The OrionX psychiatric evaluation facility occupied a quiet corner of the medical wing, designed with the kind of calculated serenity that was supposed to make people feel comfortable while trained professionals probed the darkest corners of their minds. Dr. Sienna Vale had furnished her office with soft lighting, earth-tone colors, and carefully chosen artwork that suggested stability without being aggressively cheerful. The effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that everyone who entered knew they were being evaluated for psychological fitness to work on humanity's most expensive space mission.
Emory Thorne sat in the patient chair like a man who had learned to occupy as little space as possible, his hands folded in his lap and his attention focused on a point somewhere beyond Dr. Vale's left shoulder. At forty-three, he looked older—the kind of premature aging that came from carrying weight that had nothing to do with gravity and everything to do with memories that refused to fade.
"How are you sleeping, Emory?" Dr. Vale asked, consulting the tablet that contained his file and probably more information about his psychological state than he remembered sharing.
"Fine," Emory replied, which was both true and completely inadequate. He slept fine when he slept, but the sleeping part had become complicated by dreams that felt more real than reality and a tendency to wake up at 3:17 AM with the taste of recycled air in his mouth.
"The employee wellness program shows you've been working late shifts consistently for the past three weeks. Technical support supervisors are usually daytime positions."
"I prefer the quiet."
Dr. Vale made a note, and Emory wondered what psychological insight she was recording. That he was antisocial? That he had issues with authority? That he preferred the graveyard shift because it meant fewer people around to notice when he talked to himself?
"Tell me about the Titan project," Dr. Vale said, and Emory felt his careful composure crack like ice under pressure.
"Which part?"
"The part you think about at 3 AM."
The directness caught him off guard. Most people, when they asked about Titan, wanted to hear about the technical achievements, the breakthrough discoveries, the way they'd pushed human exploration deeper into the solar system than ever before. They didn't want to hear about what it felt like to watch your crewmates die because someone made a decision that prioritized data collection over human safety.
"Titan was seven years ago," Emory said carefully.
"Seven years, four months, and sixteen days," Dr. Vale corrected. "You were the mission systems analyst on the first manned landing on Saturn's largest moon. The mission was considered a complete success until the return launch failure."
"Three people died."
"Three people died because of a manufacturing defect in the ascent module that had nothing to do with any decisions you made." Dr. Vale leaned forward slightly. "But you don't believe that, do you?"
Emory looked at her directly for the first time since entering the office. Dr. Vale was younger than he'd expected, probably mid-thirties, with the kind of alert intelligence that came from genuine curiosity about how human minds broke and whether they could be repaired.
"I was responsible for systems integration," he said. "Every component that went onto that ship passed through my review. Every calculation, every backup protocol, every emergency procedure."
"And you found no evidence of the manufacturing defect during your review because it was a flaw in molecular-level materials bonding that wouldn't have been detectable with standard testing procedures."
"I should have insisted on more comprehensive testing."
"Which would have delayed the mission by eighteen months and cost an additional two billion dollars for testing protocols that might not have detected the problem anyway." Dr. Vale consulted her tablet again. "Emory, what would you have done differently if you knew then what you know now?"
The question was both simple and impossible. Emory had been asking himself variations of it for seven years, four months, and sixteen days, and he still didn't have an answer that didn't end with three of his friends being alive.
"I would have said no," he said finally. "When they asked me to approve the launch window, when they said the testing was sufficient, when they said acceptable risk levels had been met. I would have said no."
"Even though that decision would have been wrong? Even though additional testing wouldn't have prevented the failure?"
"Even though."
Dr. Vale made another note, and Emory wondered if she understood that being wrong and being alive was better than being right and being dead. Or in his case, being right and being responsible for other people being dead.
"Why did you request assignment to the Saturn probe project?"
The question felt like a trap, though Emory couldn't figure out what kind. He'd applied for the OrionX position six months ago, when they were still in the early design phases and looking for experienced systems analysts who understood deep space missions.
"I have relevant experience."
"You have traumatic experience with missions to the Saturn system that resulted in multiple fatalities. Most people would consider that a reason to avoid similar projects."
"Most people weren't there."
"And you were. Which gives you perspective that could be valuable or psychological baggage that could be dangerous." Dr. Vale set down her tablet and studied him with the kind of clinical attention that made Emory feel like a specimen under a microscope. "Which is it, Emory?"
"Both."
The honesty surprised him. For years, he'd been giving carefully constructed answers to psychological evaluations, providing the responses that would keep him employed and functional and useful. But something about Dr. Vale's directness made deception feel more exhausting than truth.
"Tell me about the dreams."
Emory felt his pulse spike. He hadn't mentioned dreams in any of his written evaluations, and he was certain he hadn't discussed them with anyone at OrionX. The fact that she knew about them suggested either very good psychological intuition or access to information he hadn't knowingly provided.
"What dreams?"
"The ones that wake you up at 3:17 AM. The ones that make you prefer night shifts when you don't have to interact with people who remind you of the crew you lost. The ones where you're back on Titan, trying to fix problems that can't be fixed."
Each word felt like a precision strike against defenses he'd spent years constructing. Emory found himself remembering the taste of fear, the sound of alarms, the way Commander Sarah Chen had looked at him in those final moments when she realized the ascent module wasn't going to make orbit.
"They're just dreams," he said, though his voice sounded unconvincing even to himself.
"Dreams that make you question every safety protocol for the Saturn probe. Dreams that make you wonder if you're watching history repeat itself. Dreams that make you think about taking action to prevent another disaster."
The last words hit like atmospheric decompression, sudden and devastating. Emory stared at Dr. Vale, realizing that this wasn't a routine psychological evaluation—it was an investigation.
"What kind of action?"
"That's what I'm hoping you'll tell me." Dr. Vale picked up her tablet again, and Emory saw that she was recording their conversation. "Emory, did you make any modifications to the mission simulation software?"
The question hung between them like a live explosive. Emory thought about the late nights he'd spent in the technical systems lab, the access codes he still maintained from his previous clearance levels, the elegant simplicity of the changes he'd made to the gravitational modeling subroutines.
"Yes," he said, and felt seven years of careful psychological reconstruction collapse like a failed life support system.
"Why?"
"Because the probe is going to fail," Emory said, and for the first time in months, he felt like he was telling the complete truth. "Because they're making the same mistakes they made with Titan, cutting corners and accepting risks that they don't understand. Because in thirty-five days, Eli Drake is going to send a three-billion-dollar probe into Saturn's gravity well, and it's going to suffer the same kind of catastrophic failure that killed my crew."
"Based on what evidence?"
"Based on the fact that they're using similar materials, similar system architectures, and similar risk assessment protocols. Based on the fact that they're so focused on the scientific achievement that they're ignoring the engineering realities." Emory stood up, pacing to the window that looked out over the launch complex. "Based on the fact that I've been watching Eli Drake make the same decisions that got my friends killed."
Dr. Vale was quiet for a long moment, and Emory could hear the soft clicking of her tablet as she made notes that would probably end his career and possibly result in criminal charges.
"What did you think the simulation failure would accomplish?"
"I thought it would force them to take a closer look at their systems integration. I thought it would make them question their assumptions and run more comprehensive testing." Emory turned back to face her. "I thought it would save lives."
"By sabotaging a mission that represents humanity's best chance to understand one of the most dangerous regions of the solar system?"
"By preventing a repeat of the worst disaster in the history of human space exploration."
Dr. Vale saved her notes and closed the tablet with the finality of someone reaching the end of a difficult conversation.
"Emory, I'm going to recommend that you be placed on administrative leave pending a full security investigation. I'm also going to recommend that you begin intensive psychological counseling to address the trauma you've been carrying from the Titan mission."
"And the probe?"
"The probe will launch on schedule, with systems that have been verified and re-verified by people who understand the differences between Titan and Saturn, between 2018 technology and 2025 engineering capabilities." Dr. Vale stood, signaling the end of the evaluation. "I hope you understand that what you've done, however well-intentioned, represents a serious breach of security and professional ethics."
Emory nodded, feeling oddly relieved that the pretense was finally over. For seven years, he'd been carrying the weight of decisions that had killed people he cared about. Now, at least, he'd tried to prevent history from repeating itself, even if the effort had failed.
"Dr. Vale?"
"Yes?"
"When the probe fails, when Eli Drake has to explain to the world why three billion dollars of engineering just disappeared into Saturn's gravity well, remember that someone tried to warn you."
He left the psychiatric wing feeling lighter than he had in years, knowing that his career was over but his conscience was finally clear. Behind him, Dr. Vale reached for her phone to make calls that would set in motion investigations, security reviews, and the kind of institutional response that happened when someone decided to play guardian angel with other people's billion-dollar dreams.
The countdown clock in the lobby showed thirty-five days, seven hours, and twelve minutes until launch. Time enough for the system to process his warning, or time enough for him to watch everything he'd tried to prevent happen exactly as he'd feared.