“Any contact?” mission specialist Clements approaches the commander who leans against the thick glass of the comms module’s porthole.
Without turning, Petrakis just scoffs, “Take a guess.”
Clements observes the commander’s reflection against the lunar landscape outside. Both are pale, steeped in shadow, mottled with small craters and deep furrows.
“Mission control missed yet another emergency window,” Cmdr. Petrakis continues, her steely eyes fixed at the pale blue dot on the black sky just above the crater’s rim, “and I bet they will keep missing them.”
Clements is close to tears again but holds them back. For now.
“The crew,” he starts with a sore throat, “what’s left of us, that is, deserves answers.” He knows there aren’t any. He asks to provoke a reaction.
“The fuck I know. Could’ve been anything from a server crash to a full blown zombie apocalypse down there!” Petrakis finally turns to face him. “Christ, Clements! You’re bleeding!”
“What is the plan, commander? What can I tell them?” Clements insists and wipes a lone tear from his cheek with Atkinson’s dried blood on it.
Petrakis’ eyes follow his hand and they both fall silent while the commander is weighing dozens, no, hundreds of possibilities and scenarios like she had every waking minute in the past nine days.
“Tell them,” her voice quivers ever so slightly, “tell them to find a nice place. Tell them to make amends.” Outside, the pale blue dot has dropped below the rim.