You face Shelf G once more.

You face Shelf G once more.

Start with the executive summary of the mission.

A brief survey of the document aligns with what you know. In 77, Portofiro attempts to launch a manned weather satellite into orbit. However, within minutes:

'██ T+763 █████ ████ . Vehicle ███ ███████ ██████ . Crew ████████ ███████ loss. ██████ ████████ ████ critical █████'

Boom-boom.

A note here indicates that while the explosion was visible from the ground, no sound was heard, given the distance.

That holds. Nothing would be audible beyond twenty kilometres.

The post-flight review suggests 'critical engineering faults' led to the 'unscheduled dissolution' of the spacecraft. No other details.

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.

The entire crew is marked lost. Their names and positions are included on the next page.

1) Cmdr. Estéban Roque: Flight Operations. 2) Lt. Ilya Markov: Payload Oversight. 3) Lt. Naera Silje: Comms & Telemetry. 4) Dr. Juno Avré Straniak: Psychologist & Neurocognition Analyst.

One of these things is not like the others.

Hrrmm. No meteorologist?

None listed.

But there was a psychologist onboard.

Dr. Straniak's responsibilities are listed as: 'Maintaining crew morale', 'ongoing performance management', and 'evaluating cognitive stress'.

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

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

In the weeks before launch, he conducted multiple psychological evaluations of his fellow crew members, which are included here.

Why was a psychologist onboard?

Allegedly boom-boom.

So what caused the explosion?

Read Straniak's assessments of his fellow crew members.

The assessments are grouped and associated with each member of the crew. Cmdr. Roque's 'self-worth tied to performance'; Lt. Silje exhibits 'maternal anxiety pattern' and clings to her 'position as caregiver'...

While Dr. Straniak has concerns about Markov's 'dissociative tendencies', he suspects the trait may 'ultimately be beneficial'.

Wait, beneficial for what?

According to the remarks: 'entering sustained prolonged host-reception state during which minimal autobiographical bleed-through is preferable.'

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.

He writes about them like they're experimental subjects.

Across all three assessments, the language is strikingly consistent. He rates each of his colleagues for 'narrative identity', 'perceptual decoupling', and 'emotional flattening'.

Look at Straniak's signature. (Proceed.)

The doctor circled his last name, twice, and wrote below it: 'Grenzen sind Illusionen; alles sieht zurück.'

'Boundaries are illusions; everything looks back.'

Wait, where do I know this from?

It's the motto of the Polytechnic University of Treffe. One of the most advanced and controversial experimental psychology departments in the world.

Why is an experimental psychologist on a weather satellite?

At the bottom of the page, a note: 'Additional notes may be found in Appendix D. AZK-11/05-J'.

'Boundaries are illusions; everything looks back.'

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

What's that mean?

You're not sure. You just know it's familiar.

It sounds like poetry, except it's bad, unlike mine.

Dark and mysterious, like me.

Makes my skin crawl.

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

Go over the time-stamped logs.

LAUNCH SEQUENCE BEGIN ------ T-10s: Pre-ignition. Systems nominal. T+00s: Ignition. T+85s: Max Q passed. Telemetry is steady.

T+150s: Main engine cut-off. T+155s: Stage separation confirmed. T+160s: Second-stage ignition.

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.

(Whisper to yourself.) "Boom-boom."

T+243s: readings remain optimal as the vehicle ascends. T+260s: █████████ T+271s: ██████████████

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

T+292s: Reception lost. ----- END

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

Someone slipped up.

But not you.

You flip back to the executive summary. There, buried among redactions:

'██ T+763 █████ ████ . Vehicle ███ ███████ ██████ . Crew ████████ ███████ loss. ██████ ████████ ████ critical █████'

A difference of almost nine minutes.

Hrmmmm... (Look for more.)

Tucked in another page's corner, among unlabeled indices and hundreds of references, a table of time-stamps:

+848s: ██████████ ██ ██████ +1987s: ██ █████ ████ ████ +1d:01h:12m:34s: ███ ████████ ██ And at the bottom of that list:

'+12d:21h:53m:33s.'

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

This deserves a smoke.

And so you do. The nicotine rush is pristine.

By the final time stamp, a footnote, pointing to a document: 'See: Supp. Housekeeping & Transmission Storage. HKT-04/17-E'.

A little bell inside goes 'ding-ding'.

That's the reference the heartless old spy gave me.

Alternative wording

That's the reference Hauzmann gave me.

It must be here somewhere.

Out of the dark, sexy tunnel, and into high orbit.

You stare at the sheet, questions swirling.

They didn't explode after all. Good for them.

Getting strange. I like it.

Motherfuckers. (Look for more.)

Go back over the documents.

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

Maybe a typo?

No typo.

Turn the page.

Look for a file marked 'HKT-04/17-E'.

You go over what feels like every folder on the shelf. Nothing matches the reference ID.

Look around.

The other shelves around you seem to lean in, as if expectant.

Step away. [Leave.]

You let the old shelf be.

You stand before an archival shelf. This one is labelled 'G'. Its metal bays overflow with sagging dossiers, loose memos, and soft-buckled binders.

What do we have here?

Your fingers skip across the brittle tabs. You comb through dozens of documents. It is slow, monotonous work. Until...

What's this?

Your index finger instinctively alights on a thick maroon folder. On its cover, a seal dulled to black, and a title: 'PROYECTO AUTONOMÍA'.

Your jaw tightens, your molars grind against each other.

Examine the seal.

Concentric circles, with words curving around the edges: 'POST-MISSION REPORT - 77'.

Rub the seal.

Old wax flakes under your finger.

Open the folder. (Proceed.)

Inside, hundreds of heavily-redacted sheets: an executive summary, various logs, telemetry, personnel files.

The rituals of a bureaucratic autopsy.

You skim through maintenance logs, staff rotations, emergency drills, waste management expenses, all ordered by esoteric reference codes. There's nothing interesting here.

Maybe later. [Leave.]

You turn away from the shelves.

Before you looms a massive, dark shape. It's impossible to tell what it is without a flashlight.