The halls of Strelka were the station's one feature that allowed breathing room. A large cargo cart was inert and empty to the side ahead, but the two could still pass with space to spare. Even so, the corridor was dim and gray, like skies between rains when the clouds have lost all texture. And shift after shift, month after month—for two years now—Lester had seen those same clouds on Belka and passed the same square lights in the ceiling. He found a certain peace in the claustrophobia of it all.

“I was demoted to fill Nina's spot,” Lester said. He unconsciously rubbed his ear where the Command earpiece had for so long sat snug, now a phantom limb. “I was only ever on Command for my military experience, anyway. And, honestly, Mayne, you wanna know the first thing you figure out in a position like that? Any information that might cause a panic, especially in an enclosed space, gets to stay confidential information. Principle of least privilege.”

Mayne looked at him, brow contorted slightly upward, and Lester knew his thoughts: You're suggesting that there is definitely reason to panic. He'd been toying with the same thought ever since the feed had first stopped. Ever since he'd started having flashbacks in dreams. He could remember vividly that night on the Navy submarine so long ago: working late to reroute electrics around a burst pipe in the torpedo bay. Then noticing the second system of wiring, deeper in the wall. And finding the radiation hazard warning, the nuclear trefoil. None of it was present in any of the design docs.

The two had by then reached Mayne's office, the door to which slid into the wall as Mayne raised the arm of his jumpsuit, the I.D. stitched into the sleeve. Unsurprisingly, given Mayne's preoccupations, the room was the antithesis of all things clean. The single lamp light, no complementary shade in sight, had been duct-taped over to achieve a brown, dim glow about the walk-in-closet of a room. Loose trash bags, empty cleaning bottles, gloves, tools, spare bulbs, and a general clutter all worked in tandem to litter the floor tiles, metal shelving units, and desk space. Where space remained for decor, Mayne had taped up various scrawlings on loose sheets of paper. The door slid shut. Mayne wheeled a creaky chair from the corner and motioned Lester to sit, which he did. Mayne sat at his desk.

“When I woke up this morning, I can't say I had expected a message from you,” Mayne said. The dim light painted him in neutral colors. He looked old-fashioned, like a Caravaggio.

Mayne lifted his sleeve and tapped the paper-like screen to wake it. Lester's message was already pulled up, and the screen oriented itself toward him. But Lester looked away, instead pretending to read some of the paper notes above the desk.

“Lester, I know how you're feeling. Out here, flying forever through the chaos beyond God's gardens. In a way, our mission is reminiscent of Milton's Satan of Paradise Lost.” Mayne crossed his hands in his lap and sighed.

“No, Lester. I can't connect you with God.”