The air recyclers began to whine, pulling air out of the room instead of pushing it in. Aris looked at the tally marks, then at the wooden bird. He realized then that the bird wasn't a memento. He twisted the head of the carving, and a small data-drive slid out into his palm.

Aris stepped inside. The room was sparse—standard issue—except for a small, hand-carved wooden bird on the nightstand. Real wood. A relic from Earth. He picked it up, feeling the grain beneath his thumb.

"Captain, the previous seven scans yielded nothing but skin cells and hair follicles consistent with the occupant. He is officially designated as 'Spaced.'"

The sterile white corridors of the orbital station didn't usually feel like a tomb, but tonight, the hum of the life-support systems sounded like a final breath.