Shuttlebug is silent so Lawrence opens his eyes. He is no longer on the ship, or in space. He is in a cafeteria – familiar, from his childhood, a place he feels safe and happy. No, not a place; a day, one particular day. He remembers it. It’s the day that makes him feel happy. Rice and peas. Curried goat. The goat was overcooked and underspiced to cater to all tastes in the school, which meant that Yorubas like Lawrence had to either endure or bring their own spices in a baggie. Jenna Masters, who Lawrence has spent the summer writing love notes to, walks into the cafeteria, up to where he is eating, and kisses him on the lips in front of everyone. She sits next to him, looking uncomfortable but defiant. This is the first time he feels what he defines as love. He has measured every subsequent feeling by this.

“It was also the fact of puberty, Lawrence,” says someone behind him.

Jenna. Older, but still with dimpled cheeks and a toothy smile. Long limbed. Twinkle in her eyes.

“You’re—”

“No, I just made myself look like her.”

“I’m hypoxic, aren’t I? Ran out of air, finally. Never thought I would die in the Brink, though.” He is more contemplative than sad.

“You’re not hypoxic. I felt you out here, I felt your loneliness. I came because the emptiness in you called.”

“Are you the AI fucking with me? Shuttlebug, I will vandalise your Pentagram as soon as—”

Jenna shakes her head.

“Where are you?”

“We are everywhere. But you don’t know that yet.”

She grasps his hand and they step outside time. To this day, he doesn’t remember what happened next. He has impressions, emotions, but no images. He is happy, content, at peace.

Shuttlebug warns him of the approach of self-propelling fuel cells. He recovers, exits the vehicle to connect them up, discards the old ones, heads for stupid Goldsmith Station.

That night, and every night for the next week, he hears a baby crying while he sleeps.

It takes twelve days to return to Goldsmith. Hal Campion is there, worried sick, but handling it by hurling profanities at Lawrence. He gives as good as he gets, takes an actual shower, which is heaven, eats an actual warm meal, and plans to sleep for a week.

He hears crying, a baby again. He wonders, though. This sounds different. While the hallucinatory crying has been muffled, at a distance, this seems to be right in his quarters.

He turns on the light, and there’s a baby on the floor.

“She’s at least ten days old,” says the medic.

“How do you know?” asks Lawrence.

“The umbilical stump has fallen off, for one thing.”

“Whose is she?”

“Yours, Lawrence. DNA testing confirms it.”

Huh.

Joké.

His heart.