Naomi pushed herself into the airlock first. Her suit pressure had dipped again, just a little. Naomi was light-headed—was it damage or simply the pure oxygen and adrenaline? Lebedeva followed, shutting the latch and checking the seals.

The airlock filled with the usual levels of oxygen and nitrogen. Naomi kept her breathing slow and even. When it was safe, the airlock opened. Hart and Valerie entered. Hart worked on Lebedeva’s suit and Valerie came to Naomi. She grasped Naomi’s injured glove, inspected it critically. Pressed the blue-patched hole, which held.

“You live to fight another day,” Valerie said. Did her voice give the tiniest catch?

“Let’s get out of here,” Naomi said.

She shed her armoured Argo.

Valerie connected the life support to the wall stand, keeping Naomi steadier. The gloves came off first, and Valerie gathered them into their storage bag. Naomi wore her cotton gloves underneath, and she tore them off, breathing a sigh of relief when she could clasp her bare palms together. She felt so cut off from her body while in a spacesuit. It was easy to imagine she’d find blackened fingertips from the rent in the suit once the skin was unveiled, even though the HUD showed no damage.

Valerie undid the helmet and Naomi twisted her head from side to side, revelling in the return of something as simple as peripheral vision. Of breathing normal air. Naomi was freed from the trousers. Awkwardly, she pulled her arms through and then shimmied out of the hard upper torso.

Next came the cooling garment, the head cap. And finally, she was free, in little more than cotton long johns threaded through with the plastic cooling and heating tubes, soaked through with sweat.

As Valerie finished storing the suit, Naomi floated to her quarters, thankful they’d already claimed cabins when down on the ground. It was as small and cramped as she expected, but she barely took it in before shucking her clothes. She ran a hand along the faint scars on her legs from long ago burns. The rest of her skin was smooth save for the skin on her forearms where she’d crawled across the tiles. She changed into her new uniform of dark blue, fitted coveralls. Men’s sizes—she had to roll up the sleeves and ankles. She’d hem them later. There, alone, she let herself curl into a ball in mid-air, clasping her hands to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut. The adrenaline ebbed. Her limbs shook, the sweat on her skin cooling, leaving her clammy. She thought of fire and a smoke-scorched throat.

She let go, slapped her cheeks lightly, and met the others on the bridge. Hixon had been busy. The Atalanta was nearly ready for launch.

Valerie entered scant seconds later, heading to the console and loading the comms down to Earth.

“Evan?” she asked. “You reading us?”