Firstclass — Pov

Commander Reyes. She’s been on the station for eleven months. She has a husband in Houston and a daughter who just learned to say “mama” over video calls. I’ve watched Reyes cry exactly once—when she missed her daughter’s first steps by three hours because a solar flare scrambled the transmission.

Now the mark is just—there. A scar. I reach out and touch it with my gloved finger. The metal is cold, even through the insulation. I wonder if the station feels pain. If it gets lonely up here, spinning in circles, doing the same dance every ninety minutes until it burns up in the atmosphere. firstclass pov

And I am so tired of being first.

That was six years ago.

I’ve done this exact repair twenty-three times. I could do it blindfolded, which is good, because the sun keeps sliding in and out of my peripheral vision like a migraine waiting to happen. The station’s rotation means I get sixty seconds of blazing light, then sixty seconds of absolute black. Like a celestial interrogation lamp. Commander Reyes

There’s a rhythm to spacewalking. A liturgy. Clip in. Check tether. Turn bolt one-quarter. Wait for the click. Turn again. Count breaths. Don’t think about the fact that you’re wearing a flimsy bag of nylon and hope between your skin and the most hostile environment imaginable. I’ve watched Reyes cry exactly once—when she missed