She did, finding it awkward and painful, and Hart dumped the container—Naomi still had too much medicine in her system for it to be usable. Hart left her alone and Naomi finally lay back, woozy. The baby moved her head, side to side, a hand rising, almost in a wave.

“Hello, Grace,” Naomi whispered. “Grace Lovelace Kan.”

She fell asleep with one hand on the glass.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

275 Days After Launch

14 Days in Lower Earth Orbit

By the time they arrived back in orbit, the shape of the new version of the Earth began to emerge.

Grace and Naomi had eased their way back to health. Grace was no longer a salamander child. She had plumped up, pale and soft as peach skin. Her hair was still black, and she had Evan’s eye shape and dark brown eyes. She had a serious little expression much of the time, always listening intently, taking everything in.

Naomi had pointed Grace’s little face down at Earth. When Naomi had left, she’d thought she’d never see this view again. She’d been entirely prepared to spend the rest of her life on Cavendish.

From above, Earth didn’t look so different. Blue and white swirls, still too much brown and too little green. Despite the vaccine, many of those who had already been infected had still died. They’d had better treatment plans, but fifteen per cent of the population still perished, all told. More than a billion lives snuffed out since she last had this view. All because of the woman the four others on board had vowed to follow to the ends of the universe.

Naomi had to admit she was nervous about what awaited them down there.

By the time Evan was released from custody, the world had turned on Valerie Black with unsurprising viciousness. The house in the hills where Naomi had grown up under Valerie’s watchful eye had been ripped apart, beam by beam and stone by stone. They’d been smart enough not to burn it at least, with the summer grass dry as kindling. It would have been too full circle. With the president and vice president dead, the former Speaker of the House, a man named Nicolas Flores, was the new president. He’d been in a mass shooting at his school when he was twelve and didn’t have full use of his left hand from a stray bullet. He had another scar on his neck from a graze that nearly killed him, just visible above the collar of his suit in a silent reminder.