Firstclass Pov ((full)) -

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.

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. firstclass pov

“Good. Ease on back to the airlock. We’ve got a supply drone docking in four hours, and I need you on the grapple.” Commander Reyes

“Copy. Any anomalies?”

I begin the slow drift back, hand over hand along the station’s hull. My tether trails behind me like an umbilical cord—which, I suppose, it is. Attached to this metal womb, fed by its tubes and wires, breathing its recycled farts and science experiments. I’ve watched Reyes cry exactly once—when she missed

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.

“Panel J-9 is replaced, Commander. Thermal readings nominal.”