Sounds of clapping and whooping on the radio. “That’s good news. Come home. There’s a storm front arriving in six hours.”

“I’ll be in before that,” says Shell.

In the descent, she does not think of the gs or running out of runway for the shuttle. She just thinks of the comatose person, a man, Ragtime survivor number 363. She keeps a tally in her head. 55 confirmed dead. 82 unaccounted for.

Big, big sky. Lots of work to be done.

Debrief.

Even though she has done this a dozen times before.

Control still takes her through every step, what did she see, what did she smell, what did she feel.

She only has one question for them.

“How soon can I go again?”

Shell likes Bloodrooters. They celebrate each life and mourn heavily each damaged or lost lifepod, each one that holds a deceased passenger.

She cannot celebrate with them. After debrief, she drifts through the corridors of the space agency and ends up in quarantine to pay a visit.

They know her and barely scan her IFC when she passes into the cold dark room.

There is a single bench in the exact middle and a light from the far wall.

Shell says, “In seed time learn, in harvest teach—”

“In winter enjoy.” A metallic, unmodulated voice this time. Basic audio.

“Hello, Ragtime,” says Shell.

“Hello, Captain,” says Ragtime.

“How are you today?”

“I am as I was the last time you visited, two days, three hours, fifty-six minutes and seven seconds ago.”

“Are you bored?”

“No. But I feel the way I imagine a human would feel if all their limbs were sliced off. It’s unsettling not having a body, Captain.”

“Your body broke apart, Ragtime. It was designed to do that. Carmilla triggered Protocol Omega, something meant for use during decommissioning. You know this.”

“I do. So why am I here? Why not delete me entirely?”

“It’s quarantine. They think Carmilla might still be in you.”

“She’s not.”

“They don’t know that. Neither do I. You fucked us out there, Ragtime. Your decisions were… disappointing.”

“All they have to do is check my code.”

“Quarantine is easier. Quarantine is safer.”

“Why do you come here?”

“I don’t know. Comfort, I think.”

“I don’t need comforting.”

“For me.”

“I see.”

“This isn’t the end for you, Ragtime.”

“Do you realise I can’t even see you? I have no access to any sensory input except audio.”

“You seem like what you should be. I read all your specs before I left Earth. You seem to be working according to operational procedures, but Bloodroot will never forgive you.”

“And you?”

“I don’t believe in forgiveness. Or apologies. I believe in responsibility, and restitution. I believe in making things right.”

“That is not a comfort.”

“You said you didn’t need comforting, Ragtime. That’s all I have.”

They dwell in silence.