When tiny souls gazed into the void through portholes, the void always answered with silence.
On the bridge of the Lewis and Clark, silence shrouded nearly everyone, including Dr. Will.
He was an elegant middle-aged man with neatly slicked-back black hair. His dark blue shipboard uniform had been crisply pressed, its sharp pleats still perfectly straight. His damp, melancholy eyes held a gray, hazy gaze as he endlessly read reports on his tablet, pen in hand as he worked through complicated calculations. The air here was dry and clean, yet cold as well, carrying the scent of gray recycled filters. It was filled with the nearly imperceptible, piercing hum of operating instruments, while the force generated by rotation pinned the crew firmly to the floor of the habitation module.
Everyone had gathered around the round table. Captain Miller, seated opposite Dr. Will, watched him with a grim expression on his dark face. As an experienced astronaut, he knew this mission was far from ordinary. The man who had organized this rescue operation was Dr. Will, who seemed out of place among everyone else. Even the liveliest crew members now appeared deeply troubled.
Captain Miller swept his gaze across the table. He believed Dr. Will had to give everyone present an answer—an answer worth risking their lives and spending years aboard an unproven spacecraft for, an answer worth leaving behind every person on Earth they cherished. The middle-aged woman seated beside Dr. Will also wore a spacesuit, with a grass-green jacket draped over it. Her neat, short auburn curls were damp and slicked back. She held a tablet playing a video. A boy with the same short auburn hair, bundled up tightly, sat in a stroller as she pushed him around, bumping it this way and that while he laughed loudly.