Before we launch, I need to say my goodbyes to my brother and to all the people I’m abandoning to die on Titan. General Altair, proud and noble and looking toward a better future—and my team, who would have followed me anywhere, who hated me for going somewhere they couldn’t follow. Magda, Sverre, Daniil.

Daniil, who I almost managed to save. My mind flashes to that last comm call from him, the one I declined as I fled with my family. I promised to help him, and in those last frightening moments on Titan, he thought of me. What would he have said to me? Was he looking to say goodbye? Or calling to beg, once again, for that long-shot chance at saving his life? One last, desperate chance, surrendering himself to the dangers of cryosleep to be smuggled off-planet for a new life…

My thoughts stutter, pause. Rewind. I raise my head and look at my brother on the table, with his shallow breaths and weak heartbeat, both fading with every passing moment. Apollo is dying. He will die, if I don’t do something. But perhaps I can give him one last, desperate chance to live.

“Andromeda,” I say, looking up at her. “Where do you keep the cryosleep chamber?”

We find the machine shoved into a forgotten corner of the supply closet, along with an adjustable bridge and other supplies I don’t recall ever using. The device sheds dust as we roll it through the cargo bay to the medical room and alongside the bed holding Pol. I type in the commands, and the top slides open to reveal the rectangular interior—much like a freezer, or a coffin.

Horror and fragile hope battle across Drom’s face as she helps me lift Apollo’s limp body from the bed and lower him into the chamber. When I let go, she carefully arranges him with his arms at his sides. Her shoulders are shaking, tears streaming down her face beneath the helmet.

“This is the best thing we can do for him,” I say, keeping my voice firm despite my own self-doubt. “Go strap in for launch. I’ll handle the rest.”

She takes one last look at her twin and bolts from the room with a muffled sob.

I step forward and look down at my brother. “I’m sorry, Apollo,” I murmur. He’s so still already, the only sign of life the faint rise and fall of his chest, which will soon stop, too. “I’ll see you again.” I close the lid.

Once I strap myself into a launch chair in the med bay, I give Scorpia the go-ahead. As the ship rumbles and shudders away from the carnage of Titan, battered by the planet’s ever-present storms, I shut my eyes and will myself to hold it together until we find a way to make this right.