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Eva Stratt drains the remaining drops of gin from her glass before setting it down on the small nightstand squeezed between the wall of her temporary trailer at Baikonur and the lumpy standard issue mattress, courtesy of Roscosmos. She pointedly ignores the tremor in her hand as she twists the lid off of the nearly empty bottle of Dutch gin and pours herself a (third) generous glass of the potent liquor.
“To the Hail Mary,” she slurs, lifting her hand in a toast to the empty room, gin sloshing over the side to splatter onto the floor. She stares at drops until her vision blurs.
It takes her a moment to realize she’s crying, tears streaking down her cheeks, carving hot paths over her flushed skin. She shudders and swipes at her face with more force than necessary.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it free and after a few uncoordinated attempts to unlock the device, she manages to open the message from Dimitri.
Launch successful.
Eva lets out a deep breath, what feels like the first since she’d been tasked with saving humanity by whatever means necessary.
It was done. Whatever happened now was out of her control.
There was just one more task at hand.
She sits on the edge of her bed and trades the glass in her hand for a syringe. A heavy dose of midazolam, courtesy of Dr. Lamai.
Eva uncaps the syringe and holds it steady with her right hand, bringing the tip of the needle to the bluish vein just visible in the pit of her elbow. Carefully, she lets the sharp point pinch her skin.
She’s no doctor, but she is a quick study. She watched Lamai and her staff inject their test animals, watched the early versions of the robot meant to care for the crew work out the ideal depth and angle of injections. She presses the plunger, slow and steady, and watches the drug disappear from the barrel.
Eva places the used syringe on the nightstand and lies back on the flat pillow. Her body feels heavy, like she’s being pressed into the mattress by some invisible force. It’s fitting, she thinks, like being crushed by the magnanimity of her decisions.
Her breathing slows. It becomes harder to keep her eyes open, so she lets them drift shut.
She dreams of stars.
Dear Dimitri,
If you are reading this, I presume you have discovered what I have done.
Humanity chose four people to be its savior, but only three of them would ever be considered heroes. This was the only path for me. My job here is done. Hopefully the four of us have not given our lives in vain.
You must know that Ryland Grace did not choose to join the mission. I made the decision for him. I do not regret it, as he was our only remaining hope for survival.
I can only hope he will forgive me in the next life.
Until we meet again,
Eva Stratt