They had shared an amazingly intense experience—two years of training in Houston, Russia, Japan, followed by six months on the space station. Always cordial, always able to work together, but never close. They had shared no personal conversations, rarely socialized . . . until the mission was over. When they saw each other now, there were smiles, jokes, exchanges of family pictures. It was as if the worse the relations between their nations, the better they got along.

Zack and Rachel took their assigned places.

The mourners remained largely silent through the brief graveside prayer by Father Tony, a young Irish-born priest who had come to St. Bernadette’s near the space center because he was a spaceflight fanatic. The poor man surely never expected to be presiding at a ceremony quite like this. He was heartfelt, and mercifully brief.

Then Rachel, finally showing some emotion, blinking back tears and swallowing hard, stepped forward. “This was my mom’s favorite poem,” she announced. “It’s by Sara Teasdale.”

The mere sound of her voice triggered audible sobbing from some of the attendees. Rachel unfolded her text and, clearly and more grown-up than Zack had ever heard her—dear God, she sounded exactly like Megan, proclaimed:

Perhaps if death is kind, and there can be returning,

We will come back to earth some fragrant night,

And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending,

Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white—

She stopped and lowered her head—or so it seemed to Zack, who could barely see through his own tears.

We will come down at night to these resounding beaches,

And the long, gentle thunder of the sea,

Here for a single hour in the wide starlight,

We shall be happy, for the dead are free.

Megan’s family took a separate car to the Meyer house, where they would help serve as hosts for the wake and reception.

Weldon joined Zack and Rachel in the limo. To Zack’s relief—what in God’s name were they supposed to say to each other?—Rachel submerged herself in her Slate, leaving Zack to make a first attempt to reboot his former life. “Thanks for letting them come,” he said, “they” being the Destiny-5 astronauts.

“I couldn’t have stopped them.”

Well, yes, he could have. But Zack appreciated the sentiment. “What’s the latest on Harley?”

“He’s better than he was.”

Even in his grief, Zack was still attuned to the NASA voice, equal parts condescension and denial. “Will he walk again?”

“Doubtful.”

Zack felt ill. For someone as physically active as Harley, to face forty, fifty years in a wheelchair? On crutches? Dependent? Impotent? Death might have been more merciful.

Weldon had lapsed into minimal responses. Zack knew that the chief astronaut still felt guilt about the timing and content of their conversation the night of Megan’s death, when Zack—having overseen the horrific business of consigning his wife’s body to be shipped back to Houston—found Weldon in the hospital waiting room.

“Well,” Zack had said, “I’m not in great shape for a flight to the Moon, am I?”

Of course, they both knew that Zack was off Destiny-5 the moment Scott Shawler delivered the news. “God, Zack. If we were talking about a sixty-day delay, that would be one thing. But you and I know we aren’t.” A phone call had interrupted the conversation at that point. Zack and Weldon had not been in contact since.

Now Zack knew who his replacement was, not that there had been much doubt. “So you went for Buell.”

“He was the backup.”

“Well,” Zack said, forcing a smile, “it will silence a few of your critics.” A vocal minority within the space blogging community had been outraged at the selection of a non–test pilot as commander of the first lunar landing mission of the twenty-first century—forget the fact that landing Venture was nothing like any kind of flying, even helicopter flying. And that it would be mostly, if not entirely, automatic.

“You’ll get another chance, Zack. Deke’s rules still apply.” Deke Slayton had been in charge of astronaut crew selections during Gemini and Apollo fifty years earlier, and his style still shaped the way the office was managed. “If you’re assigned to a mission and get knocked out by an act of God, you get the next opening.” Slayton had come up with the ruling for reasons of his own—he had been scheduled to make the second orbital Mercury flight, the one after John Glenn’s, when a medical condition grounded him for a decade. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“If I ever am.” Fortunately, as a NASA civil servant, Zack would not have to find a different line of work. There were sixty astronauts in the agency, but only a dozen actually assigned to flight crews. Others filled administrative or support jobs or worked elsewhere in the government. If Zack never stepped inside a simulator again, he would be kept busy. Indeed, before this past week he had wondered about his career after the lunar mission—he’d thought it might be useful to join the team studying new lunar samples for future manufacturing.

Postaccident, it still sounded like a good option, especially as Zack began confronting the practical challenges of life after Megan. He was now a single parent to a tween daughter. He would be solely responsible for her upbringing, for meals, for advice about boys and clothes and periods.

“You don’t think so today. Six months from now, you might feel differently. The opportunity will be there.”

My first proposed name was “Jurdu.” It was from one of the Aboriginal languages and means “Big Sister.” But some overly sensitive idiots argued that it was (a) sexist and (b) inaccurate and (c) just because I discovered the frakking thing, who was I to name it?

This moronic dispute consumed weeks. By then people were calling X2016 K1 “Keanu,” and that was okay with me. It sounds Aboriginal, and hey, starts with a K like its catalog number.

KEANU DISCOVERER COLIN EDGELY, COMMENT POSTED AT NEOMISSION.COM

KEANU STAY

Even before the switch from the Moon to Keanu, the Destiny-7 flight plan showed Yvonne as the lead EVA astronaut, meaning that the first steps on the NEO would be made by an African American woman. To NASA’s woefully third-rate public affairs apparatus, this was a major public relations boost. Zack knew better—he doubted that one in a thousand Americans could name a single member of the Destiny-7 crew, much less care which member of what ethnic group took the first crunchy footsteps. But the timeline had been ripped apart and rearranged in so many other ways, he was happy to let this original sequence stand.

Besides, it gave Zack the second steps. Tired as he was, and painfully aware of the stress he would be facing, he still wanted to go outside and stand on the surface. It was a lifelong dream—and he was damned if he would let a minor matter like lack of sleep get in the way.

The same timeline required the crew to rest for six hours. Looking at Brahma’s orbit and public announcements, Houston warned the crew that it might issue an early wake-up, but in any case they would have four hours to change out of their suits, eat, make use of the tiny camp toilet, and catch some sleep, either sprawled on the cabin floor (Tea and Pogo) or swinging in hammocks (Yvonne and Zack).

The microscopic gravity made the hammocks almost redundant. With a mask and earplugs (Pogo and Tea would be on watch), Zack felt as though he were floating inside the space station, or in the Destiny cabin on the climb uphill.