UC33-X was seven meters long from nose to tail, cylindrical in shape except for a blunted cone at the nose and slight flare at the tail, with very few protrusions or instrumentation on the outside. The solar sails that had carried it so swiftly through space had been removed, leaving the probe naked and slender. The scientists had been dissecting it. There were panels open on the side, its instrumentation revealed, its inner guts of wire and metal visible. A workbench and its stool were positioned next to an exposed section on the top of the probe; a strap of tools tethered to the workbench floated like a vine adorned with spikes.

They had brought UC33-X aboard House of Wisdom about eight months before the outbreak, after years of tracking its progress from the outer edge of the solar system toward the sun. During those eight months, as the ship returned to Earth, my father and the other archaeologists had studied, cataloged, measured, and assessed every aspect of the probe, analyzing its materials and integrity, never allowing themselves to rush, never giving in to the urge to crack it open too soon and risk damaging what it contained. They had only breached its hull a month or two before the outbreak. My father had been so excited, grinning widely in the recorded message he sent to us, so happy with the progress he and his colleagues were making.

“I can open the interior door,” Malachi said.

He was watching me, his gaze fixed on where my hands rested on the glass. I pushed away quickly, embarrassed to have been caught gaping.

“Do it,” I said.

There was a soft mechanical click and the door eased open. I pushed toward the probe, but I misjudged my angle and had to bump into it to stop. I felt a wild pang of guilt—it was too precious to jostle; my father would be aghast. The probe’s hull was slick; my gloves slipped over the surface. I crept along centimeter by centimeter, pulling myself toward the workstation and tools.

Only when I reached the terminal did I notice the bodies.

One was adrift on the other side of UC33-X. She wore a plain jumpsuit with the House of Wisdom patch. Her hair, white and long, floated around her head. She had crossed her arms over her chest, and she lay in the air parallel to the probe. Her feet were bare, as were her hands. She might have been sleeping peacefully, if it weren’t for the mummified dryness of her skin. The desiccation and white hair gave her the look of a very old woman. There was no name on her jumpsuit, but I recognized her. Dr. Mariska Summers, another archaeologist. She had been my father’s friend since they were students together. There were no visible wounds, no obvious weapons. She bore no signs of violence.