I wake to a voice counting down like it’s New Year’s Eve: level, at the back of my skull.

 

“Ten seconds,” it says. “Nine.”

 

My body responds like it’s been stored wrong. Pins and needles in my limbs. A pressure headache. A mouth full of grit. My eyes won’t open fully, like the lids have been glued shut.

 

“Stop counting,” I manage.

 

“Apologies, Captain,” the ship says. “Counting can be comforting.”

 

“For who?”

 

“For me.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Negative,” the ship replies. “Diagnostics show you urinated successfully throughout the duration. Defecation was minimal.”

 

“You could’ve… eased into that,” I croak.

 

“Easing is inefficient,” the ship says.

 

“Thanks for the report,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

 

“Please refrain from sudden movement, Captain. You are currently catheterised.”

 

“Cut me loose.”

 

A wet click sounds somewhere behind my spine, and I wince as something cold snakes free of me.

 

“Hydration, nutrient, and waste lines disengaged,” the ship says. “Also: welcome home.”

 

The word home hits me so hard I almost laugh.

 

The pod’s acrylic shroud opens with a soft hiss. A dark, warm film crawls over my bare skin like a blanket that knows where all the embarrassing parts are.

 

“Is that the Moon?” I whisper, squinting through the dome.

 

“Affirmative,” the ship answers. A pause. “Lunar proximity is as expected. Earth proximity is… within expected parameters.”

 

“You say that like it means something.”

 

“It means my instruments are functioning,” the ship replies. “Please do not assume success prematurely.”

 

“Trust me,” I mutter, flexing my fingers. “I’m not ready for celebrations yet.”

 

“Incorrect,” the ship says. “Your nutrient menu included four years’ worth of celebratory additives.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Four years,” it says.

 

“No, what I meant was—” I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting a smile. “Never mind.”

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

“Four years there, four years back,” I grumble. “Plus two years busting my ass on Proxima B. A decade for thirty years’ pay.”

 

“Affirmative,” the ship says. “Statistically speaking, your financial freedom is well above average.”

 

“Show me what that bought me. I wanna see Earth.”

 

“External feed will clear after lunar occlusion,” the ship replies. “Earth-insertion deceleration window opens in three minutes.”

 

I blink at the Moon crowding the dome, bright and close enough to touch.

 

“Three minutes,” I say, pulling at the harness. “Don’t you dare count it down.”

 

* * *

 

The Moon swells until it fills the entire field of view, grey and pockmarked. I sit in the captain’s chair and brace for the burn.

 

Nothing happens.

 

No shove in the seat. No vibration, no change in the engine’s pitch. Just the same steady hum of the ship.

 

“Why aren't you decelerating?”

 

“Deceleration is not recommended at this distance, Captain,” the ship replies.

 

“That’s not what you said three minutes ago.”

 

“Three minutes ago you were coming out of an induced coma,” it says. “Your heart rate remains abnormally elevated. Please refrain from additional stressors.”

 

The Moon slides sideways too fast, drifting toward the edge of the dome.

 

“If we’re past lunar periapsis, where’s the burn?”

 

“We have completed lunar passage,” the ship says. “Earth insertion has been deferred pending conscious confirmation of your destination.”

 

“Um, hello! Earth is the destination.”

 

“Destination confirmation requires visual verification, Captain.”

 

The dome brightens as the Moon slips away, but the feed stays stubbornly blank. My hands go to the Comm panel by instinct. There should be noise: Earth-side chatter, dock traffic, a thousand voices.

 

The speakers give me a thin hiss followed by a single automated ping.

 

“Where the hell is everybody?”

 

“Earth traffic density is below expected parameters,” the ship says. “No inbound craft are registered on the approach corridor. Destination vector remains valid.”

 

“Valid for what? There’s nobody on the band.”

 

“Please specify your distress, Captain,” it says. “I can provide breathing guidance.”

 

“I don’t need guidance, dammit. I need you to pump the brakes.”

 

“Manual override requires destination confirmation while fully conscious,” it replies.

 

My fingers hover over the override guard. “Fully conscious? I am conscious.”

 

“Your cortisol levels suggest impaired judgement,” the ship says. “For safety, I cannot release control.”

 

I look up. The Moon has slipped completely behind us.

 

“Ship,” I say, and my voice comes out minuscule. “Show me Earth. Right now.”

 

“Complying, Captain,” the ship says.

 

The dome’s tint peels back like a body bag being unzipped. For a split second, I think the feed is still broken. No swirl of blue. No curve of cloud. No limb of ocean catching sunlight. Just a thin  glittering wreath of dust and stone and bright, rotating shrapnel where a planet should be.

 

“Ship… is this your idea of a joke?”

 

“Negative,” it says. “Earth is not how you remember it. The planet suffered a catastrophic impact event. Asteroid strike. Fragmentation cascade.”

 

I stare until my eyes sting. A dry heave claws up my throat. Nothing comes.

 

“When?” I whisper.

 

“Three years after your initial departure for the Proxima Centauri contract,” it replies. “Verified confirmation reached us within the first year of your return. I chose not to wake you.”

 

“You—” My voice cracks. “You knew?”

 

“Affirmative,” it says. “Waking you would have greatly increased the probability of mission failure. You needed to see it for yourself, Captain.”

 

The glittering ring turns slowly, indifferent.

 

Ten years.

 

For thirty years’ pay.

 

“Your account remains solvent, Captain,” the ship says. “Your currency has outlived its world.”

 

I laugh once through my nose, and it sounds like a dog’s whimper.

 

“Tell me the good news, would ya?” I say, wiping away hot tears.

 

“There is an alternative,” the ship says. “Lunar Outpost Teivah recognizes your account. Thousands of survivors. The automated ping you heard originates there.”

 

My hands tighten on the armrests until my knuckles pale.

 

“Plot it then.”

 

“Course laid in,” the ship replies.

 

The craft rolls away from Earth’s grave, and the Moon swells ahead again, Teivah’s beacon winking on the cratered surface.

 

“Also: welcome home,” the ship says.