The simplicity of asking a question was a routine influence of Thompson's position. For the Colonel, questions flowed as naturally and freely as rain to a river. It was the responsibility of him and him alone, as the highest authority, to ensure adequate answers for various scenarios, mistakes, and more importantly, emergencies. Yet, here today, their question struck like thunder.

  “What do you mean ‘who's Edwards?’ ” He asked, notes of fear and anger plaguing his voice.

  Hawley didn't understand the confusion. “I’m sorry sir, but I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  As the severity began to set in, a small burst of sweat protruded from his dry, wrinkled skin. Thompson looked at the scattered faces to see if anyone was laughing. “Is this a joke? Edwards! He just left not fifteen minutes ago!”

  The officer looked to Clarke for help, he shrugged.

  Looking back to Thompson, she said. “I’m sorry but I don’t think I know who that is.”

  “EDWARDS!” He shouted, scaring them both. “Officer Edwards! Sat at Station 15. Always pushing up his glasses that were too big for his face? Edwards!” Thompson had a mad dog look in his eyes.

  Hawley slightly shrunk in her chair. “I- I- I don’t-” She stumbled over her words, completely baffled at Thompson’s outburst and insistence on the existence of someone she was certain she had never met.

  Clarke got between Thompson and the officer, putting his hand up to keep distance between himself and the Colonel. “Colonel, please. Just take a breath and tell us what’s going on.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child, Clarke.” Thompson held up a finger.

  “I’m just asking for clarity. Who is Edwards?”

  “Officer Charlie Edwards! He’s worked here for years! Always showed up two minutes early every day, and sat in that chair.” Thompson pointed to where he remembered the Officer’s station was. But instead of an aisle side seat on the edge of a long steel table, there was only empty space. All he was pointing at was the dark blue carpeting. Not even an imprint of where his desk had been could be seen. The hand of God came down with a holy pair of scissors and snipped off an unnecessary corner.

  Clarke looked to where Thompson was pointing. “Sir, are you sure you’re okay?”

  Thompson stared at the recent vacancy. “That’s not possible. He sat right there, I know it! Station fifteen.” He felt a strange sadness wash over him. “Station 15…” He repeated to himself.

  Clarke cautiously approached the Colonel. “15? Sir, there’s only fourteen desks, including yours. And as far as I’m concerned, I don’t think anyone named Edwards works here.” Clarke spoke softly but with just enough edge to try and get through to Thompson. The old Colonel let his eyes roll low, keeping them fixed on the spot where a man named Edwards once sat.

  Thompson spoke in a hushed, yet desperate, tone. “He was just here. I sent him…” He didn’t finish, feeling that if he kept talking, it would only further the guilt already nestled in his heart. The machines whirred on, and the officers watched.

  Clarke glanced at his watch. “Do you think you’re okay to continue the debriefings? I can take over if you need to rest.”

  Whatever Clarke said did not completely register to Thompson, he looked to Tippen. “You were with me. You were with me the entire time, you remember Edwards. I know you do. You looked right at him before he left!” Thompson said, closing the distance as he spoke, putting his face so close to the General’s that the mixed smell of liquor and body odor was almost nauseating.

  “I remember someone being sent away. But I don’t remember his name.” Tippen lied. “Maybe you mixed up a few names, I’ve heard that can happen to people of your…experience.” The General laid his insult out under a thin veneer of praise.

  Thompson looked around, seeing the faces of his trusted associates trying to hide their pity as best they could. But Thompson had worked with them long enough to know what they were saying without speaking.

  “General. You said that what we’re dealing with is something dangerous, able to manipulate things on a level we can’t comprehend. So, you know where my concern is coming from.” He locked eyes with the General. “So, why don’t work with me on this, and tell them you remember Edwards.” Thompson was on the edge of begging.

  Tippen did not move from his stance. “I am afraid I cannot speak on this matter. Like you said Colonel, this is your operation.”

  Thompson had to hold himself back from striking the General, clutching his fists hard enough to feel his knuckles squeak with a strain of tensed muscled he hadn’t exercised in decades. Feeling pain in his joints, he relaxed his fists. He began to turn around when he caught the slightest glimpse of Clarke’s transcript sheet. The writing! Edwards’ handwriting! He remembered. Thompson rushed to reach the sheet of paper, almost pushing Clarke over in the process. He grabbed up the paper off the desk and scanned it for the distinct bold chicken scratch that was Edwards’ signature style.

  But there wasn’t any. Where once, big hastily written words with flecks of pencil dust and eraser smudges had been scribbled down, there was only Clarke’s fine-tuned small print.

  “Is something wrong sir?” Clarke asked, worried he’d gotten something wrong when copying the debriefing.

  Thompson dropped his hands and let the paper fall back onto the desk. “No Officer Clarke… everything's fine.” There was nothing. No desk, no writing, not even his name. All that remained of Edwards was a memory. This hurt Thompson the most. Thinking that all that was left of his coworker, his friend, was whatever an old man could remember. And Thompson knew that would only last as long as his aged mind would allow. In the years that would follow, the memory of the man Thompson once knew as Edwards would be a person so far and away from the real person, it could hardly be called a memory. Already he started to forget the small details of the small man's life, and he’ll never notice.

  With nothing left to do, the Colonel returned to his seat, dejected. “Let’s just…” He cleared his throat of his loss. Taking a deep breath, reviving his former stature of leadership he said. “Let's continue the debriefings.” The crowd had broken their silence with combinations of “Yes,” “Finally,” and with a few saying, “Took him long enough.” Thompson made his way back to his desk.

  Thompson resigned himself to his seat. Save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath, he did not move. Behind him Tippen stood as guarded as ever, and though he would never admit it, the General began to notice a stiffness in his legs near the knees. Tippen had the faintest seed thought of his age almost take root his mind, but before he could mull it over, he quickly dashed this notion and refocused his attention to the video feed. Onscreen, Langois practiced patience to her utmost ability as she waited for the interview to begin.

  The microphone clicked on. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Langois. Are you ready to begin?”

  The sound of Thompson’s voice came unexpectedly, startling her. “Yes, Colonel.” She answered.

  Speaking as well as he could, he carried on his interrogations. After each of their introductions, Thompson reflected on each one as they graced the screen, hoping that somewhere in his memories he could find an anomaly. As Thompson started his inquiry. He felt the banality of the interrogations blend into one long drawn out process that yielded little information. But he did not once yield his focus. He was bound and determined to find who didn’t belong, to the point of obsession. His eyes remained locked to the screen, and he attentively combed over each spoken word and every little movement of the body. He had become a madman, trapped in an asylum of his own employ from which the only escape was to meet face to face with an unknown unknown. The questioning had dropped to a zero sum game whose winner was an invisible force of intrusion.

  “Please state your name, rank, and occupation.” He asked.

  “Danielle J. Langois, Lieutenant Colonel, Pilot of the Apollo-22, codenamed ‘Angel.’ “ She said clearly and without hesitation. Langois often practiced her responses to herself. A small habit the crew let her do in private.

  “Renard H. Simmons, Brigadier General, Lunar Module Pilot of the Apollo-22 codenamed ‘Angel.’ “ Simmons, the oldest of the crew, had done more orbital missions than any on record. He had so many hours logged for spacewalks that people had started calling him ‘Spaceman Simmons.’

  “Avery W. Robins, Major General, Orbital Module Pilot of the Apollo-22 codenamed ‘Angel.’ “ Robins held the highest rank of the crew. The only Christian onboard, he prayed before each launch, making sure to put his trust in God as much as he put in Thompson and ground control.

  Thompson thought too of Wilkes. Remembering when he was first introduced to Mission Control, how he took the time to shake everyones hand and remembered their names. He thought back to the first few days Wilkes worked with NASA, how ecstatic he had been to be given the opportunity of a lunar mission, and how the excitement turned to pure determination.

  The Colonel was struggling. He truly deeply believed that he knew each and every crew member as well as any director could. He had spent years with them, he was certain, they were his friends as much as they were his coworkers. And yet, he knew that this was a lie. Three he had sent up, four he had brought down. Thompson wondered what other abnormalities he missed. Edwards sat at Station 15, he knew this, but could he be sure that he was the only one erased? Were there perhaps more stations unaccounted for? More people erased that he hadn’t noticed? And more importantly, was he certain that whatever this thing was, would he be able to do what is necessary to ensure that it would never hurt anyone else? After all, drastic times call for drastic measures. Maybe it would be best to let Tippen take over. One call to a nearby air base and it’d be done with, the General could order a strike as easily as ordering a pizza and he wouldn’t even have to fill out any paperwork. Thompson felt an involuntary shudder pass through his body.

  No. He thought. This is my operation, and it will end on my terms.

  Doing his best to suppress his fear and anxieties, he continued with his line of questioning.

  “What was the purpose of your mission?”

  “To pilot the NASA shuttle, Apollo-22, to Earth's moon for the purpose of research and habitability for potential future military bases.” Langois, Simmons, and Robins all responded, individually, the same answer. The same standard response.

  Thompson sat through the same standard responses as he did with Wilkes. And despite mulling over the transcripts after each interview alongside Clarke and Hawley, they found nothing of note. There were no mixed details, no miscommunications, not a single anomaly that jumped out at them to scream suspicion. All their answers matched exactly as Wilkes said. They gave the same report of the launch, the same report of the lunar landing, and with Simmons’ account, the same discovery and exploration of the ruined lander. And none of them had a report or recollection of knocking. After Simmons had left, Tippen had decided he had grown tired of standing, and took a seat next to the Colonel who had just come to a small realization.

  Thompson turned to the General, "The Soviet lander.” He said. “The one with the signal. Do you think it was because of that... thing, out there?"

  Tippen shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I'd wager the cosmonauts noticed the extra body and sealed themselves inside their module. Smashed the window so it wouldn’t be able to get to Earth. Maybe they figured it was better to die than to let it loose."

  “How do we know it didn’t break the port to escape?”

  “We don’t.”

  “How do we know the Cosmonauts even died?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Seems to be a lot we don’t know. There’s one thing that bothers me though.”

  “What’s that?”

  Thompson briefly paused. “If the cosmonauts died, where are the bodies?”

  Thompson watched Tippen tense up. He didn’t like what was being implied.

  “Let’s continue with the questioning, Colonel.” The General said, killing the conversation entirely.

  Thompson turned back around to face the screen, ready to finalize the debriefings. At this point, the Colonel had lost all sense of self. The fire of determination to find an invader had turned the man into a shell of paranoia and caution. But unfortunately for Thompson, Robins would be the one to add fuel to the fire.

  He sat in his chair, partially slumped over, his chest slinking inwards as his shoulders dropped. His eyelids were heavy, but his eyes burned dry. He had to force himself to overcome his natural instinct to blink. He feared that if he did, another thing would disappear, another vital piece of information would be altered, or another person would be erased. He so desperately wanted to blink, to clear away the dust and crust that had formed at the corners of his eyes, but he gave not into temptation. And still he sat as he stared forward, the light of the screen and the dying day danced across his face.

  A meaty hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality. He turned to look who it was and saw Clarke looking at him with a sense of pity and concern.

  “Thompson? Robins is waiting for you.” He said, pointing to the screen. In the seat of the Apollo-22 sat the small, slender frame of Avery Robins, patiently waiting for the last batch of questions.

  “Right.” Thompson cleared his throat. “Did you at any point feel incapable of continuing the mission?”

  "No sir." He said.

  "Did you ever have any thoughts of violence towards yourself or the crew?"

  "No sir."

  "Did you at any point feel targeted or threatened by your crewmates?"

  "No sir."

  "Did you at any point feel as if you were being watched, not including interior cameras?"

  "No sir."

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Do you believe that you are capable of undertaking another mission?"

  "Yes sir."

  “Did you ever encounter anything you felt was out of the ordinary while on the moon or in transit to and from the moon?"

  “No sir,” said Robins.

  Thompson let out a small cough. “Well if that’s that then we can–”

  “Actually,” interrupted Robins, “There was one thing. But I don’t know if it’s exactly what you’re looking for.”

  Thompson sat up slightly, eyes somehow opening wider than before. “If you think it is worth noting, then we must be notified Pilot Robins. What did you find?” He asked, practically salivating at the thought of something new.

  “Well…” Robins looked off camera, searching for the words to put together. “When we made our initial landing, we took a picture of all of us together on the surface of the Moon and…” His voice trailed off, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue.

  “And, what? If you have something, we'd like to hear it.” Said Thompson, he could hardly keep it together. Hawley, Clarke and the others looked around and at each other.

  “What’s got the old Colonel so riled up?” Someone said.

  “Who knows, maybe he’s trying to find a reason to stay. A little longer.” Said the person next to them.

  Robins let out an exasperated sigh, silencing the small chatter of the room. “After we took the picture, we put it up on the dashboard of the module. And thinking about it, I felt like at first, there were only three of us in the photo. But I know that's not possible.” Robins left the seat and reached across the dashboard to grab something from the opposite side of the cockpit. Holding up a picture to the camera, he continued. “Look…all four of us are there, see?” He put the picture away in front of him, and refaced the camera. “I know it’s stupid, but I just thought it was interesting is all. But I’m wasting time, sorry. Let’s just continue.” He struggled to maintain eye contact with the camera. Even though he was alone in the cockpit, the glass lens of the camera felt as living and judgmental as any man. He felt the weight of the eyes on the other side.

  Thompson was quick to speak but stopped himself before any words left his mouth. He composed himself, making sure to keep an air of control about his tone. He thought of an appropriate response. “Thank you for your concern Pilot Robins. We will take it into consideration. For now I believe that concludes our questioning, we will try to get back to you and the others for an update as soon as possible. Thank you.” He cut the mic and leaned back in his chair, almost ecstatic. A feeling which was not shared among his coworkers. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected. A roar of applause was far too idyllic, perhaps a few thank yous were in order, but total silence was most unexpected. Yet that silence was all that was present; his victory was isolated.

  Glancing around the room, eyes looked back to Thompson with only concern. The whole affair had been dealt with, and all that remained was to get the astronauts out of the shuttle, and be done with their day. They didn’t take Thompson for one to celebrate concluding a routine examination.

  Clarke, however, began to gather his papers and tidied up his desk. “Well if that’s it,” he said, “Let’s go get them.”

  “Where are you going? We’re not finished.” Thompson said, grabbing Clarke’s arm as he walked by.

  “We’re not? I thought the debriefings were all that was left. Is there something we missed?”

  “We finished them, yes, but we still need to figure out who’s who. And from what Robins just showed us, it likely isn’t him, but even then we can’t be sure.”

  Clarke had a puzzled look on his face. “What? What are you talking about?”

  Thompson mirrored Clarkes expression in kind. “The astronaut. The one that doesn’t belong? The thing we’ve been spending all day trying to figure out?”

  Clarke looked to Hawley who only shrugged her shoulders in response.

  “Sir please. We’re tired, the suns almost down. We don’t have time for your games.” Clarke said.

  “Game? Game? No this is not a game, this is our opportunity.” Thompson turned back to the screen, gnawing on a loose nail. “I think if we press them further, we could get the invader to slip, there’s gotta be something we can catch it on. Nothing’s perfect.”

  Clarke rubbed his forehead, tired. “Sir. With all due respect, what the hell are you talking about? Why do you keep saying ‘invader’? There’s no one on board that isn’t authorized.”

  Thompson snapped at the Officer. “That’s not true and you damn well know it!”

  Clarke was stunned, Thompson had never been like this. Not to him, and especially not to anyone else.

  The Colonel spoke with a booming voice unfamiliar to his congregation. “All day you’ve been fighting me on this, getting in the way of my duty to keep everyone safe. You know as well as I do, that there is someone on that ship that we did not send up. And no one will stop me from finding out who. Not you, or anyone else.”

  Clarke tried to regain control of the situation. “Colonel Thompson! I am not trying to fight you! I am trying to tell you that everyone on board the ship is a US authorized mechanic and engineer trained to perform the highest function possible on a space shuttle as far as their abilities can let them.”

  “No.” Thompson stood up from his chair. “No no no, you’re not doing this again. I have done what I could to weasel out this… imitation! Whatever it is, whatever it can do, it hasn’t affected me like everyone else. I know there were three astronauts. Three! No more, no less. Whatever that thing is, it is dangerous and I will not let you convince me otherwise!”

  “What imitation?” Clarke pleaded. “We sent up four people, Colonel. Four very brave and determined people. I remember them, I know them! And so does everyone else.” He gestured out to the crowd. “We’ve spent damn near a decade training the four of them to the utmost degree!” Clarke stepped closer to the Colonel. Around the room, the scattered officers and analysts tried to blend into the background or behind each other. Tippen watched silently.

  The Colonel met Clarkes advancement with his own. “I don’t care what you remember. You’re wrong, Clarke!”

  “So we’ve been sitting here doing nothing, is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, I’m saying that something is very, very, wrong here and you’ve been tricked into thinking that there's always been four astronauts!”

  “Oh, so the four people we see aren’t real but your mysterious disappearing analyst is?”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “How? You expect us to believe that the four people we can very clearly see on camera aren’t real, but a man no one here but you remembers, is?”

  “Edwards is real! God dammit, he’s been here all day!”

  Clarke threw his hands up in disbelief. “Then where is he? Where’s his station, Colonel? Cause I don’t see any more than fourteen stations.”

  “I told you, something happened to him. Whatever it is that erased him is whatever’s messing with your heads all of you!” He proclaimed.

  “That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “You think I don’t know that? I know it doesn’t make sense, none of this does! That’s the problem Clarke. I have been trying my damndest to get this together and you’ve been fighting me at every turn. I’m the Director and I–”

  “And you’re supposed to have a level head Thompson! Like you said, you’re the Director, it is your duty to keep calm in a dangerous scenario. When shit hits the fan, we look to you to keep things under control and here you are babbling on about some alien. You’re the Director, you’re supposed to be thinking clearly. Start acting like it!”

  “I am thinking clearly.” Thompson looked at Tippen. “Say something dammit! You were out there with me, tell him you remember Edwards!” He pointed at Clarke, who was bracing himself for the Generals support of the wild eyed Thompson.

  Tippen seized his opportunity. “I think you’ve had a long day Colonel. We’re all tired, but right now you should please just sit down and rest. Clarke and I should be able to handle things from here.” He said.

  Clarke let out a slight sigh of relief. “Thank you, General.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Thompson began marching towards the General, his mind was void of all rationality, and he was closing the gap between them, ready to let loose any bad ideas. Clarke, being the faster of the two, quickly grabbed

  Thompson, stopping him from doing anything drastic. Tippen never moved a muscle.

  “Let go Clarke!” Thompson said, struggling against the man's grip. In trying to free himself of Clarkes hold, Thompsons glasses flew off and clattered to the ground.

  Thompson eased his struggle and leaned over the railing in front of his desk. Looking over the crowd he singled to a random face with a desperate hand. “You! Officer.” Those that were bunched around Thompsons chosen officer moved away to ensure that they were avoidant of the Colonel’s spotlight.

  Thompson asked the man. “How many astronauts were sent on the Apollo-22?”

  The officer felt a twinge of fear in his chest. Unclenching his teeth from the inside of his lip, he let out, “Four, sir.”

  Thompson grinded his back teeth. He made another selection, this time to someone closer to the wall. “You! How many were on the 22?” She looked sheepishly around her hoping that he was pointing to someone else; she was pushed slightly forward.

  “How many!” He rushed her.

  “Four!” She shouted.

  Thompson began a rapid fire questioning of different officers and analysts, begging them to answer. And answer they did. Some were nervous, some were tired, and some were impatient and answered before Thompson could ask. But each one mimicked their priors, unanimously agreeing on four astronauts being sent.

  Before Thompson could further his crusade to ask again, Clarke stopped him. “Sir please. You’re not thinking clearly!” He begged the Colonel.

  Thompson eased his struggle, letting the Officer sit him down. Clarke picked up the Colonel's wire frame glasses and handed them to his superior. Thompson grabbed the frames and reapplied their position. Neither man said anything. They couldn’t even look at each other.

  As Thompson sat catching his breath, he turned to Hawley, who had been mouse quiet throughout the engagement. “Hawley. Do you believe me?”

  She stared at the old man. His clothes had been ruffled and scrunched up against his aged body, sweat had darkened his armpits, and his thin tidy hair had become bedraggled. If she had not known him, she’d have thought he was some crazed man who would have tried to peddle fortunes.

  She said as kindly as she could. “I believe that you believe. I can’t change your mind but I’m sorry sir. I don’t know who you’re talking about.” She gave him a small smile to reassure him. It did not work.

  Thompson pinched the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat. His knees ached, his arms were sore and his voice had developed a small rasp, he was on the verge of collapse. Wiping away built up crust from the corners of his eyes, he turned around towards the computer. The flickering lights of the monitor screen danced across his glasses, he racked his brain for anything certain. He thought of the recorded bridge walk, when the 3 man crew first boarded the ship.

  Clarke and Tippen began ushering the group of people outside before the Colonel began another sermon of attestation.

  “Wait!” He shouted. “The security feed. When the shuttle launched, it showed three and only three astronauts!”

  Clarke and Tippen exchanged glances, mostly of pity. The General gestured for Clarke to speak. The Officer stepped forward, “Sir, we can’t keep doing this.”

  Thompson pushed through the sharp pain in his legs and stood. “We all watched the footage earlier, correct?”

  Clarke sighed, “Yes sir, we did.”

  “Then there’s nothing wrong with watching it again, Officer.”

  Clarke understood Thompsons subtle rank pull. “Fine, Colonel. If you think it’ll help.”

  Thompson knew that this wouldn’t be enough. Not enough to prove his point completely and certainly not enough to convince others. But he could stall, although what he was stalling for, he didn’t know. But if the footage could still show three, then perhaps that would be enough to sow a seed of doubt in those less confident, of that he was confident. And perhaps that could be enough. Faking a few more key presses, Thompson pulled up the recording of the launch, which felt like another lifetime ago.

  As the video played, Thompson counted to himself the number of suits that walked along the high rise bridge. He counted one, then another, then another. And Thompsons hope against hope that there would not be any more figures was unfulfilled, as a fourth spacesuit entered the frame, trailing the other three and entered the shuttle, closing the door behind them.

  Thompson was silent. He stared forward, the screen flicked off but still he gazed. The only sound coming from the Colonel was his breathing.

  Clarke looked back at his fellow Officers, they had more pity for the Colonel than Clarke would have liked, but it was hard not to feel sorry for the old man. The level of determination that the Colonel had shown in trying to prove something to a crowd that wouldn’t listen was admirable. Clarke thought of the years they had spent together, working to make sure that above all else, an advancement was made. Even if a shuttle failed to launch or if a rover or satellite had broken, there was always something they could learn and apply. Furthermore, the amount of effort and trust that was put in the institutions of the inner workings of NASA was close to religion as Clarke would ever place himself. Now that he looked at the sad old man, who stood atop his high station alone with a blank stare at a blank screen, Clarke wondered what he could learn today. At the very least, Clarke thought, maybe he’d get a promotion out of it.

  Clarke faced the crowd and continued his herding out the door. Gesturing his arms like a crossing guard, making a smooth flow of human traffic. “Alright people, let's try to move everyone out of here in an orderly fashion, we got families on the way, so try not to cause any unnecessary panic.”

  Thompson snapped his head to the door. “Families? What families?”

  Clarke craned his head back to look at the Directors station without breaking his process. “The families of the astronauts, they’re coming to welcome them home.”

  ”What?” He regained his composure. “Why are they coming here? This area isn’t safe, I didn’t authorize this.”

  “I did.” Said Tippen, stepping in before Clarke could answer. “I felt it would be a nice gesture to let the astronauts see their families sooner rather than later.”

  Thompson was aghast. He knew the General was the only one other than him that truly understood the threat they faced. “Why?” His voice was shaky, “Why would you allow that? It’s too dangerous with that thing out there.”

  Tippen wiped a few beads of sweat off his forehead. “Colonel, because of your obsession with your perceived alien threat, I don’t think you are in a proper state of mind to continue leading this operation.”

  Thompsons eyes widened at this accusation. “I am not crazy! I know what's out there, you know what's out there. Tell them dammit!”

  Tipped turned to the crowd. “Does anyone here agree with Colonel Thompson's claim?” The officers shook their heads ‘no’.

  Tippen asked further. “Does anyone have any objections to Clarke being put in charge? Temporarily of course.”

  No one said anything in defense of Thompson. Among them were whispers of Thompson being put on leave, some even believed he’d be forced into retirement.

  Tippen scanned the crowd for any dissenters, of which he found none. “Well, if that settles it. Clarke, what are your orders?”

  Clarke looked back at Thompson who stood alone at his desk, silently pleading with his eyes. He turned away. “Please keep moving in an orderly fashion. We’re gonna try to get you all home as soon as possible.”

  The river of heads moved on down the halls. Thompson shouted for them to stop, but his words were ignored. He eventually began begging for them to stop, but he was only met with a few pitied looks back.

  “Please! Stop! Come Back! That’s an order! COME BACK!” His words fell on deaf ears. Hawley was the last to go. It pained her to see Thompson so low, so broken.

  “Hawley… please.”

  “I’m sorry Colonel. But I want to go home.” With that, she exited the room, Clarke and Tippen followed close behind.

  Thompson was left with nothing, no officers, no proof, no one, nothing. Castaway in a sea of desks and loose paper. He considered calling for backup, but he had no one to call. He paced around the top level of the room, his feet scraping the ground as he shuffled to and fro. Thompson was alone. He looked back to the screen, just on the other side were the astronauts. Just on the other side was the imitation. His interrogations didn’t work, their files were useless, and even his own memory couldn’t be trusted.

  A deep feeling penetrated his heart. It wasn’t a notion of pain or sadness, or some diagnosable form of insanity, as Thompson would put it. It was failure. Total, absolute, failure. Rarely had Thompson felt this sensation. It wasn’t new, but it wasn’t familiar either. He always had something to fall back on, some form of safety net to keep him going. But there was no net, no failsafe. All he could do was sulk. He wanted to get angry, to yell and release his frustrations, but he couldn’t quite get it out. If he couldn’t summon the strength to feel fury, then what else was there to do but rot.

  Thompson stared at the monitor. He had no plan, he had no rage, and he had nothing to lose. Drastic times, he thought to himself. He put on his headset and flicked on his computer. Making a drastic decision, he called the shuttle. This was his operation, and will end on his terms, no matter how many people he would drag down with him.