We knew Mir would join us eventually. Since 1986 she’d been pirouetting in orbit, showing off shiny new instruments, while we sank forgotten into sediment. Her fall from grace was characteristically overdramatic, blazing over Fiji while crowds craned their necks and pointed skywards. Our long-dead circuits tingled as we peered up through the Pacific. She ripped through the water like a meteor, scattering smaller satellites and frightening the crabs that comfort us in the dark. But since the ocean swallowed her fire, she’s no better than any of us. Salt corrodes her panels. Barnacles cling to her core.
Hannah Whiteoak lives and writes in Sheffield, UK. Her work has appeared in Ellipsis Zine, Ember, Microfiction Monday Magazine, and Asymmetry Fiction. She tweets as @hannahwhiteoak