That holds. Nothing would be audible beyond twenty kilometres.

That holds. Nothing would be audible beyond twenty kilometres.

For a moment, you're back in that classroom, staring at a great plume of smoke on a small screen, rising, and rising -- until the feed abruptly cuts out.

One of these things is not like the others.

Horrifically vague, yet ominous. Here's a thread to pull at.

Each sentence reads as if it was rehearsed for an already-nodding audience.

This isn't any 'psychology' you recognise; it's all esoteric neuroscience and qualia.

The clinical care of the descriptions is what chills you, the obsessive attention to each crew member's nuances and weaknesses.

The language is different but the tone is familiar. It's like how operants assess and cultivate assets.

'Boundaries are illusions; everything looks back.'

'Boundaries are illusions; everything looks back.'

A shudder runs through you, as if brushing against a frayed wire.

The words leave an unpleasant feeling, like a whiff of putrid meat.

A jagged cathedral, wreathed in smoke and flames, quivering against a bruised sky.

Luminous. Immense. Doomed.

Eyes meet across the cabin, the same terror and wonder reflected as metal screams around them.

Orbital velocity is typically achieved at the eight minute mark. They weren't even close.

Discrepency. What of the time-stamp from earlier? It was nested among redactions.

A difference of almost nine minutes.

You picture signals, fired from the thermosphere, spearing through noctilucent clouds as they fall toward Portofiro.

A little bell inside goes 'ding-ding'.

Wait. Something's not right. Didn't you see a number that went much higher?

Your jaw tightens, your molars grind against each other.

The rituals of a bureaucratic autopsy.