Mikhail was sure, right to the end, that it was spam.
The email had arrived six months earlier, wedged between a pizza ad and a reminder to renew his insurance: "Congratulations! You have been selected for a civilian space crew. The flight is real. The cost is zero." He laughed, forwarded it to a friend with the caption "yeah, right," and forgot about it.
Then they called. Then they showed up. Then came a year of tests he kept meaning to quit, and somehow never did. And now here he was, strapped into a seat, wearing a suit that smelled like a new car, watching a countdown crawl across an enormous screen.
"Everyone alive?" said a calm voice in his headset. "I'm Orbita. I'll be your… let's say homeroom teacher for the next eight months."
"Can we go back?" someone asked quietly on his left. It was Lucia, a cook from São Paulo, gripping the armrests as if the ship were already falling.
"Technically — no," Orbita answered gently. "But I appreciate that you asked politely."
Ten. Nine. Eight.
Mikhail caught himself on a stupid thought: he still hadn't told his mother he was flying. He'd said it was a business trip. In a way, that was true.
Three. Two. One.
And the world below them shook.
