On board the St. Laurentia bound for (24475) Ada IV Jokim. 10 days to destination.

Locked inside a steel confessional on a Vatican spaceship left Natan with a lot of time for prayer. He prayed for the souls of the dead. He prayed for the souls of the living. He prayed for the dying and the damned, and for every man who had ever been found wanton or wanting in the face of the Lord.

But most of all, he prayed for a goddamned cigarette.

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Rich incense leaked through the fleur-de-lis grating of the confessional and Latin hymns rang softly in baritone voices from speakers concealed in the steel ceiling vaults of the St. Laurentia’s on-board Chapel.

Lit only by candlelight and the glow of neon halos positioned behind the reproductions of 17th century statues, the metallic walls of the cathedral-esque space looked to be reflecting a thousand midnight car accidents.

Natan slipped his fingers into the metal grating and shook the door in frustration, rattling the latch against the lock on the other side.

“Shit.” Natan leaned his head back against the cool confessional wall and tried to remember the last time one of his prayers had been answered.