Fright blazed over Wyatt’s face, since she wasn’t used to free floating in the microgravity yet, and she began pinwheeling her arms urgently. Tom caught her, and the impact sent them spinning back toward the far wall.

“Okay?” he asked her as they bounced off.

She laughed. That was answer enough. He spun her around in good conscience as Yuri shoved toward him, trying to rescue her. Tom kicked the ceiling to knock them out of the way and tossed Wyatt back to Vik. Yuri smashed Tom against the wall, then propelled away again. Vik tried to throw Wyatt, but he was too late, because Yuri was determined now.

“Not this time,” he declared, and caught her leg. Then pulled her into his arms. They spun like that, Wyatt’s long hair whirling around like a cloud about them, both of them floating past the window overlooking the curvature of the Earth.

Then as they drifted away, Yuri caught the ceiling to halt them. He dipped his head and kissed her. Wyatt’s hair floated like a mermaid’s, blocking their faces from view. Tom felt his shoulder bump Vik’s as they observed it all.

“I don’t think Yuri’s tossing her back,” Vik observed. “What do we do now?”

“Not that,” Tom told him.

“I need a girlfriend,” Vik complained. “Hey, what do you think of Lyla Martin?”

“She’s frightening,” Tom answered.

“And blond.” Vik sounded pleased about both things. “I’m not going to lie to you, Tom: while we were getting eaten by a shark together, I think we had a moment.”

Yuri drew back from Wyatt, and they both looked over at Tom and Vik where they were floating there, watching them.

“Go on,” Tom blurted.

“Yeah, we don’t mind.” Vik waved for them to carry on. “You only get one crack at this in zero-g.”

Wyatt sighed.

Yuri pointed between them, something faintly menacing on his face. “Turn around and look out that window. Both of you.”

“Oh. Right. Privacy.” Tom and Vik wouldn’t get to watch. They dutifully turned toward the other window.

Vik headed back to the box of military rations, and set about pulling out a tube of gelatinized soup. “Fake vomit, coming up. What do you think, Tom—tomato or cream of chicken?”

“Whichever.” Tom shoved himself toward the window for his last view of the planet from space, figuring he might never get to see it from the outside again with his own eyes. He stared at the curvature of the Earth against the darkness, and deep in his brain, the realization clicked into place that he wasn’t seeing a photograph or a virtual reality image: he was looking at the real thing.