The data stream was a river of light, and Dr. Aris Thorne was drowning in it.
He pressed play.
The screen—a seamless curve of smart-glass that formed the dome’s forward wall—flickered. Then, reality reasserted itself, but wrong. The image was so sharp, so impossibly deep, that it felt like a window rather than a recording. The black of space on the screen was a velvet abyss, studded with stars that had individual, scintillating personalities.
On the UHD recording, Commander Renn finally turned from the infinite shelves to face his own camera. Tears were streaming down his face. “Mission Log, final. Do not follow us. The wormhole is not a passage. It is a projector . And it’s looking for the right audience. It sees every frame of your life from the moment you are born to the moment you watch its film. We are not explorers. We are… extras. It has been showing this movie to itself since before the first star ignited. And it has just cast us in the sequel.”
“Better,” Aris said, his fingers trembling over the holographic interface. “And worse.”
The view outside the cockpit window on the recording shifted. And Aris forgot to breathe.
With a hand that felt like it belonged to someone else, he reached out to press play.
