good old human brain once assumed the Earth was stationary and the Sun and stars revolved around it—that was the only way to assemble a coherent picture from contradictory observations.

An illusion had just been shattered: Lucy now really felt, deep down in her gut, that she was actually racing around an orbit at a velocity nine times greater than the top speed of a military jet. She was struck by fear—slippery, icy, and paralyzing. She wanted to curl up into a ball, block her ears, and close her eyes, but she knew she couldn’t.

Lucy shouted to Ezra; he yelled back. Faced with imminent death, they negotiated a temporary truce. Lucy pulled in Ezra’s tether and helped him to clip on to the closest anchor point. Then they set off on the trek back toward the airlock; both of them were drenched in sweat and exhausted. They didn’t look out for more shrapnel. What was the point? They could only spot shrapnel if it happened to reflect the sunlight; more importantly, it would be flying so fast that they wouldn’t have time to duck. If either one of them was hit, they would die instantaneously, exploding inside their spacesuit like a paint-filled balloon or a frog in a blender.

Lucy and Ezra moved as fast as they could, but all too slowly. Their instincts told them to run, but they could only crawl along—one carabiner after another, one tether point to the next—ignoring the pain in their fingers, which were chafed to the raw flesh and bleeding. Lucy wanted to howl, pant, and scream, but she had to grit her teeth and conserve her oxygen supply. Who knew what else might happen, or how long they would need the oxygen to last. She felt like crying but couldn’t let herself under any circumstances, because tears would stick to her eyeballs. There was no way to wipe them away, and blinking wouldn’t help. If her vision went blurry, she might not judge distances correctly or secure carabiner latches properly, and she’d perish.

Lucy led the way, relying on her memory for the route. Any other method would have disoriented her. It was like a kaleidoscope: in the blink of an eye, day turned into night, black into white, and up into down. A shadow slid along the station’s plating just by Lucy’s foot, like a retreating wave, and revealed a deep scratch. Was that there before? Or had they just been hit by another piece of shrapnel?

She switched on the communication channel linking her to the station.

“Lucy?” It was Lafayette.

“We’re on our way back,” she said, panting and pulling herself forward. “Five minutes.”

“Both of you?” asked Lafayette.

“Yes.”

“Have you talked him round?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Lucy. “But we’re on our way together. How’s the station? Any collisions?”

“Just the one so far. Houston has changed the orbit.”

Houston, thought Lucy. She’d have plenty to talk about with them.

“What about that procedure?” asked Lafayette.

“MED/3A?”

“Uh-huh.”

Lucy turned to look back. Ezra was just behind her.

“Don’t know,” she replied. “Be ready just in case.”

“Sure. Please don’t switch off the comms, Lucy. Alright?”

“OK.”

They reached the airlock at last. Lucy released the catch, opened the round hatch, and clambered inside. She pressed herself against one side to make room for Ezra—there was very little space. Once he joined her, they filled the crew lock in its entirety; their helmets touched as they stood face-to-face. The beads of sweat surrounding Ezra’s flushed face formed a complex constellation. Lucy was trying to guess what would happen next. Was this the end? Or just the beginning?

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Close the hatch,” she ordered.

Ezra reached for the handle and slammed the door shut. The stars disappeared and the glaring light of the sun went out. They were back in a cage.

“Lafayette, equalize the pressure,” commanded Lucy.

“Roger.”

They couldn’t see or feel it, but the interior of the crew lock started to fill with gases from the station: nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide, and ammonia—in a higher concentration than was normal. Where was it coming from? she wondered, not for the first time. Lucy was angry and resentful. How the hell did it happen? Who? How? And why? If this were a horror movie, the increase in ammonia might indicate another presence on the station: a monster hidden behind the panels or in one of the storage units. The monster would be tracking their movements, panting, waiting for the right moment to come out of hiding. But there was no monster. . . . A monster was superfluous. Humans were scary enough.

“Ezra,” said Lucy, trying to make eye contact, “we need to contact Mission Control and tell them what happened.”

Ezra kept stubbornly silent, his jaw clenched.

“Answer me,” said Lucy, shaking his shoulder.

“Nothing’s changed.”

“It has. We almost died out there.”

“Sure,” said Ezra, nodding, “because of the fucking Russians.”

“Pressure will equalize in two minutes,” said Lafayette. He sounded hesitant, but was keeping to the standard procedure.

“You’re right,” agreed Lucy, “but other Russians. Back on Earth.”

“Just get out of my way.”

“Ezra, don’t force me to—”

“To what?”

He knew the procedures as well as she did. He knew what Lucy ought to do in this situation: tranquilizer injection, duct tape, and bungee cords. Perhaps, once again, he thought that Lucy didn’t have the guts—that she wouldn’t issue the command, at least not without the flight director’s prior blessing. Or maybe Ezra concluded that nobody on board could execute Lucy’s order. He was the only one who had served in the army, trained for combat—and killed. Who among them had any chance of stopping him? A gay botanist? A computer geek who couldn’t keep her food down?

“One minute to equalization,” interjected Lafayette.

He heard us talking, thought Lucy. He must’ve, surely? So why isn’t Lafayette reacting? Why is he just reeling off standard phrases?

Ezra started taking off his helmet. He should have waited until they were on the other side; he and Lucy still had to squeeze through the last hatch—an opening the size of a manhole inspection chamber that linked the crew lock to the rest of the Quest module. Taking off your helmet on your own was difficult, especially while wearing gloves and after a long and exhausting space walk. Evidently, Ezra was in a hurry, or perhaps he judged that Lafayette wouldn’t rush to help him. Ezra succeeded at the second attempt, and his helmet hung in the air as if on an invisible hook. His hair was matted with sweat.

“It’s still possible to sort things out,” said Lucy. “Later it won’t be.”

Ezra ignored her. He pulled off his gloves and shook out his grazed, numb fingers. Perfectly spherical drops of blood scattered throughout the confined space, and some landed on Lucy’s visor. She tried to wipe them off with the back of her hand, but only succeeded in smearing her helmet; Lucy now saw everything through a red filter.

“Ezra,” she said, shaking his shoulder, “say something, for Pete’s sake.”

“You’ll be able to say that I acted in contravention of your orders,” replied Ezra eventually. “Who knows? You might even get a promotion.”

“Pressure equalized,” reported Lafayette.

“Don’t open up!” shouted Lucy.

Ezra laughed. It was a dry, humorless laugh: the laugh of a bully taking it out on someone weaker. He pushed Lucy’s hand away. “What’s your plan?” he asked, cocking his head. “That we’ll stay in here until it’s time to return to Earth?”

“No, just until you calm down.”

“I’m not agitated in the slightest,” responded Ezra. “I’m just doing my duty. Somebody has to.”

“You know you’ll end up behind bars for this?”

“I’d be proud to.”

The mechanism rasped as Lafayette released it. The metal hatch to the equipment lock, which led to the station interior, began to swing open. Why? thought Lucy feverishly. Didn’t Lafayette hear me? Perhaps they’re in it together and their disputes were just for show? No time to waste, she decided. Lucy pushed off the wall, aiming to block the exit with her body, but Ezra pushed her aside without much effort. Lucy’s head slammed into a panel with a thud, and a crack appeared in her blood-smeared visor. Ezra was already moving through the hatch before Lucy could even turn around. She flung herself forward to grab Ezra’s feet, but didn’t manage to grip them as she was still wearing gloves, and so he slipped out of her grasp. Lucy swore; Ezra was already on the other side. She heard raised voices—then it went deathly silent.

Lucy peered past the edge of the hatch.

Ezra was hanging motionless in the air.

Lafayette was holding the pistol.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 15:33 GMT –5

Steve rarely watched TV, as he considered it a waste of time, but he made an exception when staying in hotels. When he returned from his last meeting of the day too late to make it worth pulling out his paperwork, but not so late that he could go straight to sleep, Steve would collapse onto the bed—in just his underwear and an unbuttoned shirt, damp around the armpits—and channel surf. He’d watch ten minutes of an old movie he’d seen before, then dip into a game, preferably basketball, and then perhaps part of a documentary about birds of paradise, or polar bears.

Steve was ashamed to admit that he liked reality shows best of all. Something about the claustrophobic atmosphere, backstabbing, fighting, and romantic intrigues drew him in. Did fools acting foolish fit his pessimistic assessment of human nature and confirm his suspicion that all humans were vain, petty, and naive? Since Steve spent most of his career plotting in the shadows, communicating through euphemisms, oblique statements, and meaningful glances, did he perhaps find it refreshing to watch overt emotional conflict where everybody screamed, sobbed, and pointed fingers? Or, maybe what Steve liked was their omniscient viewpoint: in reality TV there was no way to hide from the cameras; they registered every little offense and white lie, alliances quickly forged and broken, dizzying ascents and distressing falls from grace. Hadn’t Steve always dreamed of being in that sort of godlike position?

It once struck him that a space station would be an ideal backdrop for that kind of show. Confined space and isolation? The conditions were perfect. Ongoing surveillance? Definitely. Ambitious participants as different from one another as could be? Check. A day structured around tasks that were often pointless? Absolutely. Participants forced to account for their every move and to obey an impersonal, all-powerful voice in all respects? Check. All sorts of difficulties and minor nuisances that, over time, led to frustration and arguments? Naturally.

Steve anticipated that, one day, somebody would add two and two together and make a reality TV show in orbit. Perhaps not NASA; although, if the Public Affairs Office were to have the last word, anything was possible. The PAO was prepared to go to great lengths in its pursuit of the widest possible reach. There were plans for a film crew to fly to the station next year—to film scenes for an action-packed, sensationalist, Hollywood blockbuster featuring a mad Scientologist as the main character. There was no shortage of billionaires who didn’t know what to do with their money, so why not stage Big Brother in orbit on a private space station?

The images streamed from the cameras in the Quest airlock, which Steve was viewing at that very moment, would have made a fitting finale for a reality TV series. Emotions running high, and the stakes couldn’t be any higher: human life. Lafayette was pointing a Makarov pistol at Ezra, who was hovering motionless with his hands in the air. Lucy was right beside him; she had just taken off her helmet. Steve couldn’t hear what they were saying to one another—the surveillance system didn’t include sound—but he could work out a great deal from their gestures and expressions.

Lafayette was tense: his legs tucked in a fetal position, shoulders hunched, and elbows pressing into his abdomen. A few moments earlier, when Steve saw Lafayette pull out the weapon, he wondered: Why? On whose orders? What did Lafayette hope to gain? Did it have any connection to the ammonia leak? But now, Steve could see that it likely wasn’t part of any huge conspiracy. Lafayette was, quite simply, scared. He must have had a foreboding for quite some time that, as tensions with Russia escalated, Ezra would at some point ignore Lucy’s commands, become aggressive, and decide to confront the Russians directly. He knew violence firsthand and how terrifying it was to face it powerless.

Besides, Steve had suspected clashes between Ezra and Lafayette earlier. Perhaps they had quarreled, or Ezra had threatened Lafayette, or even used force. In any event, Lafayette no doubt knew that, when it came down to it, Ezra—a ruthless man, trained in the art of killing his fellow humans, who was convinced he was in the right—would be unstoppable, and blood would be spilled unless the balance of power somehow shifted. He had met such men before—uniformed, convinced of their own superiority—stared into their eyes, suffered at their hands, and had promised himself to never let it happen again. That was why Lafayette Summers had removed the Makarov from the Soyuz a day or two ago, even though he must have known it was strictly forbidden and that, if he was caught, it would be the end of his career. This action spoke volumes about his state of mind and the growing anxiety he hid so well under a beaming smile—put on to advance in a world that was, at its very foundation, hostile to him.

Taking the pistol would’ve been easy: all the crew knew where it was kept, and it wasn’t secured by any sort of lock on the presumption that, whatever happened on the station, common sense would always prevail. Steve, being Steve, didn’t share this presumption, and had repeatedly put in requests for the Makarov pistol to be deleted from the Soyuz equipment list. The grounds for his requests to the Russians? As their compatriot Anton Chekhov once observed: If there is a gun hanging on the wall, it will eventually be fired.

Ezra, on the other hand, wasn’t afraid at all. Yes, he had his hands in the air, but he wasn’t surrendering by any means. Ezra was just playing for time and weighing his options, and Steve was at the edge of his seat watching. Does Lafayette have the guts to pull the trigger? He definitely isn’t prepared to kill; he’s aiming at Ezra’s legs so, at worst, he plans to incapacitate him.

But would a Makarov cartridge manage to pierce the fourteen layers of an EMU spacesuit? Would it ricochet and pierce the module wall, causing sudden decompression? Or would it hit another crew member? This wasn’t a scenario covered in the astronauts’ training; it was one of the few questions they weren’t asked in examinations. Steve was convinced that Ezra wasn’t done yet, was just waiting for the right opportunity to strike again, and then . . . Who could say? Ezra had nothing to lose. Whatever he did now, Ezra would be facing court-martial when he returned to Earth.

The question was, What would Lucy do? Despite the blurry camera image, Steve could see the shock on her face. Lafayette must have acted without her knowledge. Perhaps he felt a need to defend her—that type of chivalrous response was problematic for any woman at the helm. Yes, he was coming to her rescue, but Lafayette was also putting her up against a wall: Lucy’s choices were either to go with the flow or order Lafayette to put it away; she had no other option. By allowing this threat to Ezra’s life, Lucy was turning her back on the ideals that led to the creation of the station—dreams that space provided a chance for new beginnings, a better way, with relationships built on compromise rather than aggression. But had that ever really been possible? Hadn’t it always been obvious that the first murder, rape, or war occurring amidst the stars would only be a matter of time? In any event, Lucy was responsible for both crews—the Russian crew and the American crew, for the mission, and for the station. At this point, Ezra was a threat to everyone and everything.

The astronauts were still glued in place, glaring at each other, a classic western standoff. The clock was ticking. One of them would have to make the first move. Steve had no idea what would happen, but it was crystal clear to him that this was a zero-sum game: somebody had to lose.

ISS—August 16, 2021, 20:38 GMT

It was supposed to be an ordinary mission, thought Lucy. Experiments, work, video visits with elementary school students, and chasing floating balls of orange juice. Not in any way like this!

“Ezra, turn your back toward me and grab the handrails,” ordered Lafayette.

Could she trust Lafayette? He removed the Makarov without her consent, without consulting her, contrary to all the rules. What else was he concealing from her? What else might he be prepared to do?

“Why?” asked Ezra.

“Because we have to incapacitate you for the good of the mission,” answered Lucy, pulling off her gloves. She hissed with pain as the gloves scraped the partly congealed blood on her knuckles.

“Is that what Anton told you to do?”

“Do as Lafayette says,” she replied.

“I don’t think so.”

“Lucy, the syringes are in the medical kit,” said Lafayette, “on your left.”

A white first aid kit with a red cross was Velcroed to the wall. It had a zipper closure. Lucy tried to take hold of the zipper, but couldn’t: she was unable to flex her lacerated, numb fingers enough to do it. Lucy and Lafayette shared a look: they both realized that her stiff fingers made Lucy incapable of preparing and administering the injection. What now?

“Would you be able to keep your finger on the trigger?” asked Lafayette.

“I think so.”

“Come here then. Let’s trade places.”

“Are you sure you know how to use a Makarov?” asked Ezra. He was trying to undermine her again and sow seeds of self-doubt. Lucy ignored him. She pushed off from the wall as gently as she could to avoid any risk of bumping into Lafayette and dislodging the weapon from his hand.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes. On the count of three.”

“OK. One . . . two . . .” Lafayette kept his eyes fixed on Ezra the whole time. “Three!”

He pressed the pistol into Lucy’s hands; the grip was hot and slippery with sweat. Images of the shooting range flashed before Lucy’s eyes once again. The cartridge cases glistening in the sand. The acrid smell of gunpowder. The black silhouette with the hole in the middle of its forehead. She swallowed, placed her thumb on the safety and her chafed, bleeding index finger on the trigger. It hurt—she had to grit her teeth to suppress a groan—but she knew she could fire if push came to shove. Or maybe not if but when?

“Do the two of you realize that the Russians have declared war on us?” asked Ezra.

“Not that I recall,” replied Lucy.

“They fucking blew up a satellite around our heads.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Oh, so you think the Russians will send a diplomatic note, do you?”

“Yes, they should,” replied Lucy.

“That’s not their style,” said Ezra confidently and forcefully. He was the only person who wasn’t tense. Lucy was aiming a pistol at him but, nevertheless, she felt Ezra was in control and would decide what happened next, and when. “The Russians have their own approach to international relations: do one thing, and say another,” continued Ezra. “Because they know we don’t have the balls to call them out on their bullshit. That we’ll take the flimsiest excuse to not do shit, because it’s easier that way.”

“Have you found the syringe?” asked Lucy.

“I’m looking for it,” answered Lafayette.

Lucy turned her head to the side for an instant, less than a heartbeat, to see how Lafayette was doing. The medical kit was smeared with her blood. Beside it, pill bottles, rolled-up bandages, and packets of gauze floated in the air. Not a good sign, she thought. Lafayette ought to put them back in their places straightaway and attach them, otherwise they’ll float around, obstruct our view, and make it easier for Ezra to attack. Because Ezra was going to attack—Lucy was sure of it.

“You know I’m right,” said Ezra.

“It’s not up to us,” she said, looking back at Ezra.

“Yeah, that’s what everybody says.” Ezra nodded. “Afraid to take responsibility. Well, I’m not.”

“Got it.” Lafayette pulled out the ampoule of haloperidol. He was focused and rigid with tension. Lafayette had seen people killed on the poverty-stricken streets of the Ninth Ward in New Orleans; for him there was nothing abstract about it. Lafayette knew death could call at his door at any time. “One minute, and I’ll be ready.”

“Ezra, grab the handrails and turn around,” ordered Lucy.

“You know I’m right,” said Ezra again, ignoring the order.

Maybe he’s right—the thought flitted through Lucy’s mind. Maybe we’ve held on to a delusion for too long: we wanted to believe the Russians could be won over by our ways, that collaboration was worth the compromise on ideals.

“Turn around,” she repeated once more, loudly—as if she wanted to drown out her thoughts, as well as outshout the fans.

“Best to aim at the head,” said Ezra, tapping his forehead and sneering at her. “No protection.”

“I can’t approach him in that position,” said Lafayette, rooted to the spot. He had a syringe ready in his hand. The barrel was full: enough to fell a horse.

“Ezra,” snapped Lucy, lifting the pistol. “Don’t force my hand.”

“You won’t shoot.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Turn around.”

They stared at each other. Lucy knew Ezra was ready to push off and jump on her, and he might do so at any moment. Then, she would only have a fraction of a second to decide. Shoot? Or not? What would happen if she pulled the trigger? And what would happen if she let him disarm her? Which scenario was worse? Which would result in more corpses? The burden of responsibility was overwhelming—her head was being crushed in a vise.

Lucy noticed a movement and immediately felt an adrenaline rush. Blood thudded at her temples; her heart pounded in her chest. Not that! Everything’s OK, she told herself as soon as she managed to process what was actually happening. Ezra gripped the handrails, as they had told him to, and turned his back to them.

“I’ll start with the injection,” Lafayette said as he turned to her, his voice tense, his eyes bloodshot. Lucy understood why: he didn’t want to lose hold of the syringe now, or run the risk of a physical struggle while trying to incapacitate the prisoner, or for this showdown to last any longer than necessary. “Then the tape and cords.”

“Go on then,” said Ezra, assuming command even now, mocking them. “Do your job.”

Lucy nodded, but Lafayette still didn’t move. He was looking at her with questioning eyes: You’ve got me covered, right? If you have to, you’ll do it, won’t you? Lucy nodded again and raised the pistol to eye level. Lafayette took a deep breath and floated over to Ezra. He stopped just behind Ezra’s back and raised the syringe into the air, ready to stick it into the bare flesh of Ezra’s neck. The needle glinted in the cold light of the LED strips.

All of a sudden, Lafayette cried out, then doubled over, choking. Ezra must have struck him with his elbow. Shit, thought Lucy, squinting through the iron sights, her pulse spiking. Shit, shit, shit. Before she could do anything, Ezra quickly moved to the side, positioning himself behind Lafayette, obstructing her line of fire. He pulled Lafayette toward himself and used his body as a shield. Ezra had one arm locked around Lafayette’s neck and the other was twisting the hand in which he held the syringe.

“In this sort of situation,” said Ezra in a chatty voice, completely unperturbed, “first of all, you should have ordered the prisoner of war to put handcuffs on himself.”

“Let go of him.”

“Or at least zip ties.”

“Let go!”

“The only time you went off script and look where you are.”

Lafayette was struggling and kicking, but resistance was futile. He didn’t stand a chance. In his place, Lucy wouldn’t either.

“Bad judgment,” said Ezra, tightening his grip around Lafayette’s neck. “You’re only any good when you’re told exactly what to do.”

“I’m counting to three.”

Lafayette was going blue in the face; bubbles of saliva were forming around his mouth. He dropped the syringe. It was spinning in the air.

“One,” said Lucy.

“This situation wasn’t in the manual, so you’re helpless.” said Ezra. “You have no clue what to do about the Russians, or about me.”

“Two.”

“Put the gun away, and I’ll let go of him.”

I’m nobody’s fool, thought Lucy, and she released the safety.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 15:49 GMT –5

At first, Steve couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing, or what had actually happened. One second everything was crystal clear, the next he couldn’t see anything. The screen displaying the camera views went white, as if somebody had covered the lens with a sheet of paper.

“CRONUS, Flight—” It was Robert Schiff’s voice coming through the headphones. He was trying his best to maintain a facade of composure, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Status of the surveillance cameras in Quest Airlock?”

“Fully functional.”

“Data transfer?”

“Close to maximum in both directions.”

“Flight, BME”—cut in the controller responsible for monitoring biosignals—“we have a spike in Lucy’s pulse.”

“Copy, BME,” barked Robert. He couldn’t afford to attend to it now; he had to focus on things he could influence. The crew could no longer be controlled, as they had just painfully discovered. “CRONUS—rewind the recording and replay it in slow motion. Ten frames per second.”

The image on the huge, cinema-style screen in the flight control room rewound. The whiteness disappeared and, once more, Steve saw three astronauts in a confined space: Lafayette in Ezra’s clutches with Lucy facing them, her back to the camera, arms held out straight with the pistol aimed at Ezra. Suddenly, the barrel slid sideways; even in slow motion the movement was like lightning.

“CRONUS, Flight—stop the recording,” cut in Robert.

The moving image froze: it was like a panel in a comic strip. The flare of the pistol shot (POW!). Lucy flung backward into the wall by the force of the recoil (BANG!). A small cloud of white gas appearing next to a fire extinguisher on the wall (PSSSSH!).

“Now, go frame by frame,” ordered Robert.

Click. The small cloud grew into a big one. Click. It filled the whole screen.

She’s a sharp cookie! thought Steve with admiration.

ISS—August 16, 2021, 20:47 GMT

Lucy had a fraction of a second to decide. Should she shoot, or not? If so, where should she aim? A panoply of impulses exploded in her head; her intuition and survival instincts seized the controls. The electrical signals coursing along her synapses mapped out a complex decision tree with many mutually exclusive branches. Should she aim at Ezra’s bare head? No, killing was a last resort; besides, if she missed, she might hit Lafayette. Should she aim at his legs or arms? No, because the EMU spacesuit was so thick that it was likely to block the bullet.

In that case, should she shoot at the wall? If the cartridge pierced it, the result would be decompression. With such a small opening, it wouldn’t be instantaneous, but the accompanying noise might briefly confound Ezra and give her the advantage. But it was another no: she might damage one of the systems concealed behind the panels and trigger a cascade of disasters that she wouldn’t be able to stop, or she might just kill them all on the spot. In the airlock, there was a tank of pure oxygen, which astronauts inhaled prior to an EVA to remove the nitrogen from their bloodstreams. Oxygen was both life-giving and deadly: in a high concentration it could make even metal ignite.

So should she shoot at the light source? That would have made sense if a single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, but Lucy couldn’t destroy a whole strip of LEDs that way; besides, she might miss, or damage something—option rejected. But she was on the right track: how could she confuse and confound Ezra without running the risk of destroying the station?

Lucy registered a red shape to the left of Ezra. A fire extinguisher. She was very familiar with the model, as she had handled it time and time again during fire drills. It was a steel cylinder filled with liquefied carbon dioxide at a pressure of between fifty-five and sixty bar. The Quest Airlock was the size of a service elevator—once the shell of the fire extinguisher was pierced, the carbon dioxide would fill the space in an instant. What’s more, it would displace the air, which would mean that, for a short time at least, Ezra would struggle to breathe: he would start to choke, perhaps even faint. That would be ideal.

Of course—as ever—there were risks. Numerous risks. First, the likelihood that the bullet would ricochet, or fly straight through the extinguisher with enough energy remaining to damage something else. Second, carbon dioxide cools as it expands—close to the bullet hole where the carbon dioxide discharged, the gas would be so cold that on contact with bare skin it would cause frostbite. Third, if the extinguisher came loose from its bracket on the wall, it would itself become a deadly missile: it might flail around the airlock like an untied balloon releasing air—only its mass was closer to a bowling ball’s than a balloon’s. Fourth, Lucy had to consider the effect of disrupting the station’s internal atmosphere even more, and the risk of overloading the filters. But she could see no other option—and she had no more time.

Before Lucy pulled the trigger, she took a deep breath in through her nose (so she had air to breathe), opened her mouth wide (to stop the sound wave perforating her eardrums), and closed her eyes tightly (to prevent the icy gas blinding her). The last thing Lucy saw was Ezra’s contemptuous sneer. He probably thought that Lucy would shoot blind and was closing her eyes because she was afraid of the weapon and couldn’t face seeing what happened. He was in for an unpleasant surprise.

A bang, a hiss, and Lucy went flying backward, slamming into the plastic panels behind her. A moment’s anxiety and uncertainty . . . but she was still in one piece, so the bullet hadn’t ricocheted into the tank of liquid oxygen, the extinguisher hadn’t thwacked her over the head, and the station’s alarms weren’t sounding, so no decompression. Phew! Lucy opened her eyes: only whiteness all around her. Ezra seemed to be right next to her: she couldn’t see him, but she heard him coughing. Lucy had no time to waste. The curtain of cold gas was already thinning; the light of the diodes was beginning to peep through it. She had to act quickly before the filters cleared the air and the element of surprise wore off or she would lose the advantage she had gained.

Lucy tucked the pistol under the straps of her SAFER harness and pushed off from the wall to get as far away from Ezra as she could—while still holding her breath. She was searching for the syringe of haloperidol. When Lucy last saw it, the syringe was drifting about in the center of the airlock, but the sudden blast of gas could have pushed it in any direction; the syringe might have hit a wall and shattered to pieces—she hoped not! Lucy was groping blindly with mounting desperation; she felt a stabbing pain in her lungs and there were dark spots in her vision. The jumbled contents of the first aid kit emptied by Lafayette filled the airlock, so Lucy kept finding items such as bandages, gauze, and pill bottles in her hands. Impatiently, she swatted them away like pesky flies. She could now see Ezra: he was bent double and wheezing. Lafayette was floating a bit farther away, just under the ceiling, as if he were drifting on open water. She turned her eyes away from them and looked all around her, conscious that the clock was ticking and that soon she would return to her starting position; she knew she would not be able to bring herself to shoot a second time.

Something flashed in the foggy air. Lucy stretched out her hand and felt smooth plastic under her fingertips. The syringe! She was about to grab it when it bounced off her fingers and floated farther away; meanwhile, Ezra had caught his breath and was looking around to find Lucy. She straightened her legs to push off, but she was too far away from the floor and couldn’t reach it with her feet. Instead, she kicked off from the wall behind her. It worked. Lucy stretched out her bleeding fingers . . . pulled herself together . . . and managed to grasp the syringe. It was all in one piece. Now or never!

Lucy turned in the air and pushed off hard from the ceiling like a swimmer turning at the end of a lane. She was heading straight for Ezra. He tried to stop her, but he was still in shock and reacted too slowly, so Lucy managed to avoid his outstretched hands. Don’t hit a bone, thought Lucy. Don’t break the needle. This drug had better work. She took aim and struck: the needle plunged smoothly into his flesh. As she was pressing the plunger all the way down with her thumb, Ezra seized Lucy by the wrist so violently that she was forced to let go. His hand groped for her throat, ready to crush her larynx—but he was too late. The tranquilizer kicked in: Lucy could see that from his fading eyes, stiffening face, and shocked expression. Sweet dreams, you son of a bitch!

Lucy slipped out of Ezra’s loosening grasp and took the gulp of air that she desperately needed. She didn’t notice any difference in taste or smell, but that didn’t mean it was safe: you couldn’t detect carbon dioxide with your senses. She wanted to tie Ezra up and put a gag on him as fast as possible so she could contact Houston. Let them tell her what to do next and free her of the burden of responsibility. She wanted this whole nightmare to be over, but Lucy realized that she couldn’t afford to rush and risk getting dizzy and fainting. So she reached for the oxygen mask and pulled it over her face.

A first breath.

Now, I need to find the duct tape, she thought.

A second breath.

Lafayette can help me to make sure Ezra is securely bound and can’t escape.

A third breath.

Oh my goodness! Lafayette! Only now did it strike her that she needed to check on him. She looked his way. Lafayette was unconscious. Next to his head, like scattered beads, hung drops of blood.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 16:13 GMT –5

Steve was sitting opposite his boss, NASA director Adam Lundberg. Adam was wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, and a black tie—a palette favored by professional bureaucrats. His hair was carefully combed to one side, his cheeks clean-shaven; he wore thin-rimmed spectacles and had a leather briefcase. In short, Adam conformed perfectly to the aesthetics prevailing in these government buildings, with their never-ending corridors, wall-to-wall carpeting, and lifeless fluorescent lights. He blended into this environment like a chameleon, or rather, like a praying mantis.

“My briefing with the White House is in ten minutes,” said Lundberg. “Where do we stand?”

“We have ongoing communication with Poplaski,” replied Steve. “Wendley has been incapacitated. Summers is injured. We have no contact with him.”

“What happened?”

“We’re not sure. He was near the fire extinguisher, so he may have been hit by a chip. The wound is superficial, but he lost a lot of blood.”

“His condition?”

“Stable, five minutes ago. I can’t say what it is right now. They’re keeping me informed of any changes.”

“We can’t allow him to die,” ordered Lundberg. As if that were in their power.

“In that case, we have to get him back to Earth as quickly as possible.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Not much.”

Adam Lundberg drummed his fingers on the table, then shook his head.

“There’ll be a lot of questions to answer when this is over,” he said.

“I know,” replied Steve.

“One of them will be: Whose fault was it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It would be best if you were ready with a reply.”

Steve nodded. Regardless of how this story ended, he would need to sacrifice somebody and go through the ritual of stoning them in front of the cameras. The guilty party had to have a body and a first and last name. Phrases like “the organizational culture” or “bureaucratic inertia” can’t stand trial; even less so, “the consequences of misguided assumptions in our nation’s foreign policy.” Neither could “the theory of probability” be put in handcuffs—although, even if the whole of NASA did its utmost, eventually something was bound to go wrong on a project as complex as the International Space Station over a time frame of more than two decades. However, Washington expected a straightforward explanation of cause and effect—a simplified model of reality. Their expectations had to be met without delay because NASA did not like being the center of attention. Its projects, certainly, with alacrity and handpicked media-trained employees—of course—but not the organization itself. Because then, in the light of the camera flashes, all sorts of transgressions might be revealed: some from recent years, like dubiously close links with industry and ridiculously bloated contracts; others from further in the past that NASA had taken pains to bury. For example, the fact that the foundations of NASA were laid by Nazi war criminals purposefully transplanted onto American soil shortly after World War II: the von Braun brothers, Debus, Dornberger, Rickhey, Schreiber, and Strughold, just to name a few. The list of their victims—starved in factories run on slave labor, frozen alive in bestial experiments, or blown to shreds by V-2 rockets—was far, far longer.

Somebody had to take the fall, and promptly. Steve was already considering who should be sent to the scaffold: Robert Schiff? Sarah Faizan? He wasn’t worried about himself. Steve had taken care not to leave any traces; his dealings were all off the record—no minutes and no recordings. He might have to leave NASA, but he wouldn’t stand trial; Steve would join the board of directors of some private enterprise. He had many business connections.

“I’ll deal with it” was all he said.

“Excellent. What about the Russians?” asked Adam.

“They’re pretending to be outraged.”

“I’m not interested in their playacting. I want to know what they will do.”

Wouldn’t we all, thought Steve. He felt hot and bothered. His collar was rubbing against his sweaty neck. His socks chafed his ankles.

“It’ll be a breeze for them,” admitted Steve. “As soon as this becomes public, it will overshadow their reckless anti-satellite weapons test. The Russians will be able to wring their hands and wail. More importantly, they hold all the cards with respect to evacuation.”

“Explain.” Adam adjusted his glasses.

“There are two capsules that can be used to return to Earth docked to the station,” said Steve. “A Soyuz and a Dragon. Wendley was the pilot of the Dragon and Summers was the navigator. For obvious reasons, neither of them can now take the controls.”

“What about the others?”

“Poplaski has completed the basic training. Anand is a space tourist, so she’s out of the question.”

“So what are our options?”

“They’re unattractive, I’m afraid. Both Summers and Wendley have to be evacuated as soon as possible. In an ideal world, they would return in the Soyuz with Anton, leaving Lev, Lucy, and Devaki on the station. We would then send up an astronaut qualified to pilot the Dragon with the next Russian mission leaving Kazakhstan.”

“But we don’t live in an ideal world.”

“We certainly don’t.”

“Will Moscow agree?” asked Lundberg.

“I don’t know. Shall I guess?”

“Go ahead.”

“If they refuse our request, we’ll be forced to use the Dragon,” said Steve. “Poplaski will have to pilot it with Wendley bound up on her left and Lafayette unconscious on her right. That would leave the two Russians and a spewing tourist in no fit state to monitor what the Russians get up to on board. I know what I’d choose. . . .”

“Right.” Lundberg was deathly pale. “The outcome is obvious. What are the chances of Poplaski managing to land safely?”

“Dragon capsules are totally automated. The pilot doesn’t really have to do anything unless there are complications or an emergency.”

“There shouldn’t be any. It’s good gear.”

“Indeed, but on the downside, it will be an unscheduled flight along a ballistic trajectory, so the g-loads will likely be massive.”

Adam glanced at his watch, then stood up. The White House didn’t like to be kept waiting. Before leaving the meeting room, he paused in the doorway.

“Yes?” asked Steve.

“Find her husband,” said Lundberg, “before the press does.”

ISS—August 17, 2021, 01:31 GMT

Lucy was shaking. Her body was drained by the hours of exertion on the space walk; it was also withdrawing from the adrenaline high of the confrontation with Ezra. She longed to go to her cramped sleep station, huddle up in her sweat-drenched sleeping bag, close her itchy eyes for a short while at least, and allow the thrum of the air conditioning to fill her head and block out everything else. Lucy couldn’t afford that luxury. The nightmare was far from over.

She was in the Unity module. Her arms were smeared in blood up to the elbows. In front of her, strapped onto a folding table, lay Lafayette. Little by little, his life was seeping away.

Lucy was trained in emergency medicine and, naturally, had passed the course with flying colors. She knew how to immobilize a broken arm and strap a dislocated joint; she was able to give a cardiac massage and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation—and not just that. If she had to, Lucy could even drill teeth and put in fillings. However, when covering the section of the course dealing with bleeding wounds, the NASA trainers put them in one of two categories: superficial or lethal. It wasn’t possible to carry out a surgical operation in a microgravity environment, at least not with the equipment used on Earth. In space, instead of flowing out of a wound, blood accumulated in a huge bubble around the cut or, even worse, pooled inside the body, which would inevitably lead to infection. In space, the liquid in an intravenous drip didn’t flow downward on its own—it had to be pumped—and air bubbles didn’t float to the top and stay in the IV bag. Trapped in the solution, the bubbles would be forced into the veins, which significantly increased the risk of an embolism. And so on and so forth; the list of potential complications was long.

In orbit, all that could be done was to stanch the bleeding. So Lucy pressed on the severed vein with both hands and shouted for as long as it took to be heard above the noise of the fans until Devaki came to help her. They placed gauze over the cut and wound a bandage tightly around it, then watched as Lafayette’s blood saturated the dressing. He needed to be taken to an operating theater at once, but they were hundreds of kilometers away from the closest hospital and had no easy way of getting to it.

“I won’t stay here.” Devaki’s voice disrupted Lucy’s train of thought.

Devaki was hovering by the table. Her sweat suit was flecked with red; her skin was even paler than before.

“You have to,” rasped Lucy. She was hoarse from shouting.

They’d already received an answer: Moscow had refused to loan the Soyuz, so they had to return in the Dragon with Lucy in the pilot’s seat. Lucy had an hour and twenty minutes to prepare herself and her unconscious passengers for the flight. Usually, preparations lasted a solid week.

“There are four seats in the capsule.” Devaki wasn’t giving up.

“Somebody has to stay.”

“It’s written in my contract. In a life-threatening situation—”

“Out of the question,” said Lucy.

“I’ll pay.”

“One hundred and twenty billion dollars? That’s the amount at stake.”

Devaki fell silent. She was terrified. And desperate.

“Please,” she begged.

“Even if I wanted to agree, Devaki, we only have three spacesuits for the Dragon.”

“I can wear your Sokol suit.”

“It doesn’t fit the connector in the seat. You would boil alive.”

“Please,” repeated Devaki.

Lucy felt sorry for her, but the orders she had received were unequivocal: the station could not be left in the hands of the Russians. Both Lucy and Devaki had been misled by assurances that the International Space Station was primarily a research unit—neutral territory where declining and emerging empires put aside their animosities to jointly pry out yet more of the universe’s secrets. In reality, the science was only a fig leaf that covered up political machinations—quite effectively until now. But the fig leaf had been torn off, and Devaki realized she had paid millions to end up on the front line in a new war; her spacesuit had become a military uniform. Lucy knew that Devaki regretted her decision and wanted to go back to her husband, children, and a world with running water, with an up and a down and a day and a night. Lucy understood Devaki better than anyone else could have. However, on this occasion, she agreed with Houston’s decision; Lucy knew that if they left the station in the hands of their Russian partners for three months, there wouldn’t be anything to return to.

In light of what had happened, Lucy now wondered whether the incident when the Russians pushed the station out of its orbit while docking Nauka really was pure incompetence, or whether it had been part of a longer campaign of sabotage. Did the Elektron oxygen generator really smoke due to its age, or was it at the request of controllers in Moscow? Did the Russians really not know where the ammonia was coming from, or had they found a way to surreptitiously, gradually pump it into the station’s atmosphere so that they could later pin the blame on a fault in the cooling system in the American segment? What else were they capable of? Were they planning to take advantage of the fact that they would soon outnumber the American crew to manufacture a further crisis? One serious enough to act as a pretext for evacuating the station and destroying it—and thus deprive the West of a gateway to the stars? Would Devaki—out of her depth, terrified, and enfeebled by months of endless vomiting—be in any position to deter them?

The cosmonauts floated into Unity. Anton was holding an intravehicular spacesuit for Lafayette under his arm, and Lev was carrying the helmet. On paper, they were all still part of a single team, and Lucy needed the Russians’ assistance. She knew that without them she wouldn’t manage to prepare for the flight in time; she had to trust the Russians this one last time, or face arranging a funeral in space.

“How is he doing?” asked Anton, pointing at Lafayette.

“Badly,” replied Lucy.

“Will he survive the flight?”

“I don’t know, Anton. What outcome are your bosses hoping for?”

“Wait a minute,” he said, raising his hands in protest, “this is the result of your own internal issues.”

“What about the satellite that exploded around our heads? The one hit by a rocket? Was that internal too?”

“That was not our decision,” said Lev. Unlike Anton, he wasn’t looking to provoke—his tone was apologetic. Perhaps he really was sorry. Perhaps Lev belonged to the select group of Russians who didn’t rue the passing of forced-labor camps, tanks, and the Iron Curtain—people who believed that there was another, better way. Perhaps he looked at Zvyozdny Gorodok near Moscow—that bungled reconstruction of an American suburb, created to serve the needs of Western astronauts, with its little houses, verandas, lawns, and flower beds—and thought that this replica grafted onto Russian stock might thrive, produce seeds, and spread. Perhaps he was as bitterly disappointed as Lucy.

“I’m not in the mood to talk about it,” said Lucy.

“It was your colleague who went crazy,” continued Anton obstinately.

“Really?” she snarled. “Maybe he was right.”

“Excuse me?”

She knew she ought to keep calm and that getting into an argument wouldn’t achieve anything, that she didn’t have time for it, and that if she continued to rile the Russians, she would only make Devaki’s life harder. But everyone sometimes lets rip—even Lucy.

“Maybe we should chuck you out, together with all your tin-can junk,” she hissed. “Maybe we should’ve done it a long time ago.”

“What, after you had stolen all our know-how?”

“Did they rejoice in Moscow when you let them know what happened?” she snapped. “Were the Igristoje corks popping?”

“Maybe,” shouted Anton. “You rejoiced when our country was falling apart, no? You loved every second of it.”

“Stop it, both of you,” butted in Devaki. “I’m begging you, just stop.”

“No, we didn’t,” said Lucy to Anton. Not entirely honestly.

“Well, well.” Anton shook his head in disbelief. “Are you really saying you believed those lies about friendship and collaboration? You humiliated us. You wanted to turn us into your lap dogs.”

She had a retort on the tip of her tongue, but this time she bit it back. “I don’t have time for this,” said Lucy, looking toward Lafayette. His skin was ashen. “Please dress Lafayette in the spacesuit. Devaki, where’s yours?”

“In the Dragon.”

“OK. Please change Lafayette’s bandages again, before his helmet goes on, Devaki. OK? Then Ezra next.”

“It is not our fault,” continued Anton, “or rather, not just our fault.” He was looking directly into Lucy’s eyes as if searching for something.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. “Absolution?”

“Tell me I am not right.”

“Fuck off,” she answered. “I’m going to get my suit on and prepare the capsule. I want them both in their bucket seats in twenty minutes. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” said Lev before Anton could speak. “Lucy . . .”

“Yes?”

“I am very sorry.”

She looked into the older cosmonaut’s eyes. There were tears in them.

Lucy nodded and pushed off the wall. There was something she still needed to do.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 20:40 GMT –5

Steve was sitting in the corner of the VIP lounge above the flight control room. He was wearing headphones, drinking coffee, and biting his nails. A day like many others—he had spent more than a quarter of his life in this room—only the stakes were higher than they had ever been before.

“OPSPLAN, Flight—report status.” It was Robert Schiff’s voice he heard.

“Flight preparations on plan and on time,” answered the operations planner. “Return trajectory confirmed, and uploaded to the onboard computer. Landing at eight twelve local time within a fifteen-kilometer radius of 34°12′43″ north, 66°20′28″ west. The recovery team will reach the location in forty minutes—USS Wabash and USS Klamath.”

“Thanks. TOPO, Flight—maximum g-loads?”

“Seven g.”

“Thanks,” said Robert. “Surgeon, Flight—Summers’s condition?”

“Stable.”

“Chances of survival?”

“Twenty-five percent.”

It went quiet. Steve looked up. Robert had closed his eyes; he was rubbing his temples.

“OSO, Flight—report status,” he said a moment later. “Have the emergency procedures been rehearsed?”

“I’m still waiting for Poplaski.”

Robert Schiff lifted his chin. His tension was palpable.

“She’s not in the capsule?” he asked.

“No. She’s”—a moment’s silence while the controller whipped through images from the ISS cameras—“in Tranquility.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Flight.”

Fantastic, thought Steve. Another surprise. What was it this time?

“CAPCOM, Flight—what is she doing there?”

“No idea. It looks as if she’s . . . searching for something?”

“Call Tranquility and ask her,” said Robert.

Anna Rathke tapped on her keyboard, then switched to a different loop. Then they heard her voice again. “Flight, CAPCOM—Poplaski says . . .” Despite all her experience, Anna broke off mid-sentence and started again, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had just heard. “Poplaski says she needs some space.”

ISS—August 17, 2021, 01:41 GMT

A white box the size of a cigarette case. The Russian bug. Lucy decided that she had to find it and destroy it before she left the station. She hadn’t wanted to tamper with it before to avoid landing Anton in trouble. She also realized that if she removed the box, it would be tantamount to admitting she had known of its existence yet didn’t share that information with her superiors. Lucy no longer cared. Tough. Even though she had acted in good faith, she would face court-martial, disgrace, perhaps even prison. You only die once, she thought.

Lucy gave herself twenty minutes—after that she would have to prepare for the return flight. She would give it her best shot, but there wasn’t enough time to look through the module from top to bottom. Every patch of wall, every nook and cranny was in use or obscured. Although the astronauts were supposed to follow strict directions on the positioning of each item, the reality never quite matched the perfect schema set down on paper. Each object seemed to have a life and plans of its own, just like in a fairy tale where the kettle dances a jig with the teacups and the candlestick plays hide-and-seek with the clock. You only had to pull out a drawer and its contents would spill out like confetti or lift a panel and the cables stuffed under it would straighten, squirm, and slip through your fingers like a shoal of eels or a flying spaghetti monster. The astronauts tried to get the chaos under control—with Velcro, tape, screws, and rubber bands—but all their efforts were destined to fail. Order was never more than a temporary state; entropy always won in the end.

Lucy peeked in the cupboard behind the toilet. Spare clothing. Towels. Toilet paper. The mundane stuff of life that facilitated epic ventures amidst the stars. She slammed the cupboard doors—no, it wasn’t there. Next one: a shaver, a vacuum cleaner, removable parts for the treadmill, and a tin of grease. Nothing suspicious. Sixteen minutes left. Lafayette was probably already on board the Dragon, strapped in and unconscious, thought Lucy. She felt a twinge of guilt: she was the one who had pulled the trigger and nearly killed him. She swallowed these pangs of conscience like a bitter pill—Not now!

She looked in the next storage unit. It looked promising: inside there were electronic components, spare chargers, headsets, USB cables, and webcams. An extra gadget wouldn’t stand out or catch anybody’s attention. Lucy was rummaging around when another pang of conscience hit her: a recollection of playing with Eliza. It was just the two of them—a rare and precious occasion. Lucy had only recently gotten home from the airport; she hadn’t even repacked her bags—her next flight was the following day—when Eliza coaxed Lucy into her bedroom to build a model together using toy building bricks. Lucy was tired and unable to engage with her daughter’s world—a space limited by four walls, outside the realm of responsibilities, urgent messages, and ambitious plans, but made vivid by imagination. Lucy only pretended to build something. She jumbled the bricks vacuously, as if looking for a particular piece, and tried to mask her absence with the clatter of plastic. It’s ridiculous to be going back to that here, right now, after everything that’s happened, thought Lucy as she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. Although perhaps it was only natural, this inclination to examine her conscience—an understandable reflex when facing the threat of imminent death. Seven g would press her down into the bucket seat as if it were an anvil; it would squeeze the air from her lungs, and her blood vessels, which had been pampered in zero gravity, would start to pop like bubble wrap.

Lucy looked into yet another cupboard—the one behind the panel with the dent caused by Anton and Lev’s stunts. The lab equipment was kept there: reagents, test tubes, and pipettes. Lucy undid the rubber cords constraining the packages and containers; they drifted away lazily, scattering to the sides. Was this it? Underneath, in the corner of the cupboard, just past the door panel, Lucy spied a white rectangle. She felt an adrenaline hit—and immense satisfaction. Her side had let itself be provoked, and the Russians had scored some victories, but now she could throw a wrench into their works. Lucy was aware she would be betraying Anton’s trust and getting him into trouble, but she could live with that. Fuck him. She pulled out a screwdriver, prized off the box, and then smashed it against a handle. Fragments of integrated circuit shot into the air. Lucy hoped that somewhere in Moscow some screens had just gone blank, the signal had died, and someone was swearing in frustration. The beginnings of the ISS project had held such promise—patterns of history really could have been disrupted—but now it was clear that the cycle would repeat.

Lucy had another ten minutes—enough to tidy up and cover her tracks, at least a little. She started gathering up the scattered contents of the cupboard. Even though the boxes were weightless, they still had mass, so it required effort to stop them drifting and send them in the desired direction. Lucy worked hastily, quivering, exhausted—with muddled thoughts racing through her mind—just trying to get the task done. Suddenly, she stopped. It was as if her subconscious had pulled the emergency brake, sending her an urgent message: Stop, something doesn’t add up. But what was it?

Lucy’s fingertips were damp, and they prickled. One of the boxes seemed suspiciously light. It flew off too easily and went too far when Lucy pushed it. The base was deformed and one of the corners was darker, as if it was damp. Lucy glanced at the label printed on the cardboard: L. SUMMERS–EXPEDITION 75–BOTANY 33/12V/2021–C4H7NO2. The tape sealing the lid had been cut open, then resealed with an extra layer of tape. Lucy ripped it off and scrunched the tape into a ball. She peered inside. In the box, there were three plastic flasks held in place by molded pulp packaging. She reached for the flask closest to the dark corner. It was empty. She found a small crack in the base. Lucy looked up and saw an air vent. She knitted her eyebrows—then laughed heartily.

I’ll have one heck of a story to tell, she thought.

If I ever get back.

Houston—August 16, 2021, 22:13 GMT –5

Nate had his eyes fixed on the TV. The news ticker across the bottom of the screen announced: INJURED ASTRONAUTS PLAN DEPARTURE FROM THE INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION IN DRAGON CAPSULE. People in suits sitting in the TV studio were speaking, nodding, and pointing out the exit path on striking three-dimensional infographics. Cut to the Atlantic Ocean: two Navy aircraft carriers with helicopters on the decks. Cut to the Houston Mission Control building: news vans parked along the hedge outside, and a reporter standing in front of the guardhouse. Cut to the ISS camera feed: the exterior view of the Dragon capsule ready for departure, the countdown to undocking had begun. Thank goodness no images were transmitted from inside the capsule. NASA didn’t want to induce panic. It was wary of inconvenient questions. The official line was that an accident had occurred and two members of the crew were injured. A generality broad enough to encompass both the truth and lies.

Jeff Pictou had informed Nate there had been an incident and that Lucy would return early on an emergency flight. He tried to reassure Nate, telling him everything would be OK. Nate wanted to believe him. Eliza was picked up by her grandparents, and a black limousine with darkened windows came for Nate. As they pulled away, the first press cars arrived outside their home. Nate saw them setting up tripods, testing mics, and knocking on his neighbors’ doors. They were taking photos and filming material about Lucy to use either in a congratulatory montage or in an obituary, depending on what happened in the coming hours.

They drove Nate to the mission control center. A maze of hallways, security gates, and elevators. He didn’t take much of it in. Jeff led him to a small room somewhere out of the way. A couch in the middle of the room faced a massive television hung on the wall. On the coffee table sat a jug of coffee, bottles of mineral water, a plate of cookies . . . and a box of tissues. Nate knew why they had been placed there—in case something went wrong. He couldn’t bear to look at the tissues—they acted as a catalyst for his imagination, triggering the blackest of black scenarios—so he kept his eyes focused on the screen. The next shot cut to the controllers at their computers: headsets, the light from the monitors reflecting off their glasses, intense concentration.

“Umbilical cables disconnected,” said one of them.

“Hooks open.”

A shot from the station: the Dragon’s navigational lights started to blink, as if it had woken up.

“Fuel flow nominal.”

“Capsule separated.”

“Dragon separation visually confirmed.”

“Cabin parameters nominal,” said a voice answering the controllers. It was distorted, faint, and very distant, but it was definitely a woman’s voice. It belonged to his wife.

Nate reached into his pocket to touch the envelope he had found wrapped up in an old T-shirt buried in Lucy’s drawer. He had expected the worst: another secret, or a broken promise. When Nate first discovered Lucy’s infidelity, he had to file it in a whole new category—the first element in a set he hadn’t known existed . . . with an unknown number of elements. Didn’t lies always occur in series? You had to cover for the first lie with a second, for the second with a third, and so on. Layers of falsehoods forming a thick shell. If you tried to scrape the shell off, how could you know whether the layer you had just uncovered was the truth, or whether you had to dig deeper—to the quick—to find it? Scraping to the point of pain.

There was a letter in the envelope. Nate had read it many times in the past few hours. He decided to read it again.

Darling,

During today’s training session, we were asked to write a letter in case anything went wrong. We’re supposed to imagine the situation in as much detail as we can: the funeral, the reactions of our loved ones, and their lives without us. It’s important because, after writing the letter, some people change their minds about flying into space. They realize that they don’t wish to expose their family to such pain and that no adventure can justify it.

I already know that I shall never change my mind.

I want to apologize to you for that. I’m aware it’s not what you signed up for, and that it has been difficult for you and, now, it will only get worse.

I also want to thank you. For everything you have given me and sacrificed on my behalf. I know the list is long—far longer than it should be.

I’m not sure I’ve deserved it. I suspect not.

I love you with all my heart. I haven’t told you that often enough. Either I’m away, or we’re only snatching a brief conversation, or I’m too exhausted.

If I’m conscious of what’s happening—aware that I’m dying—I will be thinking of you. Primarily about the wonderful moments we shared, but also about the less wonderful ones. I value them all. I’m grateful to you for them all.

I was amazingly lucky to find you. I hope you don’t think that you were unlucky.

One last time: I’m sorry, thank you, and I love you.

Forever yours,

Lucy in the sky with diamonds

Nate folded the sheet in four and put it back in his pocket. He took a deep breath, then exhaled while constricting his throat. His head was bursting with conflicting emotions. He still felt resentment. He was also moved. He was afraid for her. He felt bad about thinking the worst of her, and it bothered him that he had chosen to read the letter. Lucy wrote it with specific circumstances in mind and with a frankness stemming from an expectation that she would never hear any reply. She intended the envelope to stay hidden in case she didn’t have the opportunity to say farewell. Nate would have received a phone call telling him where to look for the letter. So, although her words were addressed to him, Nate still had the impression that he had violated her privacy, and he felt like a voyeur. The awareness that he might only have anticipated events by a short period wasn’t any comfort at all.

“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”—they played that song when Lucy received confirmation that she had been accepted into the astronaut corps. She cried with joy. She embraced Nate so tightly that his bones creaked, squeezing the worries and fears out of him. Her excitement was contagious. Nate adored these moments when Lucy tore him away from his own narrow perspective and he saw the world through her eyes—vividly colorful, and full of promise. They drank champagne that Nate had secretly chilled in anticipation of the occasion. Then they had sex on the couch, as they didn’t make it to the bed. She dug her nails into the nape of his neck and kissed his ear. Afterward they lay quietly for a while, waiting for their breathing to return to normal. Hadn’t they been happy! And naive.

Nate wiped his eyes and glanced back at the TV. The Dragon was a tiny white point in a sea of endless blackness.

A moment later, flames concealed it.

Dragon—August 17, 2021, 04:46 GMT

Lucy’s field of vision was gradually contracting. She could still discern the LCD screens displaying the flight parameters, but she could no longer say whether the figures were encouraging or worrying. The vibrations were too great, and the increasing gravity load was pressing her eyeballs into her skull, deforming them, and expelling tears. She could see her own arms, which felt so heavy they seemed rooted to the armrests, but otherwise it was black all around her. It was as if somebody were adjusting a lens stop, slowly reducing the aperture.

Lucy was doing her best not to panic; she was breathing the way she had been taught during training: deep down from her diaphragm because her rib cage was snapped shut around her lungs like a trap. The blood was draining away from her head and torso, like rain streaming down the window of a speeding train, and pooling in her legs—where it ripped minor blood vessels apart. An army of ferocious biting ants. The controllers were still speaking to her, but Lucy couldn’t make out all the words or link them up into sentences. There was too much noise. It was too much effort. She knew that, any moment now, the veil of plasma surrounding the capsule would block the radio waves, and communications would break off. For five or six minutes, she would be entirely on her own—if you discounted the unconscious astronauts slumped in their bucket seats beside her. With a superhuman effort she turned her head toward Lafayette. Was he alive? Or not? No way to tell. Ezra was slowly regaining consciousness—seven g was like a reviving, heavy-handed slap in the face.

Although Lucy was in the pilot’s seat, the capsule was actually controlled by the onboard computer. She was only supposed to react in an emergency, if she heard an alarm. Most of the time, astronauts—seen as pioneers, explorers, and heroes—had as much control over their spacecraft as a circus performer shot out of a cannon. In the earliest space capsules, manual steering controls were only added when the pilots demanded it. They wanted to prove—to the controllers, the world, and themselves—that pilots were not just necessary, but irreplaceable, despite chimpanzees performing equally well in the test flights that preceded human flights.

The voices in Lucy’s headphones fell silent. Nobody was observing her, listening in, assessing her, or rushing her. It took a ball of fire to give her a little space away from the rest of the world. Lucy knew that this was the last time she would be undisturbed, because soon she would either die or land and be greeted by a stroboscope of camera flashes, question after question, and, in all likelihood, accusations and reproaches. The awareness that she deserved some of them weighed more heavily on her than the manifold gravitational force jamming her into the bucket seat.

Lucy’s thoughts were chaotic and incomplete; her brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen to properly correlate words and images. The bang of the pistol shot and an exploding fire extinguisher. A tousled Nate frying pancakes on a Saturday morning, jiggling around in time to the music; the sunlight streaming through the blinds, painting golden streaks in the vapors rising from the frying pan. The kaleidoscope of light and shadows during the EVA; the bottomless void tugging at her, sucking her in, and swallowing her. Eliza’s drawing on the fridge, labeled in lopsided letters—Mom—a person in a spacesuit and helmet, with her face hidden behind a pitch-black visor. The beads of Lafayette’s blood; bandages soaked in gore resembling the inkblots in a Rorschach test. The farewell in Baikonur, their hands pressed against the plexiglass, on opposite sides—so close, but separated by a barrier. The cracked flask in the dented cardboard box.

A chance occurrence, she thought with disbelief, raging against her fate. She was livid, yet amused at the same time. The ammonia in the station’s atmosphere had been a frigging chance occurrence!

A moment later, Lucy lost consciousness.

11

Washington—December 13, 2021

Almost a hundred people were crammed into the room where the hearing was taking place. VIPs, lawyers, and journalists—all looking at Lucy. Millions more were watching on television. Lucy was wearing a smart gray suit and a white blouse, her hair gathered into a ponytail. She sat up straight, placed her hands on the table, and intertwined her fingers. Whenever she paused to think about her answer, Lucy twiddled her wedding ring with her thumb.

“Welcome back.” The commission chair, Daniel Lamar, a Republican senator from Arkansas, previously a deputy secretary of state, pulled in his chair and adjusted his microphone. “Today, I would like to move on to the issue of the ammonia leak. In the light of other, tragic events that occurred during Expedition 75, this topic may appear trivial, but the testimony we have already heard indicates that this seemingly unimportant problem was the first link in a chain of events that led to Pilot Wendley’s mutiny and the death of Mission Specialist Summers.”

Lucy hung her head. Her thoughts returned to the day she landed and the moment she opened her eyes. The capsule was rocking in the waves and the recovery team was in the process of opening the hatch. Every bit of her body hurt: every muscle and every bone felt as if it had been crushed by a steamroller. She could smell the acrid stench of a charred frying pan plunged into cold water: it came from the thermal protection shield that had been heated to 1,600 degrees Celsius then abruptly cooled on contact with the Atlantic Ocean. The recovery team unfastened Lafayette and laid him on a stretcher, then removed his bloodied helmet. They worked hastily, aware that every second mattered. All of a sudden, they slowed down. They didn’t tell Lucy anything at the time, and the egress continued as planned: the stretcher was lifted into a helicopter and flown to USS Klamath, where surgeons were waiting in an operating theater. However, Lucy already knew that it was too late, and that it was her fault Lafayette had died. Afterward, she sent a letter to his family asking for a meeting; she was all set to apologize profusely and beg for forgiveness. They never replied to her letter. Lucy told herself that she had meant well and her actions were intended to protect Lafayette, and not just him, but the whole crew, the whole station, that she had tried to perform her duties as best she could, but she was plagued by doubts. What if she had handed over the pistol without resisting? What if she had gone against Ayers’s instructions, and told her crew everything? How would events have unfurled if she had told Ayers about Anton’s admissions straightaway? What if she had noticed the damned white box earlier, and found the cracked flask? Would they all have returned in one piece? Or perhaps quite the opposite? Would there have been more corpses? The issue seemed perfectly clear to other people, though. Her inbox was filled with hate mail, her phone a conduit for death threats.

Her other passenger, Ezra, left the Dragon on his own two feet—but with his hands in cuffs. His fate still hung in the balance. Criminal proceedings against him were underway, and Ezra might face ten to twenty years in prison. According to opinion polls, most people thought he shouldn’t be punished at all, and a small but very vociferous group claimed he was a hero. His likeness was printed on caps, cups, T-shirts, and pins. He was interviewed and invited to stand alongside politicians from the Freedom Caucus—ironic, seeing how until now they had seemed extremely amenable to Russians and their grievances. He was offered a lucrative contract for a book and thousands of people signed a petition calling for him to be awarded a Purple Heart. In front of the cameras, grinning disrespectfully—without any trace of remorse—Ezra argued that he had acted as a true American patriot should. He often appeared with a DON’T TREAD ON ME flag. Ezra spent more time planning his campaign than preparing his defense once he saw he was in with a good chance of being elected to Congress; the friend who had wanted to be governor of Wyoming was helping him on the trail. Some old hands at the Capitol found the idea of a mutineer joining their ranks distasteful, but by now, they’d learned to keep their opinions—and judgments—to themselves. No need to rock the boat so close to retirement.

“Ms. Poplaski, in your statement you wrote”—Lamar flipped through some sheets of paper covered in dense print—“that the leak was the result of, I quote, ‘a chance occurrence.’ Can you please explain what you meant by that?”

Lucy nodded. The lawyers had warned her she would have to repeat the content of her witness statement in front of the cameras. Experts at Mission Control had helped her prepare it. They verified Lucy’s suppositions, comparing her recollections with recordings from the station and technical diagrams of the ISS. They tried to pick holes in her story, but couldn’t find any.

“Of course,” said Lucy. She was making a conscious effort to modulate her voice: she needed to sound confident, but not insolent; cooperative, but not obsequious; and dignified, but not stoic. “The first readings that indicated an increase in the concentration of ammonia were recorded shortly after the solar flare. As I said in the evidence I gave during the previous sessions, while we were in our cubicles sheltering from the radiation, cosmonauts Anton Kovalyov and Lev Zaytsev made their way to the Tranquility module.”

“What for?”

It went quiet; the tension was palpable. Those in the know anticipated what Lucy would say.

“To install a concealed listening device in Tranquility.”

“That is not true,” protested Roscosmos’s representative, Yevgeniy Pushakov. He was red in the face with indignation—all aggrieved innocence. Lucy continued to be impressed by the chutzpah of the Russian representatives and the determination with which they defended obvious lies. They were capable of cursing the prevailing drought while standing knee-deep in rain, or shedding copious tears over the coffin of a person they had stabbed in the back.

“It’s not your turn to speak,” said Lamar.

“I cannot remain silent while such slurs are repeated. During the solar flare, cosmonauts Kovalyov and Zaytsev were in our segment of the International Space Station, fully compliant with the procedures, which . . .”

“Your dissenting view will be duly noted in the written records,” said Lamar as he muted Pushakov’s microphone.

The kid gloves were off. Pushakov had been allowed to join the commission, but this wasn’t a new chapter in a tale of collaboration—rather a bitter epilogue. NASA was ready for the worst, thanks to preparations initiated by Steve Ayers while Expedition 75 was still in progress.

Within six weeks of Lucy’s return, two Dragon spacecraft launched from Florida. One of them was modified to allow it to remain permanently attached to the American segment of the ISS. Its purpose was to adjust the station’s orbit—a function previously fulfilled by the thrusters in the Russian segment. Every now and again, it was to delicately nudge the ISS away from the Earth, which continually drew the station toward itself. Whatever your feelings about eccentric billionaires and private companies in the space industry, their speed of delivery sure beat the official government contractors. Obviously, somebody paid the price—all the passionate, dedicated employees were wrung dry. They were a renewable resource: hundreds of space fanatics waited to fill the shoes of every burnt-out engineer.

Next, several space walks were undertaken—fortunately, not as tumultuous as Lucy’s EVA—and the astronauts succeeded in separating the two segments of the ISS. Shortly afterward, Devaki Anand returned to Earth in a Soyuz with Anton and Lev. She hid from the public and avoided journalists like the plague. Her lawyers filed a legal claim against NASA: Devaki was demanding millions and millions of dollars in compensation for the trauma she had endured. Judging by the reputation of the law firm she hired, she was likely to win.

Thus, the United States kept their gateway to the stars while the Russian segment became worthless junk without constant infusions of American cash. At first, Rybkin made high-flown pronouncements that his modules would soon be connected to China’s Tiangong and form “an alternative to the West’s dictatorship in space exploration” and “a platform for long-lasting orbital peace.” However, Beijing must have spurned his proposals because Rybkin’s vision never materialized. The days of Zvezda, Rassvet, Nauka, and Zarya were numbered; to be precise, these modules would only exist for another eleven days. The Russian segment of the ISS was due to be incinerated in the Earth’s atmosphere. Already, the scientific community was warning that the angle of entry planned by Roscosmos was too shallow, so the modules would not burn up entirely and their remains would fall to Earth like a shower of meteorites. Moscow didn’t seem in the least concerned. Quite possibly, it was deliberate: perhaps the Russians wanted to spite the world and do whatever damage they could before leaving the stage. Perhaps their focus was already elsewhere, as indicated by reports of Russian troops amassed at the border with Ukraine. Maybe they had decided to compensate for dropping out of the Space Race by taking action on Earth, where they could still win victories—or at least so they believed.

The American segment of the ISS was due to undergo a radical transformation. The bold plans, which still had to be confirmed by Congress, would see the oldest modules disassembled and the components recycled, while the newer modules would form the nucleus of a new space station built by corporations. The billions sucked up by the richest citizens were to flow from the Earth into space—the ultimate form of offshoring. The ideals associated with the ISS project at its inception were pushed aside. The new space station was expected to be profitable. Not in a hazy, abstract way—dividends expected to flow from the knowledge gained in orbit paid out at some unspecified future date—but in a tangible way expressed in dollars at the current exchange rate in quarterly shareholder reports. Perhaps they should have taken that approach from the start; perhaps that was the only way to fly to the stars—on the wings of greed.

“Please continue,” said Lamar.

“The Russians came to blows,” said Lucy, bending forward toward the microphone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a hand go up. It belonged to a woman in a lilac jacket sitting beside Lamar. Democratic congresswoman Leslie Brown had a lot riding on this hearing. Her role in the commission was to represent the American taxpayer, but above all, she was in it for herself—building her career by speaking truth to power. For her, space was incidental.

“Why did the Russians come to blows?” asked Brown when she was given the floor.

“As far as I know, Lev Zaytsev had serious reservations about installing the device,” replied Lucy.

“Why?” persisted Brown.

“On principle, I assume.”

“Is that so? Please explain how you determined that.”

Lucy could feel beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. She had acted in good faith, with good intentions. However, she realized the facts could be interpreted differently. The lawyer sitting next to her leaned over, covered the mic with his hand, and, in a whisper, reminded her of the wording they had agreed on earlier—prepared to allow Lucy to safely navigate between treacherous rocks in the rough sea of legal issues. Lucy tensed, and her mouth went dry. Although she had always put herself out there—taking to the stage, stepping up to volunteer—this time Lucy was afraid she wouldn’t be able to answer, or might make a mistake or stumble over her words. She felt a hand on the small of her back. It was Nate. He was sitting right behind her and must have noticed how she was feeling. Nobody could detect rising stress in her as well as Nate. Nobody believed in her the way he did. At difficult moments, if Lucy saw herself through Nate’s eyes, it gave her the strength to live up to his estimation of her.

“That information was conveyed to me by Anton Kovalyov,” she said, watching the older woman on the other side of the room. Brown was scowling at Lucy from behind spectacles that had slipped down onto the tip of her nose. She had no intention of letting Lucy off lightly.

“Did you pass that information on to your superiors?” she asked.

“I did not,” replied Lucy. A murmur swept through the room.

“Why not?”

“Considering the situation I was in, I judged that it was essential to keep the trust of the Russian crew.”

“What situation was that?” Brown rested her folded arms on the table and leaned forward. “What are you referring to?”

“At that point, I already knew the pistol had vanished from the Soyuz, and that one of my crew had taken it.”

Camera flashes. Whispering. Tapping on keyboards.

“Did you discuss this matter with your subordinates?” inquired Brown.

“No.”

“Why not? Surely that was the obvious thing to do?”

“I was explicitly instructed not to by Deputy Director Ayers.”

Lamar glanced up from his papers, then made a note. Further questions for another day.

Lucy gritted her teeth. She was tired, and worse: overwhelmed. Until recently, she had clear goals in life. She knew exactly what she had to do to achieve them, how, and when. Everything was defined by the relevant regulations. Now, with her future at stake—would she be remembered as a heroine, or a traitor?—the rules of play were unclear, and Lucy had limited agency.

“Which document contains that instruction?” Brown demonstratively flicked through the papers lying in front of her as if she hoped to find the relevant document there.

“The instruction was given verbally.”

“Are there stenographic records of that conversation?”

“No,” said Lucy, shaking her head, “the conversation was off the record.”

“Ms. Brown, may I remind you that the purpose of today’s session is to cover the issue of the ammonia leak,” interjected Lamar.

“That’s all for now.” Brown leaned back in her chair, as if she wanted to convey that it had not been her decision to focus on the leak and that, had it been up to her, the interrogation would have continued. Ayers had testified earlier. He didn’t know, remember, or recall anything. He claimed that the captain and the flight director were responsible for everything that happened on the station, and the chief of the Astronaut Office for the selection of individuals making up the crew. It was all water off a duck’s back.

“As I said”—Lucy twiddled her wedding band until the skin underneath started to smart—“a scuffle ensued between the Russians. One of them . . . probably Lev Zaytsev, fell backward against the wall panel that covered the storage unit containing laboratory reagents.”

“According to the schedule I have in front of me”—Lamar screwed up his eyes and peered at the document—“those types of supplies should have been stored in either the Columbus or the Destiny module in reinforced cabinets especially designed for such substances.”

“Indeed,” agreed Lucy, “but there hasn’t been enough space in those for many years, so we put things away wherever we found room for them.”

“I understand,” said Lamar, nodding. “Please continue.”

“The blow to the panel damaged a box . . . and also the flasks inside the box.”

“What was in the flasks?”

“ACC,” replied Lucy. “It was required for the experiments that Mission Specialist Lafayette Summers was supposed to carry out to investigate the process of soil genesis in microgravity conditions.”

“And no one noticed?” asked Brown.

“Summers was told to stop his experiments when the timetable was changed after the rise in ammonia was detected. He wasn’t using the reagents, so he didn’t notice that the flasks were slowly emptying.”

“The crew was tasked with searching the station, was it not?” Congresswoman Brown was rolling her fountain pen between her fingers as if it were a weapon that she was about to jab into Lucy’s windpipe. “Weren’t you supposed to search for possible sources of the leak? Surely it crossed your mind to look in the storage unit where you kept chemical reagents?”

“We did check those boxes,” replied Lucy, “but in a microgravity environment, the weight of any given object is not obvious unless you apply force to assess its inertia. We opened the box and, at first glance, there wasn’t any evident damage or depletion.”

“Are you saying that you checked the boxes, but not very carefully?”

“It’s true that we did not notice the crack in the flask.”

“Nor the spillage?” Brown cocked her head. “I just want to make sure the facts are clear.”

“That also would have been obvious in the conditions on Earth because the liquid would form a puddle on the floor near the unit; however, on the ISS, the droplets seeped through the cardboard, dispersed through the cracks between the panels, and formed a suspension that was almost invisible.”

“May I ask a question?” interjected the European Space Agency representative, a French physicist named Antoine Cantat, who had not said a word until now. He was going gray, was clean-shaven, and wore a dark navy blazer over a white shirt so bright it was practically glowing—he could have been a model in a clothing catalog targeted at men in a midlife crisis. “Are you able to spell out the abbreviation for me? ACC?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Lucy, nodding. She had the formula etched into her brain as if on a gravestone. “It’s 1-aminocyclopropane-1-carboxylic acid.”

“Feel free to correct me, I’m not a chemist”—Cantat wiped his brow—“but isn’t that a stable compound? It doesn’t just disintegrate, does it? Not at room temperature?”

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed Lucy. “A reacting substance has to be present.”

“In that case, I still don’t understand where the ammonia in the air came from. The acid didn’t decompose on its own.”

“No, it didn’t. The bacteria made it happen,” said Lucy. The panel members’ faces reflected their surprise and, in some cases, disbelief. “We’ve had problems with various microorganisms multiplying on the ISS for a long time now . . . in particular with Bacillus safensis, which thrives even better in microgravity than it does on Earth. For that reason, once a week, the whole station has to be cleaned with alcohol wipes from top to bottom—otherwise the bacteria would multiply to an extent that would constitute a health hazard for the crew.”

“But, on this occasion, it wasn’t effective?”

“In the last roster before”—Lucy swallowed—“our emergency return to Earth, the station was cleaned by Ezra Wendley and me. About halfway through the cleaning, I asked Wendley to finish the job on his own because I was behind schedule and wanted to catch up on other tasks. He said yes . . . but later, when the recordings were checked, it became apparent that Wendley left the job unfinished, and didn’t get to the Tranquility module. In addition . . . according to the experts . . . the solar flare is likely to have caused numerous mutations in the bacteria on the station . . . including mutations that accelerate their metabolism.”

“Please give us an account of what you believe happened, from beginning to end,” said Lamar. “Succinctly and in simple language. I would ask the members of the panel not to interrupt.”

“I’ll do my best.” Lucy took a deep breath. “Just before we were informed about the solar flare, we changed the filters in the fans in Tranquility. They trap hair, bits of dead skin, and other organic material, and so are the place where microorganisms multiply most quickly. While removing the old filters, we scattered bacteria all over the module.” Lucy paused, and looked around the room. Everybody was listening intently. “Shortly afterward, the solar flare occurred,” she continued. “Zaytsev and Kovalyov dented the panel and damaged the flasks. The ACC slowly seeped through the cardboard box, and the bacteria present in the module broke it down into ammonia and oxalic acid. The leak was very slow and hence there was only a gradual increase in the concentration of ammonia in the air. In addition, the ventilation fans, which work continuously, distributed the gas evenly throughout the station. The filters are overloaded, so did not have the capacity to trap all the ammonia. If all the surfaces in Tranquility had been wiped down with disinfectant in the meantime, this process would have been interrupted . . .” If only Ezra had listened to me, thought Lucy. If only he respected me and didn’t consider that cleaning the station was beneath him. “. . . but that did not happen.”

“Excuse me,” piped up congresswoman Brown. “Are you saying that the collapse of the International Space Station and the greatest diplomatic crisis in the history of space exploration occurred because Pilot Ezra Wendley did not do his dusting chores?”

Lucy nodded. It would have been funny . . . if it were not for the consequences. She looked around the room, seeking . . . compassion? Heads nodding in agreement? Instead, cameras started flashing, blinding her for a second. She rubbed her eyes, then focused her gaze ahead.

“I’m taking a risk saying this, but . . . for a long time, the ISS has been like a powder keg,” said Lucy. She wasn’t groveling or apologizing. The point she was making was common knowledge, only it wasn’t considered appropriate to say it out loud. “It only needed a spark. Any spark.”

“Please clarify your meaning,” requested Lamar.

“Our Russian partners were aware that the days of the ISS, in its current composition and configuration, were numbered, so they were looking for a pretext to pull out of the project; they knew an abrupt withdrawal would make building a new platform to support flights beyond the Earth’s orbit, such as to the Moon, significantly harder. In parallel, as I mentioned earlier, cosmonauts Kovalyov and Zaytsev were instructed to install a spying device in Tranquility—the module that would be the nucleus of any new space station. This was a backup to cover the eventuality that the Russians did not succeed in thwarting the West’s plans for the station.”

“Those are malicious slurs,” protested Pushakov. “As I have said, Roscosmos was totally committed to peaceful—”

Click! Lamar muted Pushakov’s microphone again and motioned for Lucy to continue.

“When the level of ammonia on the station shot up,” continued Lucy, “it provided Director Rybkin with the excuse he had been waiting for—the well-being of his crew. I’d like to point out that, shortly beforehand, Director Rybkin had ordered his cosmonauts to expose themselves to highly carcinogenic solar radiation. However, using health and safety as a pretext, he indicated that Roscosmos was inclined to terminate its involvement in the ISS.”

“Do you believe he really was ready to pull out at that stage?” asked Lamar, as he steepled his fingertips together.

“It is only a guess, but I suspect not,” answered Lucy. “I think it was intended as an opening move to prepare the ground for withdrawal at a later stage. Director Rybkin probably saw it as an opportunity to gain concessions from NASA—maybe payments for further Soyuz flights in return for temporarily extending participation in the ISS project. However, Deputy Director Ayers wasn’t prepared to negotiate. In fact, he suspected the Russians were responsible for the contamination of the station’s atmosphere and were actively engineering the crisis. He instructed me to check it out.”

“Deputy Director Ayers denies ever having such a conversation,” said Brown, holding up the trial notes.

“We are all aware of the contradictions in the witnesses’ evidence,” interjected Lamar. Despite the hearings continuing into their second month and Brown conducting her campaign of lightning raids throughout that time, Lamar was as calm as could be as he looked back to Lucy. “Please continue.”

Lucy poured herself some water. She had to focus on this task and consciously control her reflexes. For the first few weeks after returning from space, she was clumsy, spilling and dropping things—shocked when objects did not float in the air where she left them.

“On Ayers’s instructions,” said Lucy, emphasizing the point once again, “I set off the fire alarm because it gave me a pretext for searching the Russian segment of the station.”

“Couldn’t you have just asked Anton Kovalyov?” asked Brown. “Apparently, the two of you had a close relationship, no?”

Lucy felt as if Brown had slapped her across the face. Her cheeks stung, and her eyes filled with tears. She recalled her conversation with Nate a few days after her return. It was nightmarish, unproductive, and ended in a shouting match. In the past, she had always been a support to Nate—his rock. That day, Lucy felt like a boulder crushing him, irreversibly destroying a part of him. They cried for a long time. They talked for a long time. Lucy attempted to hug Nate, but he wouldn’t let her. Nothing had ever hurt so much.

“We did in the past,” replied Lucy, only just managing to keep her voice even and concealing the turmoil she felt, “but not during Expedition 75.”

“So what exactly happened in the past?” asked Brown with a wry smile on her lips.

“That is not relevant at this point,” said Lamar.

“I disagree entirely. The nature of Ms. Poplaski’s relationship with the Russians is central to her credibility as a witness.”

“Please continue, Ms. Poplaski,” said Lamar, ignoring congresswoman Leslie Brown altogether. Lucy was very grateful for his intervention.

“Naturally, the Russians soon realized what had happened,” said Lucy. “Director Rybkin must have been furious that we violated the sovereignty of their segment, and I suspect that was the point at which he decided to carry out the anti-satellite weapons test. To maximize its impact, he decided the test would be carried out during our space walk. Of course, this must have been coordinated with the Kremlin. The message was clear: the Russians weren’t afraid of escalating tensions, even if that meant starting a new cold war.”

Pushakov opened his mouth to protest again, but his microphone was still switched off. He glared at Lamar, and, getting no response, he demonstratively stood up and strode toward the door.

“Please record the fact that the Roscosmos representative has left the hearing,” said Lamar.

“This is a lynching,” shouted Pushakov as a parting shot, “in line with the best traditions of the USA.”

“Please continue.”

Lucy waited until Pushakov had closed the door behind him and the scurry of camerapeople recording his departure had subsided. “In normal circumstances,” she continued, “Director Rybkin’s provocation wouldn’t have triggered such far-reaching consequences. We would have sheltered in our capsules, waited till the threat was over, and then returned to our daily tasks with only an eye roll at the shenanigans of irresponsible politicians.” Here Lucy looked directly toward Brown, who averted her gaze.

“Director Rybkin wasn’t aware, however, of how toxic the atmosphere on board the station had become,” continued Lucy. “At that point, our crew already knew that Kovalyov and Zaytsev had gotten into a fight; what’s more, we were convinced that the Russian crew were lying and hiding something from us.” Lucy broke off. She clasped her hands together so tightly that her joints ached and her fingers went white. “Pilot Ezra Wendley also noticed that”—she broke off, and swallowed—“that I was participating in unofficial meetings with Kovalyov. I initiated those because I hoped that in private face-to-face meetings, Kovalyov would be more inclined to tell me the truth.”

“Due to your shared past?” interrupted Brown.

Lucy looked at Brown again. Into her eyes. In them, she saw mockery and the satisfaction of a playground bully who has just thought up a vicious new nickname for her victim.

“Yes,” said Lucy, “that was part of it. Unfortunately. Wendley assumed that I was in cahoots with the Russians—that we were hatching a plot. He reported his suspicions to Deputy Director Ayers, who gave Wendley the brush-off because he did not want to tell Wendley about the arrangements he had made with me. Of course, that only heightened Wendley’s paranoia. He came to the conclusion that the conspiracy went to the very top of NASA and, to foil it, he would have to act on his own. From that point on, Wendley stopped showing me any respect, and worse, he became confrontational and aggressive.”

“Physically or verbally aggressive?” asked Lamar. “We need to be clear.”

“Verbally,” said Lucy, “but aggressive enough to make Lafayette Summers feel threatened.” Lucy’s ears were burning. She knew that Lafayette’s husband was in the room and that all the cameras would now be focused on him. His expression at that moment, whether he nodded understandingly or shook his head, would determine whether the public believed Lucy’s version of events, or not.

“Director Faizan gave evidence that conflicts had previously arisen between Wendley and Summers,” said Lamar. “Were you aware of that?”

“I was aware there were tensions between them, but I didn’t know any of the details.”

The details were shocking. It transpired that Sarah Faizan had done what she could to avoid Lafayette and Ezra being allocated to the same mission. She realized they made an explosive mix from which sparks would fly in a crisis, particularly if Russians were added into the equation—Wendley was openly contemptuous of the Russians. Politics were at the root of the problem. One side insisted on diversity; another favored a veteran with military experience. Conscious that space expeditions encompass multiple presidential terms, Faizan knew she could not afford to antagonize either side. She chose to represent both, and paid for it with her job—she was the first scapegoat to be sacrificed. This commission was looking for others to take the fall, but Lucy had no intention of laying her head on the block.

“Thank you,” said Lamar. “Please continue.”

“Summers was convinced that Wendley would eventually confront the Russians. He was afraid that Wendley would use force—not without cause, as on one occasion Wendley and Kovalyov almost came to blows. Summers probably also thought that, when it came to it, I wouldn’t manage to deal with that sort of situation. He thought I would need support and someone to defend me.”

“Was he right?” asked Brown. She was like a shark that smelled blood in the water.

Lamar ignored Brown’s question and asked, “In your opinion, was that the reason Summers decided to take the pistol from the Soyuz?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, leaning right into the microphone as if she wanted to emphasize that word and give it more weight. “Unfortunately, though I have no doubt his intentions were noble, it made matters worse. It convinced me that one of my crew—and not the Russians—was the source of the troubles on the station. I thought one of our astronauts was trying to sabotage the ISS, although I had no idea why. Moreover, that person appeared ready to use a firearm if their cover was blown. That was why—following Deputy Director Ayers’s instructions yet again—I did not inform the members of my crew about the steps I was taking, or tell them what I found out from the Russians. Clearly, that made Wendley even more suspicious. He sensed that I was hiding something and assumed I was collaborating with Kovalyov.”

Lucy closed her eyes for a second. She had had enough. She longed to leave the room and never return. Again, she felt her husband’s hand on her back. Their roles were reversed; now, he was her support. The question was, For how much longer? She brusquely wiped her eyes, trying not to give the photographers enough time to respond; she did not want her tears visible on the close-up.

“Later—” Lucy had to stop, as she could hear her own voice cracking. “Later, during our space walk, the Russians tested their anti-satellite weapons. I understand there was a mistake in their calculations. The target to be destroyed was too close to the ISS, and instead of just threatening us, Rybkin really put our lives in danger. Wendley . . . well, at that point, he stopped obeying my commands altogether.”

No surprise there, thought Lucy. In Ezra’s testimony, information came to light about his anger management issues and the therapy he hadn’t completed—which years ago had been swept under the rug thanks to his friends in government. Not that these revelations had harmed him in any way. Ezra was now attending political rallies and giving high fives. He was being invited on to TV talk shows to comment on the latest news from Eastern Europe, where he acted the concerned statesman, saying: Didn’t I tell you? A Black man, on the other hand, was dead, and the blame for it was being pinned on a woman. All of it screamed of injustice. It also felt deeply familiar and utterly unsurprising.

“So, in your opinion,” said Cantat, “it was simply an unfortunate sequence of events? Just chance?”

“Yes.” Lucy nodded. She had been advised by her lawyers to stop at this point. She continued regardless: “In my opinion, those chance occurrences took root in fertile ground. We paid the price for years of rotten compromises, omissions, and misguided decisions. The decision makers here on Earth believed that their disputes had no effect on what happened to us in orbit. As if the two were entirely unconnected!” Lucy tightened her grip on the microphone. “Unfortunately, that’s not the case,” she said. “When it comes down to it, regrettably, we’re only human.”

“Thank you for your testimony.” Lamar glanced at his watch. “I hereby close today’s proceedings.”

Houston—December 20, 2021

Boxes, boxes everywhere—crooked towers and gappy walls built from an array of cuboids. Steve Ayers’s house looked like a segment of an old computer game—full of large, angular pixels. The only things missing were the turtles walking back and forth and oversized Venus flytraps snapping their jaws. Instead of jolly music, the hallways reverberated with the ripping sound of packing tape coming off the roll and the rustle of paper being scrunched up.

“Do you want the dishes sorted by set, or by size?” asked the moving team leader, Mandy, or perhaps it was Mindy, or something like that—Steve didn’t quite catch her name. What did it matter? The girl was young; she had a colorful tattoo on her sweaty bicep.

“What difference does it make?” asked Steve. He glanced into the box, which was a nest of cardboard strips.

“None to us. It’s a question of what would be more convenient when you’re unpacking them in your new home.”

Steve nodded. His new home was on the other side of the country. Smaller house, but it was close to the sea and right next to a golf course. Three bedrooms: one for him, one would be a study, and the third would serve as a storeroom. That was where Steve would stack the boxes with his ex-wives’ purchases: dinner sets for twenty, gravy boats, serving dishes, and tiered cake stands. All Steve needed was a microwave and ready-made meals; he wasn’t expecting any guests.

“Well”—he sighed—“really, that’s a question for my heirs.”

“In that case, we’ll go by size,” she answered. She didn’t prolong the conversation. Not surprising, as he was paying her for the job, not by the hour.

“I think I’ll start getting ready to go,” he said, getting up from the chair.

“Bon voyage!” replied Mindy or Mandy without interrupting her work. Only then did Steve notice her tattoo was the constellation Taurus. A few points linked by straight lines formed the skeleton and, drawn around it, a semi-transparent outline of a bull. So Mindy-Mandy was into astrology and believed, thought Steve, that the distant stars determined her character traits, and perhaps even the course of her life. Amusing: it wasn’t true for most people, but for Ayers and the people he worked with, it was—in a way. For example, the conjunction of planets determined the optimal trajectory for a potential space probe, and therefore the time when it would be best to launch it into space—in this decade, or maybe the next? Whether Jupiter happened to spit out radiation just as the probe flew past and so fried its electrical circuits, or not, would impact the careers of the people who built the probe. Either they would achieve what they planned, extract new data from the universe, and write highly rated articles, or years of exhausting work would go to waste and promising scientists would fail to make a name for themselves, suffer from burnout, and become bitter.

“They’ve done your Lambda Tauri wrong,” said Steve.

“Excuse me?” Mindy-Mandy looked up from a box; her violet-tinted hair fell across her eyes.

“It’s a triple star system. Three stars, not two. Not enough dots.”

“I don’t understand. . . .”

“The tattoo on your shoulder.”

“Yeah?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged it off.

Steve opened the front door. It was cold for Texas; he got goose bumps. Outside the house and across the street, a woman in a sweatsuit and flip-flops was unloading groceries from the trunk of a black Jeep; two houses further down, a man in a wide-brimmed hat and a torn T-shirt was mowing the lawn. Steve felt no emotion at the thought of leaving the neighborhood or moving out of the house. Neither sadness nor joy. It was like leaving the key card for his room at a hotel reception desk.

The commission tasked with investigating the circumstances of Lafayette Summers’s death seemed likely to exonerate Steve. He would leave NASA before his term of office ended, but on the usual severance terms and with a good pension. That part, at least, had gone according to plan. The part that surprised him was his telephone not buzzing. He had been sure that, as soon as the news got out that he was available, he would be able to take his pick from a range of job offers. Space exploration was undergoing a renaissance, and few people knew as much about the industry as Steve. He was taken aback and slightly worried by this, so he had arranged to meet someone who had worked for him and was now a director of something or other in one of the many satellite construction companies.

They met in a Mexican restaurant and ordered tacos and a bottle of tequila. After his third glass, the acquaintance let on, while the mariachi band played, that Steve had acquired a bad reputation. People who had previously worked with Steve—present company excluded, of course!—didn’t want him on their team: they thought Steve was toxic, and a PR risk. Poplaski’s and Hunt’s evidence may not have been incriminating enough for Steve to face charges, but it had tainted him and left a foul odor; nowadays, reputational risk ranked higher in companies’ concerns than tax audits.

Eventually, Steve landed a job with a Silicon Valley start-up applying quantum technology to satellite communications. Steve didn’t really know how it worked, but nobody seemed to expect him to understand. His role was to make trips to Washington, treat senators’ staff to lavish restaurant meals, and give out business cards. They were paying Steve well and he was given shares in the company, so Steve should have been content. But he wasn’t.

A PR risk—Steve chewed on these words; they stuck in his throat, ran through his head like a curse. The stars require renunciation, and more—bloodshed for the cause. Neil Armstrong wouldn’t have taken that one small step on the Moon if it were not for the immense sacrifices made by others. He stood not so much on the shoulders of giants as on their tombstones. Londoners trapped in the rubble of houses destroyed by V-2 rockets. Test pilots who pushed rocket-propelled airplanes to their limits and crashed to their deaths on Californian desert sands. The Apollo 1 crew burned alive on the rocket launch pad during routine testing. All of them perished, some unaware of their role, so that we could float into the unknown, inhabit distant planets, and extend the boundaries of our world a billionfold. How much did Summers’s death weigh in the balance against such a great prize? Or poor Mission Specialist Poplaski’s stress and sleepless nights? So she felt guilty. Big deal!

Astronauts, sighed Steve as he poked the dried-out, neglected lawn with the tip of his shoe. Ambitious, hungry for adventure, and self-obsessed. They were ready to expose themselves to potentially fatal situations and bravely look death in the eye—but not to die, God forbid! Even though they all knew what they were up against and the mathematical probability of a bad outcome, every accident still came as a surprise, even a shock. Each time, instead of keeping going, striking while the iron was hot, the brakes were abruptly applied, and everything came to a halt.

The message conveyed to them must be changed, thundered Ayers in his thoughts (it wasn’t clear whom he was addressing, but it felt good so he kept going). Rather than congratulating them, patting them on the back, and lining them up for photographs, you should look them straight in the eye and ask: Are you prepared to do it? If necessary, are you ready to die for your dreams? Would you, right here, right now? But no, they wanted to have it all. Both the rockets and stars and the house in the suburbs with a bevy of smiling children and an overweight, slobbering Labrador. That was no way to proceed; matters this important required your total dedication. Like the medieval stylites who lived in isolation and mortified their flesh for the sake of contact with God. Like Steve. Did Steve sometimes feel pangs of conscience? Of course he did: he wasn’t a monster. On the other hand, wasn’t infinity worth that price?

Steve got out his phone and checked the location of his ride to the airport. He had already sold his car. The cell phone sent a signal pinging to a satellite in orbit, then down to the driver, and back. In the blink of an eye, the app displayed a vehicle on a map and showed the wait time: five minutes.

Steve took a few steps back to pick up his suitcase. It was light—no gifts inside, even though Christmas was just around the corner—but his body was hunched forward as he walked away.

Houston—December 22, 2021

In the Poplaski–Hunt household, as in most families, everyone kept to their assigned seat around the kitchen table. Nate, who usually prepared the meals, sat closest to the refrigerator and stove so that he could easily reach for things or stir the pot. Lucy occupied the chair closest to the door because she was always in a hurry, ready to grab her bag and run out to a waiting car. Between them, at the head of the table, was Eliza’s spot. Eliza liked to be the center of attention with both of her parents looking at her. They stuck to their usual seats rigidly, even when Lucy wasn’t at home—which was most of the time.

Now, however, Nate and Lucy were sitting in different positions—at the far ends of the table. As if they were the like poles of two magnets being pushed apart by an invisible force. It was already dark, the sink was full of dirty dishes, water was dripping from the faucet, and the self-propelled vacuum cleaner was emitting a deep whir and rebounding off the chair legs. Eliza wasn’t at home; she was staying overnight with her grandparents. “You two need some time to yourselves,” Nate’s mother had said as she strapped Eliza into the car seat.

“We should finish our conversation,” said Lucy, breaking the silence.

“You’re tired.”

“I am.”

“So perhaps tomorrow?”

“I’d prefer to do it now. All this stuff between us”—Lucy raised her hand and drew an irregular shape in the air—“is wearing me out.”

Nate nodded. Yes, they needed to talk, but it wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation. Lucy had a whole day on the stand behind her; her voice was hoarse and her eyes were bloodshot from the camera flashes.

“This isn’t a good time,” he replied.

“Why not?”

Because Nate couldn’t bear confrontation and avoided it at all costs; he always put it off till later. Because he didn’t want to add to her worries right now; he didn’t want to kick her when she was down. Not after what she had just gone through—some nights she still woke up screaming—or before what she still had to face. Because he would prefer to have this conversation knowing that Lucy was giving him one hundred percent of her attention, separating issues to do with their relationship from issues related to her career. For once . . . and because he wasn’t sure what he would say to her.

“Nate . . .” Lucy stretched out her hand as if she wanted to take hold of his, but Nate was too far away. “I’ve been back for almost five months.”

“Really?”

They fell silent. Nate didn’t have to explain; Lucy knew exactly what he meant. Yes, Lucy had been back on Earth, but not with her family, not in her home. From morning till night, she had attended meetings at Mission Control—with the lawyers, with the new chief of the Astronaut Office, with the acting deputy director for crewed space flights—and given her testimony. Her toiletries bag sat by the sink; rather than disappearing into the understairs storage, her suitcase lay by the bed like a dreary announcement of further absences.

“It will all be over soon,” said Lucy.

“This part will,” agreed Nate. “But what then?”

Again, it went quiet. The question hanging in the air was, Have you fulfilled your ambitions? Or not yet? Do you have to be the first woman on the Moon, or perhaps even Mars? Even if you never fly into space again, even if the commission calls for your dismissal, will you be capable of staying in one place? Here, at this kitchen table? Day after day?

“What next?” asked Nate again.

“I don’t even know whether the commission will exonerate me, and whether I’ll be reinstated to my position.”

“Let’s assume it does.”

Lucy opened her mouth, then shut it immediately, as if she couldn’t force the words through her throat.

“Please . . .” she said. “Please try and understand me. I’ve sacrificed my whole life for this and—”

“I have too. And I’ve had enough. Especially after what you did.”

“That was eight years ago.”

“Exactly”—it was Nate’s turn to look away—“you’ve had eight years to tell me.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Perhaps you just didn’t have enough time?”

“Hey! Hey! Nate, look at me.” Lucy banged the table until Nate looked up. “Yes, I fucked up. I’m aware of it. I’ve apologized, and I’m ready to carry on apologizing until you accept my apology, if only you could tell me whether you still want to listen. Please, Nate.”

Nate grimaced sadly. Did he want her to? It was a good question. He wasn’t sure. His life had been subordinated to Lucy’s career for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to make his own plans, satisfy his own needs, and fulfill his own dreams. That part of his brain, or his soul—who knows which?—had atrophied. It would be convenient to blame Lucy for it, claiming she had forced it on him and put him up against the wall, but the truth was that Nate was also responsible. Lucy’s career had been a convenient excuse to hide from the world and avoid further failures, to only move along well-worn grooves and to keep repeating the same experiences—a day-to-day existence so repetitive and safe that it lacked any spice. Yes, he did believe that Lucy had kept quiet to protect him from the unpleasantness of her infidelity. Although Nate had never voiced the thought, it was what he expected of her and why he felt safe with her; only at Lucy’s side was Nate able to switch off the alarms constantly wailing in his head.

“I’d like to try . . .” he began.

“I’m so sorry, Nate. I am.”

“. . . but I’m worried that you’ll disappear again.”

There was that silence again—only this time it screamed to be broken. After a moment, Lucy asked quietly, “What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to hand in my notice tomorrow?”

“No,” said Nate, shaking his head. “I expect you to know whether you want to be with me.”

He got up from the table. Nate had nothing further to say; he didn’t want to carry on talking, or to argue. He felt as if every word passing his lips pierced him and every look at Lucy seared him. He was scrambling for a distraction—anything to occupy his hands.

Nate started scouring a blackened saucepan, waiting for Lucy to leave him on his own. But she came up behind him and put her arms round him. She didn’t say anything; there was no need. Nate understood, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Outside the window, just above the horizon, the first star appeared, and then another—lights from distant, mysterious worlds.

A Note from the Author

As you may have guessed, I’ve never visited the International Space Station and, to be frank, I don’t think I’d ever want to. However, I’ve tried to describe it as realistically as I can, drawing information from memoirs written by astronauts and flight controllers, technical documentation, recordings made by ISS crew members, documentary films, and numerous articles in the scientific and space exploration press (although I took the liberty, here and there, of sacrificing technical accuracy for the sake of the narrative). I have listed the most interesting and accessible titles in a bibliography at the end of this book. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Could this story really have taken place? Well . . . the American segment of the station really is cooled using liquid ammonia, rapidly multiplying Bacillus safensis really is the bane of astronauts’ lives, and the relationship between the Russian space agency and its Western partners remains highly charged. Both sides have accused the other of sabotage more than once—in particular during Expedition 56/57, when it transpired that somebody, for reasons unknown to this day, drilled a hole in the plating of a Soyuz capsule—but, fortunately, the astronauts have never come to blows.

Not yet, at least.

A Note from the Translator

Before reading Jakub Szamalek’s book, I knew very little about space and the International Space Station. I am not naturally drawn to nonfiction books about space, yet I found the insights he distilled and worked into his fictional world fascinating. To translate his novel, I had to immerse myself in diagrams of the ISS modules, watch footage of Soyuz rocket launches, scan clips of NASA astronauts’ daily routines to see whether their sleep stations had one door or two (the Polish word for door is always plural, so I couldn’t tell from the Polish text), and research the constituent parts of carabiners in both languages.

An interesting aspect of translating this book was the significant element of back translation—checking real-world, English-language terminology behind the Polish text. Jakub wrote in Polish about a non-Polish environment, and his background research included books about space that he read in English. He made choices about how to express terms that referred to American real-life contexts in Polish. There are many possible ways to express a given Polish phrase in English. I had to try to make sure that, going back into English, my translation was not only a valid choice but one that matched the terms used in reality.

Another challenge was that space and zero-gravity are outside my range of experience and many normal assumptions don’t hold. It was difficult to imagine some of the scenes in the level of detail needed to translate accurately. For example, in order to visualize Lucy’s position and movements relative to the ring of sleep stations in Harmony, I had to resort to maneuvering a small teddy bear toward a square baking frame! It sounds comical, but it helped to make sure what I was writing made sense.

I found myself checking facts as part of the translation process, even though I didn’t set out to do that. When I translate, I don’t just replace Polish words with English words. Although that is the end result, it is not the process I use. I re-create the fictional world in my own mind and then express it in English. If something doesn’t stack up, the analytical part of my mind flashes red, and then I know I need to do some further research. It is an intuitive process, rather than a deliberate one—triggered by the act of translation. Jakub was very helpful, responding to my queries with photographs and links to information, and together we did our best to resolve any issues.

I was delighted to get the opportunity to translate Inner Space, and it has been a journey of discovery. I would like to thank Jakub for writing a novel with space-walk scenes that had me sitting on the edge of my chair and gripping my desk, and the editor, Gabi Page-Fort, and her team for their support in Americanizing my English and guiding the whole process. Many thanks also to Catherine Tarnoky; Fiona Thomas; my brother, Kris; and, last but not least, my husband, Francis, for their encouragement, support, and feedback as the first readers of my translation.

—Kasia Beresford

December 2024

Acknowledgments

Writing books is hard work—at least, that’s been my experience. Without the support and encouragement of many wonderful people, it would be even harder. I would like to thank:

My daughter, Matylda, who reignited my fascination with space. Like most grown-ups, I rarely take the time to look up at the heavens, and the stars had lost their luster. Matylda’s enthusiasm was infectious, and her questions made me realize how much I had to learn. What else will I learn from you, Matylda? What else will you show me? I can’t wait to find out.

Dr. Marta Wachowicz at NASK (Research and Academic Computer Network) and Dr. Jochen Brandt at Queen Mary University of London, who patiently answered my questions about physics and chemistry, helping me to make good the sizable gaps in my knowledge in a short time frame. Any errors that have crept into the text are, of course, solely my responsibility.

My friends in the gaming industry who share my fascination with space: I thank them for all the interesting articles, books, and films they pushed my way. I’m particularly grateful to Wiktor Czosnowski, Piotr Dudzic, Szymon Janus, Artur Poznański, and Bartosz Taudul.

My friends and family members who made time to read the first version of this book and shared their impressions with me: Dominika Gonsierowska, Marta Grabiec, Zofia Łapniewska, Daniel Michalski, Magda Milewska, Krzysztof Pawłowski, Monika Płatek, Agnieszka Szamałek-Michalska, Grażyna Szamałek, Krzysztof Szamałek, Marta Szulkin, Bartek Rynarzewski, Maja Zabawska, Weronika Zarucka, and Magdalena Zych. Heartfelt thanks to you all!

Marta Grabiec, Natalia Pawłowska, Rafał Jaki, and Rafał Kłoczko, for being my legal and business guardian angels. Thank you so much for your support and advice.

Zygmunt Miłoszewski, my mentor and champion, for getting me out of a deep professional funk years ago and for the part he played in getting this book out in English. (By the way, his books have been translated too—go read, or better yet, buy them!)

Maria Tengowska and Wojciech Górnaś, who spotted many linguistic slipups, oversights, and inconsistencies in the Polish edition of the book. Thanks to their watchful eyes, the text is much improved, and I’m grateful to them.

My agent, Adam Chromy, who immediately understood the allure of this book to the Anglophone reader and knew right away which doors to knock on. My editor at HarperVia, Gabriella Page-Fort, for her trust, support, and insightful comments—and for making sure Americans in the book sound American. Kasia Beresford, the translator, whose work ethic and attention to detail is truly awe-inspiring. Wielkie dzięki, Kasiu! Ryan Amato, for all the support with getting this book out, and the whole team at HarperVia for all their hard work.

Our Canadian friends: I thank you for the warm welcome you have given my family and the very necessary escape you’ve provided from the keyboard. Particularly heartfelt embraces to Jon and Jennifer Saklofske, Katherine and Mike Ryan, Nate Goudreau, Ali Vervaeke, as well as Tom and Nicole Stern. I’m so happy you’ll get to read this book now!

My Gates family: Gillian and Philippe Bernier, Albert and Mary Chiou, Liz Dzeng, Ruth and Jochen Gilligan, Eva-Maria Hempe, Greg Jordan, Sophia Kim McKinley, Mateja Peter, Darragh Murphy, Sri Raj, and Sushant Prakash—thank you for all your support over the years. Hope you enjoy the read!

Last but not least, Maria Pawłowska, who has always supported me, but with this book she has surpassed herself. Marysia, thank you for helping me think through the storyline, for your comments and suggestions, for taking the lead on the whole legal and business side of things, which frankly overwhelms me—and most of all, for your love, encouragement, and belief in me. I cannot imagine writing without you. Or rather, I can imagine it, but the thought fills me with dread. Thank you again and again and again!

Wolfville, Nova Scotia, September 2024

Bibliography

Baker, David. International Space Station: An Insight into the History, Development, Collaboration, Production and Role of the Permanently Manned Earth-Orbiting Complex. Haynes Publishing, 2016.

Berger, Eric. Liftoff: Elon Musk and the Desperate Early Days That Launched SpaceX. William Morrow, 2021.

Brown, David. The Mission (A True Story). Custom House, 2021.

Cristoforetti, Samantha. Diary of an Apprentice Astronaut. The Experiment, 2021.

Dye, Paul. Shuttle, Houston: My Life in the Center Seat of Mission Control. Hachette Books, 2020.

Hadfield, Chris. An Astronaut’s Guide to Life on Earth: What Going to Space Taught Me About Ingenuity, Determination, and Being Prepared for Anything. Little, Brown, 2013.

Jacobsen, Annie. Operation Paperclip: The Secret Intelligence Program That Brought Nazi Scientists to America. Little, Brown, 2014.

Kelly, Scott. Endurance: A Year in Space, A Lifetime of Discovery. Alfred A. Knopf, 2017.

Kranz, Gene. Failure Is Not an Option: Mission Control from Mercury to Apollo 13 and Beyond. Simon & Schuster, 2000.

Mullane, Mike. Riding Rockets: The Outrageous Tales of a Space Shuttle Astronaut. Scribner, 2007.

Roach, Mary. Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void. W. W. Norton, 2010.

Smith, Andrew. Moondust: In Search of the Men Who Fell to Earth. Harper Perennial, 2019.

Weinersmith, Kelly, and Zach Weinersmith. A City on Mars: Can We Settle Space, Should We Settle Space, and Have We Really Thought This Through? Penguin Press, 2023.

Wolfe, Tom. The Right Stuff. Vintage Classics, 2018.

About the Author

JAKUB SZAMALEK is the narrative director at Rebel Wolves game studio. Born in Poland in 1986, he studied at Oxford and Cambridge Universities, UK, where he was a Cambridge Gates Scholar. He is an author and the writer behind several international video game bestsellers, including The Witcher 3, Cyberpunk 2077, and The Blood of Dawnwalker. He is the author of The Hidden Web, which has been adapted into a major motion picture by Monolith Films. Jakub has been named one of Eastern and Central Europe’s young leaders on the New Europe 100 list by the Res Publica Foundation. He lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, with his family.

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About the Translator

KASIA BERESFORD is a literary translator and Polish-English interpreter. She was brought up in a Polish family in London, UK, and studied French, Russian, and Polish at Cambridge University. Following a London-based career in business, she moved to Manchester and returned to her roots—working with languages. She has translated two historical memoirs. Inner Space is her first published book-length fiction translation.

Copyright

Without limiting the exclusive rights of any author, contributor or the publisher of this publication, any unauthorized use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

inner space. Copyright © 2023 by Jakub Szamalek. English translation copyright © 2025 by Kasia Beresford. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Originally published as Stacja in Poland in 2023 by Wydawnictwo W.A.B.

harpercollins.com

first harpervia edition published in 2025.

Cover Design: Phil Pascuzzo
Cover Images: © Getty Images
Image on title page © Paopano/stock.adobe.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

Digital Edition JULY 2025 ISBN: 978-0-06-337797-4

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-337794-3

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