1:14

Wrong place, wrong time. So it goes. Kaliff wants to know if you think she’s still alive. You don’t answer. There isn’t an answer. She is or she isn’t. You’re impatient, now you’re here. Itching to get down and find out one way or the other.

He wants to know if she’s likely to talk to you at all. You tell him to stop asking fucking stupid questions.

We’ll be in the suits while we’re down there, Kaliff says. This is bad news. You don’t like this at all. The suits are heavy, and sweaty, and they stink. They turn a simple stroll into an exhausting drag. You ask him if he’s serious, and he tells you that he is always serious. He is a very serious man. This flagrant mistruth aside, you can see the logic of it, but you don’t like it. You’re already itching at the thought of spending so long cooped up.

The Procrastinator isn’t designed for atmospheric entry. If the Procrastinator is making landfall, it is because something has gone profoundly wrong. So, instead, you’re going to ride down in its tiny little shuttle. Kaliff apologises for the state of your crash couch, which seems like it was designed for someone twice your side. He’s waffling on about its previous owner but you aren’t listening. All you can think about is landfall. You strap yourself in as best you can, and then you feel your guts drop. You’re away.

You’re falling. Like Luce was falling. Plunging towards the ground. Your teeth are chattering as the shuttle shakes. It sounds like it’s about to tear itself apart. You can’t hear anything except the roar and howl of…