Renae watched her dream company kill one hundred and forty-seven people on live television.
Her phone buzzed off the table and clattered to the floor. It spun against the baseboard, Mom’s name glowing on the screen. Calling to share what they had both already seen.
On the TV, the news anchor cleared his throat and tried to get through his line, voice still quivering.
“—this footage was captured moments before signal loss. We are replaying the telemetry from Deimos II’s departure burn. Viewers are advised the following may be disturbing.”
Deimos II filled the frame. A faint glint of sunlight touched the automated guidance fins. The ship had completed its mission successfully, delivering civilian specialists and months of supplies to the Mars surface habitats. A perfect run. Textbook.
The main engines ignited.
In the background, mission control chatter bled through. Calm voices. Numbers. A countdown marking the beginning of the journey home.
Then a flicker.
A flash from the aft section, bright enough to white out the feed. When the image returned, the aft section was gone. The hull peeled back like paper, metal fragmenting into a cloud of debris. What remained of Deimos II streaked through the Martian sky like falling stars.
Her knees forgot how to lock. The couch caught her.
Twice now. She’d seen it twice. The first time, she had hoped, prayed, that it was some bizarre dream. Too little sleep playing tricks on her mind.
“—the debris arc intersected with Mars’s gravity well, impacting multiple points along the surface. Preliminary reports confirm structural damage to Habitat Sectors Three and Four. Life-support modules have been compromised, and other habitat emergency shelters were activated. Analysts warn survival prospects depend on oxygen retention and internal power—”
A diagram of Mars rotated slowly. Yellow dots blinked over the habitats. Then red. Then flashing red.
Freshman year, she’d had a poster of those habitat modules above her desk. Every airlock layout memorized, every support strut, every detail. She could still draw them from memory.
And now she was watching them die.
The footage cut to one of the modules. Debris streaked toward it. Almost beautiful. Right until the feed cut out.
The anchor pressed on, professionalism stretched thin.
“Rescue coordination centers from ESA and NASA are working to confirm whether personnel reached emergency shelters. Given the time of the impact and the documented oxygen reserves, analysts believe the next twenty-four hours will be critical—”
The crawl at the bottom scrolled past:
STELLARFORGE SHARES DOWN 33% 
CELESTIAL HORIZONS SUSPENDS MARS PROGRAM 
NEWSPACE ANNOUNCES “RESTRUCTURING” AND LAYOFFS
Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.
Buzzed again.
She looked down. Email notification.
StellarForge Industries – Employment Offer Status
She knew what it would say before she opened it. Knew it in her bones.
Dear Ms. Swain,
Due to circumstances beyond our control, StellarForge Industries must rescind our employment offer dated March 18 of this year. Per the contingency clause outlined in section 7.3 of your offer letter, this rescission is effective immediately.
She’d had the job for a week. One week of hope. She kept reading.
We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Sincerely, StellarForge Human Resources
The words blurred together.
Future endeavors.
What future? What endeavors?