She was bringing life to the inhospitable environment of space. This wasn’t the first biome she’d created, but she knew the challenges of closed environments. Like everyone working in space horticulture, she’d studied Biosphere 2 and the challenges they’d faced in the early- to mid-nineties. A crew had volunteered to try and survive in a dome under the hot desert sun. At first, things had gone well enough. Then the bees died. Roaches appeared. A few times, those in charge of the project had had to pump oxygen into the enclosure, which was technically cheating, to stop those within from suffocating.

Everyone inside grew too thin, too hungry, bones stark against skin as they lost weight; chemicals that had been stored in their fat from pesticides they’d eaten had poisoned the air. They’d begun fighting. Friends became enemies. They grew depressed, irritable, hungry. The first mission lasted two years, but the second one was cancelled after less than a year. Those people could emerge, blinking, out into the hot desert, fresh air, life. If Naomi miscalculated, there was nowhere to hide. No reset button.

This type of long-scale isolation was called overwintering, named after long-term missions in the Antarctic. It’d been one of the main reasons Naomi had been so determined to go on her trip to the South Pole the summer before she graduated. She wanted to prove she’d be able to cope with that detachment from the rest of humanity.

She’d found the cold and the dark draining, as anyone would, and she mourned the fact that penguins could only be found in zoos. She’d also discovered pockets of pleasure. Drinking hot chocolate quick, before it cooled. The aurora australis. Keeping to her routine and finding her flow, the work its own form of meditation. Befriending her fellow scientists and playing board games to pass the endless nights. Picking up instruments and creating terrible but hilarious bands, with song lyrics full of science puns. Tips and tricks she’d take here on this ship. At least on board, it was warm.

Elsewhere on the Atalanta, all was clean, pristine, immaculate. In her lab, she could smell life, and the artificial sunlight almost felt real. The loamy scent of soil, the strong, oxidant tang of the spirulina. Once her work was done, she’d sit here, on her own, eyes closed, breathing it all in.