The IHD's saved files take time to load. Olivia stares at the screen with blank eyes. When the data transfer is complete, she swivels the chair around to face him.

He traces his mouth with his thumb and index finger. "I can leave if—"

"If I have to see this, then so do you." She jabs a key with her index finger.

It's dark. At the bottom of the screen, S. Renton glows in small teal letters. Vague suggestions of texture lurk ahead. The camera should be synced with his suit for night vision, but it isn't. The narrow hall of Luna-9 leads into a simple dome-shaped structure built from local regolith. It's a temporary habitation module used in six month expeditions, but this one is nearly four years old. The soft inner shell shows signs of wear. Silver spacecraft tape is all that holds the seal in at least two places. Something rasps against the ground. He raises his AK-580 to a low angle, but the scope catches nothing.

Forward movement. His footsteps can barely be heard. The short corridor turns up ahead. The camera swings around. Five others in sleek XS-7's lined up against the wall. Their faceplates are black. Unreflective. His hand makes three abrupt gestures at the bottom of the screen. Then the camera swings around again. The AK-580's muzzle lowers. His opposite arm raises into the camera's view. A mirror extends off his wrist. It reflects five people. One standing, one kneeling, three sitting. The kneeling man is Mike Solheim.

Olivia takes a deep breath and grips the edges of her chair.

The camera suddenly yaws around the corner. The AK-580 is raised, ready to fire. "Put down your weapons. Put them down. Now!"

The closest person is standing up. A young Caucasian woman. The whites of her eyes can be seen in the light. Her mouth gapes like a fish. She turns, starts raising her hands.

He aims. "Stop!"

The AK-580 flashes in the darkness. It makes a sharp popping sound like someone set off firecrackers. The woman shudders, dark red dots puffing across her chest. Mike flops onto his side and starts squirming away. His hands are bound.

Everything bursts into motion. More popping. Muzzle flashes just out of view. A confusion of light. Luna-9 protestors fall down twitching. One flings himself behind a desk. A single pop echoes in the shell.

Then a burst of darkness. Then silence. The camera does a full flip. Grey floor, grey ceiling, torn wall. A horizon of clear night sky, Earth's blue crescent, and endless lunar regolith. The lights inside Luna-9 flash red. No air, no sound, no pressure alarm. His hands appear, push him upright. The view veers wildly around the room. People writhe and swell on the floor. Two operatives pack Mike's bloating body into a Portable Emergency Pressure Shell or PEPS. One points to the hole.

The camera pivots and adjusts to the poor lighting. Red lights flash over a small body ejected outside. Long-limbed, shuddering, pants freezing at the crotch. A jump out into vacuum. Hovering over the body. The camera shudders. He struggles to grab his PEPS. Unfolds it in the corner of the screen. It's large enough for a grown man. She looks up at him. The moisture instantly boiled off her eyes. Her silver hairpin catches the emergency lighting. He zips open the PEPS, rolls her into it, and snaps it shut. The PEPS automatically starts filling to 1/3 atmosphere. Her dusty face is framed by the small window. His arms appear in view, slide under her body, lift her off the Moon's surface. Turning back to Luna-9. Beats of redness and shadow.

Men and women lie in dark bags. Five members of the tac res unit mean five PEPS. Five protestors. Mike Solheim. One child. The woman he shot lies pale and flaccid, naked to the vacuum of space. Another is only half-visible behind the desk. His legs kick, but his movements slow and weaken. Then cease.

The camera veers down. The girl is looking up at him. No more than three years old. Her eyes are brown and lined with pink frost. Her mouth is a hinged black oval, wide and silent.

A sudden click. The video ends and remains frozen on the last frame. Olivia steeples her hands over her mouth and nose.

"You shot her," she breathes. "You shot my.... She...." A series of quick, deep breathes. "You shot her."

Mig stares blindly at the screen.

"Why?"

"Thought she had a gun on Mike."

"She didn't have anything. Even I could see it." Olivia's hands drop away and her voice spikes in volume. "Maybe you would've, too, if you hadn't rushed in like some amateur."

He finally blinks. "Yeah."

She sniffs loudly. "You said Mike. The Mike at our door?"

"He's the anthropologist they sent in to help smooth things out. Me, Aiko, and him had a thing back then. Nobody knew."

"I slept with you." Olivia shuts her eyes. "I wanted to be with you. I...."

She hunches over and vomits onto her legs. By the third heave, her body is trembling. Stomach acid dribbles down her shirt. A bitter smell fills the apartment. She looks down at herself, hands held in midair, fingers spread.

Mig stands up and grabs their only pot. He fills it half-way with water and sets it on the stove. The water slowly comes to a boil. Steam curtains around his face. The heat begins to burn under his chin. He brings it into the bathroom where their small metal tub sits folded in the alcove corner. He smooths it open and pours most of the water inside. When he returns, Olivia is slowly standing up. She holds up one hand to ward him off, and shuffles by. He stands still. Sniffling can be heard inside. Shaky breaths. The soft rasp of clothing over skin. Then a loud slap of a body on stone.

He leans inside and sees Olivia on the floor, her pants half-way about her knees. She keeps her eyes averted when he crouches beside her. He waits. She finally reaches out and grasps his shoulder. Her whole arm is shaking. He helps her stand up and the ritual of undressing starts. Shirt and bra, then pants, and then underwear. He wads her dirty clothes into a ball and puts them into the pot with the rest of the hot water. Some detergent is still left over from last month. He takes a pinch and adds it in, then starts washing.

The bathwater releases small skiffs of steam. Olivia puts her hand on the tub's edge and tests the temperature with her finger. She carefully steps in and sits down. Her knees are nearly folded to her chest, but the water rises to just above her waist. She starts cleaning herself. The splash and drip echoes against the walls. The heat and humidity nearly feels like a sauna. When her clothes are clean, he twists them each three times and hangs them on a string bowed along the wall. They drip occasionally. It sounds like they're in a cave. He tosses the dirty water into the toilet and it slides down the pipe. Then he scours the pot with a small amount of hot water by the stove. Neither of them will be bathing again for a while.

Olivia's computer screen still shows the last frame. It automatically processes the video. She wrote the program herself for his IHD. It would take a team of programmers to do the same back on Earth. He forces himself to look at it while he puts everything back into its place. Then he brings some clean clothes and her crutches into the bathroom. She sits with her arms covering her breasts, her head still turned away from him. He sets her things down by the tub.

"If you need—"

She suddenly looks up at him, her eyes wide with rage. "Go away, Mig."

"Alright." He rubs his nose with the back of his arm. "I'll go."