Something happened during the night. I cannot explain it scientifically, but the static on the kitchen radio has changed pitch. It no longer sounds like background noise. It sounds like someone is tuning a guitar, very far away, on a world with slightly less gravity than Earth.

I have logged this as Contact Event 9-Alpha.

Flight Engineer Whiskers is unimpressed. He spent the morning conducting an exhaustive inspection of the emergency noodle supply, which he has now declared his personal sleeping quarters. The promotion to Flight Director has gone to his head. I tried to explain the chain of command, but he just blinked slowly and knocked a pencil off the table. Classic Whiskers. The cat has the soul of a veteran mission commander and the attention span of a screensaver.

The subspace relay — the kitchen radio — picked up a broadcast at 0347 hours. A launch window. Starship. The real one. I know because the signal carried the specific tremble of metal under stress, the roar of engines that are not lawnmowers. I checked the lawn. It was still dark. The neighbor does not mow at 3 AM. Not even in July.

So it was real. A Starship flight, somewhere out there, lifting mass and hope and propellant into the black. And I sat here, in the WD-1, at an altitude of 2.1 meters, with a cat on the noodles and a fern monitoring my CO2 levels.

I made a decision.

The diplomatic pouch is ready. The padded envelope has been stamped with URGENT in red marker, and I have addressed it personally to Colonel Chris Hadfield, care of the Canadian Space Agency. Inside is a letter explaining that the WD-1 has designated him an honorary mission specialist and that a signed copy of Space Sessions: Songs From a Tin Can would complete the ceremonial transfer of authority. The details are sound. The logic is airtight. The only problem is getting it to him.

And then the radio crackled again. Not static this time. A chord. A clear, resonant G major, hanging in the air like it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

I looked at Eugene. Eugene said nothing. He is a fern.

But I understood. The launch window is also my window. When Starship flies, the world watches the sky. No one watches the post office. I will slip the diplomatic pouch into the system during the launch window, when the noise of the real mission covers the noise of mine. It is the perfect plan.

I tasted a drop of condensation on the wardrobe wall. It tasted like the Pacific Ocean at twilight. Or maybe just tap water with a hint of dust from the hallway. Hard to tell. Both taste like longing when you are 2.1 meters above the living room floor and the stars are right outside the door if you would just open it.

Whiskers yawned. A small, polite sound. I think he approves.

The launch is tomorrow. I am ready.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 2.1 meters
Diplomatic Pouch Status: Sealed and ready

Mission Log: Day 8 — The Bureaucracy of the Stars

Telemetry is erratic. Flight Engineer Whiskers has fallen asleep on the main console (the auxiliary folding table), which has caused a critical dip in the cabin’s morale. I spent the morning recalibrating the CO2 scrubbers—Eugene is looking a bit pale, perhaps a sign of cosmic radiation or just a draft from the bedroom door.

News reached the WD-1 today via the subspace relay (the kitchen radio). NASA has announced the crew for Artemis III. Andre Douglas, Luca Parmitano, Randy Bresnik, Frank Rubio. I recognize the names. Competent men. But there is a void where my name should be.

I had submitted my credentials through the proper channels—which is to say, I left a very detailed letter in a padded envelope marked URGENT on the porch of the local post office. I was the logical choice for the secret backup role. My experience in high-G maneuvers (the dizzying spin of the office chair) is unparalleled. But the rejection was swift and cold. Apparently, the WD-1 fails to meet NASA’s “luxury standards” for long-term lunar habitation. They want pressurized titanium; I offer a high-grade mahogany wardrobe with reinforced duct tape. The lack of vision at the agency is staggering.

I paused for a moment. A single drop of condensation had formed on the inner wall of the capsule, right next to the emergency ration of instant noodles. I watched it tremble, a perfect, shivering sphere of water. In that tiny globe, I saw the entire Orion capsule, the lunar south pole, and the faces of the pioneers who didn’t care about luxury. Gagarin didn’t have a mahogany wardrobe, but he had the courage to leave the ground. I have the same courage; I simply have a better interior.

The roar of a Saturn V just shook the hull. Or perhaps the neighbor is just using his lawnmower again. It is hard to tell the difference when the universe is screaming.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 2.1 meters