In the ten years after Mimas 4 ceased to exist, the programme withered in its wake, dying from apathy. The only research done, so they said, was into what had happened to the craft and why. Test simulations were run on a prototype WiSP, though none provided answers. From what little I learned, nine out of ten simulations had Mimas arriving at Saturn as programmed. A tenth showed the anomaly, its disappearance. The computers couldn’t tell what caused it, where Mimas went, or for how long. Just that it happened.

A year after Leyton, Anis, Bai and Emilia were officially declared deceased, EASN suspended the WiSP programme indefinitely. The line was that they never stopped looking, and that might have been true, if they’d only known how to attempt a search. The very idea of trying was impossible, borderline insane, besides being no way to sell a product to countries and governments of the world. Space was too vast, the possibilities endless. Instead they concentrated efforts on sending astronauts to planets in conventional ways. Rockets, five-mile-long generation crafts, cryogenic hibernation. None were entirely successful, or reaped anywhere near the data and commercial rewards they’d hoped for, but at least they weren’t global adverts against the very possibility of a manned space programme.

Fifteen years after the starcraft blinked out of reality, it had faded from our memories like a dream.

Then, on October 17th 2235, Mimas 4 returned.

The decks and cabins are cold as death. A sustained hum of machinery surrounds us. Our feet echo on metal, and the yellow lights above and below are dim, presumably on standby, making distant objects hard to define. Mimas 4 is remarkably like any other starcraft I’ve seen, in person or on screen. It’s so ordinary I keep finding myself wondering why I’m here.

We’re escorted by a knot of burly EASN staff, not exactly guards, although they perform the same purpose. Possibly picked for height and a distinct lack of emotion, they talk very little and barely make any physical movements or facial expressions. They shepherd us along the confined expanse of corridors, heads low, instructing us to do the same. Every so often there’s another generic EASN staffer in a hemp jumpsuit standing by a locked door, a rifle in two hands, pointed at the floor. They ignore us, much as we stare. Sometimes I look at the others shuffling beside me, craning their necks in wonder, fingers twitching with an unconscious ache for the camera or touchpad. I feel their pain, although I’m grateful to be here at all, and try not to be too upset by the loss. They can sense it, discomfort leaks from our skin along with our sweat and makes them wary, I can tell. I keep whatever I see on repeat inside my head, a litany for Juanita I tell myself, so I might play it back into my notebook when I’m back in the shuttle, hurtling to Earth. It’s my only consolation, and I’m willing to take it. They’re going through the motions because they have to. They want us to do our jobs, but they’ve been warned the fact we’ve been chosen means that we’re the best. And so they should be on their guard. Watch everything we do. After all their attempts to clean up, we might see more than they wish.