I stretch out my arms and legs, knowing that there are no walls here that can contain them. I look past Godspeed and forget about whatever pointless mission Orion’s video sent me on. I gaze out, to the stars. I remember the first time I saw real stars, through the hatch window. They were beautiful then, but now, seeing them here, all around me, beautiful feels like an inadequate word. I see the stars as a part of the universe, and having spent my life behind walls, suddenly having none fills me with both awe and terror. Emotion courses through my veins, choking me. I feel so insignificant, a tiny speck surrounded by a million stars.

A million suns.

Centuries away is Sol. Circling around it is Sol-Earth, the planet Amy came from. And one of these other stars is the Centauri binary system, where the new planet spins, waiting for us.

And here we are, in the middle, surrounded by a sea of stars.

A million suns.

Any of them could hold a planet. Any of them could hold a home.

But all of them are out of reach.

The thought makes me queasy-dizzy, a sick feeling that starts in my stomach and blurs my vision.

The stars don’t look like suns anymore. They look like eyes.

Laughing eyes. Winking eyes that mock me, forever dancing away from my reach.

I swat at them, my arms feeling funny.

My body feeling funny.

And then I hear it. Soft, barely audible.

Boop . . . boop . . . boop.

An alarm. A warning, piped directly into my helmet.

I breathe deeply—or I try to—but I can’t. The air is thinner now, and even though my nostrils flare and my mouth is open, black spots dance before my eyes. I can’t get enough air. Something’s wrong with the PLSS strapped to my back—something’s wrong with the oxygen.

My first instinct is to call for help—I raise a gloved hand to my neck and bump up against the solid helmet before I realize that, of course, I can’t reach my wi-com.

My tether to the ship isn’t more than twenty yards long, but Godspeed feels as far away as the millions of stars around me. I start pulling myself closer to the ship, hand over hand, swimming through nothing to reach the safety of the open hatch.

I can hear my heart beating in time with the alarm.

The more I think about not breathing, the more I want to breathe.

I tug on the tether, and my hands slip from it. The movement spins me off, away from the cord, jerking me around.