It happened because Anwen touched the panel.
She had gone to the console beside the transmitter to look at its power feed, because she wanted to know how the station’s systems were still running after so long dark. The panel’s face had a crack across it, a long seam where the casing had split, perhaps when the lamp failed, perhaps since. Anwen laid her gloved hand flat on the casing beside the seam, the way she laid her hand on a forge’s housing to feel its heat.
A spark jumped from the torn seam to her glove. Blue, quick, with a snap Mara heard through her helmet.
Anwen pulled her hand back.
And the light on the console gathered.
It came up out of the screens. All of them, around the hub’s wall: the grey-green glow of the old displays drew together, flowing across the surfaces toward the console where Anwen stood, pooling above it. It rose. It took a shape. A column of pale light, the height of a person, standing above the console’s surface as if on a step.
Then it was a woman.
She was in work clothes. A long coat of some heavy fabric, belted, with pockets. Trousers tucked into boots. Her hair was cut short and grey at the temples. Her face was lined, sharp, not young, not old, with a mouth that looked as if it had spent a long time deciding what to say and then saying less of it. The projection was…
