I waited as the computer brought up his baseline profile for comparison. Every body is different, and can only be measured against itself. All of our patches and nutrient drips are tailor-made for our individual needs. I, for example, was born red-green colour-blind, and had gene therapy when I was four to give me full trichromatic sight. Elena has an inherited predisposition toward breast cancer, which her patches suppress. Jack’s patches perform double-duty as well, providing him with the testosterone he’s received since his – as he calls it – second puberty. Chikondi’s the only one of us whose medical needs can be described as utterly typical.

‘Your exams are so boring,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d get a vitamin deficiency or something, so I’d have something to write up.’

‘I could break my ankle again,’ he said, ‘if you’re that bored.’

I laughed, remembering the enormous pain in the ass that had been Chikondi’s fractured malleolus during a two-week-long desert survival training in the Badain Jaran. ‘Let’s not,’ I said. I rolled his sleeve back down, taking care as the fabric passed over his patch. They can fix a lot of things, those synthetic skins, but bone injuries aren’t one of them. I’m not a fan of maladies over which we have no control.

‘And you?’ he said. ‘Coffee?’

I thought for a moment about the question I’d thought to ask but not answer. ‘I’m fine without,’ I said. ‘But I already miss the smell.’

The hour was late as we finished our prep work inside, and despite having recently been unconscious for nearly three decades, we were tired. Our side of Aecor had turned away from the sun, and despite our distance, the absence of that one faint light made a difference. It was time to call it a day.

We gathered in the rec room to watch the news bundle OCA had sent us. We sat around the monitor with water and sprouts in lieu of popcorn and beer. The video file was queued. The speakers hummed softly as they waited for input. They waited. And waited. And waited.

Nobody made any motion to play the file. The screen stayed dark.

Jack cleared his throat after a moment. ‘It’s gonna be weird as shit,’ he said loudly.

Chikondi chuckled. I exhaled, glad somebody had said what we were all feeling. Elena smiled her funny smile, reached for the control panel, and pressed play.

I had tried, in advance, to anticipate all the paradigms that could’ve changed in twenty-eight years. I’d played horrors in my head over and over, knowing that progress is somewhat circular, and the news is rarely a good time.

What I hadn’t anticipated was a weird haircut. The young man on screen smiled at the camera, and I’m sure in his mind and in the minds of everyone else who had put the video together, he looked presentable, professional. But I didn’t know his haircut, and the shape of his shirt was strikingly odd, and the small bubbled jewellery he wore around his wrists was a look I’d never seen before. I had thought to steel myself for the march of history. I’d neglected to factor in fashion.

It hit me, in that moment, just how far we were from the Earth we’d left.

‘Hello, Lawki 6,’ he said brightly. I squinted. He sounded North American, but I couldn’t quite place him. A desert kid, maybe, from down near the Cascadia-Pacific Republic border. ‘My name’s Amado Guinto, and I’m a communications specialist here at my hometown campus of OCA PNW.’

My jaw dropped. He was from my neck of the woods. Two hours from where I’d grown up, and he sounded like someone from way down south. I was keen to know where the change had come from – migration? Pop culture? – but no one had thought to answer that, or the question of the cut of his shirt. Our new friend Amado wasn’t here to talk about linguistic drift or the influences in aesthetics. He was here to deliver The News: politics, headlines, big names. You know. The important stuff.

The thing about the important stuff is, it’s never uplifting. That much, at least, hadn’t changed at all. We watched in silence, like students in a depressing lecture, as Amado marched us efficiently through the decades. There were good things in there, wonderful things. We’d eradicated malaria, finally. We’d successfully reintroduced tigers into the wild. We’d made a bus-sized battery that could power a city block for ten years. But the rest of it was an odd mix of unpredictable changes that followed tragically predictable patterns. Wars, elections, lines drawn in the sand. The perpetual ebb and flow of some countries reaching out while others walled themselves in. A constant parade of societal drama, powerful within its own sphere, yet impotent when pitted against the colossal rhythms of the planet itself.

‘Storm seasons in all corners of the globe have continued to worsen,’ Amado said neutrally, ‘with more and more coastal cities pulling back or speeding up development of technological solutions.’ His neutrality shifted into polite sympathy. ‘Mission specialist Quesada-Cruz, this next portion of the compendium may be difficult for you. I want to say personally that I am sorry to deliver this news.’

We all turned to look at Elena. She’d begun the viewing relaxed in her chair, an arm draped unconcerned over the side. Now she was leaning forward, her face calm while her body braced hard. My eyes flicked from her to the screen, back and forth, back and forth, trying to follow both the facts and her reaction. Images of ruined coastlines and broken levies gave way to an animated map, which, as Amado helpfully explained, showed the spread of catastrophic damage. I pulled my lips inward and pressed them painfully together as the red zone filled the entirety of the land bordering the Gulf of Mexico. Hundreds of cities had been abandoned or flooded beyond repair. To us, one little dot stood out among the rest: Tampico. Elena’s hometown.

She got up and left the room.

‘Elena,’ Jack said.

We heard nothing in reply but the sound of a ladder being climbed, downward.

Chikondi reached for the monitor controls. ‘We should—’

Jack halted him. ‘Let her be,’ he said. ‘We’re here when she needs us.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘We’re all going to have moments like that, I’m sure.’

The OCA reporter, as if he’d known we’d need it, abruptly shifted tack. ‘You should know that everybody here at OCA and across Planet Earth are cheering for you, every step of the way. We’re ending this transmission with a present of sorts, sent in by your supporters all over the world. Best of luck, Lawki 6. We can’t wait to hear from you.’

The broadcast ended with a montage of homemade messages recorded by OCA supporters, greeting and cheering us on from their living rooms. There were kids, dogs, hand-painted signs, languages and global flavour galore. It was lovely, and hugely appreciated, but the person who’d needed to see it most hadn’t.

‘I’ll play it for her later,’ Chikondi said, bookmarking the timestamp where the segment had begun.

I got up and headed for the ladder. Yes, Elena knew we were there for her. In those kinds of situations, though, sometimes it’s good to provide a reminder.

Her TEVA suit was missing in the cargo hold; she’d gone outside. I suited up and followed.

Elena wasn’t far from the Merian – just a short walk away. The ice below her was smooth and flat as the surface of a frozen lake. Around us, though, at a short distance, a wall of jagged pillars spiked upward.