After Howard's betrayal and Clyde's death, our small group had grown even smaller. Only seven of us remained, and we had split into three teams: Stanley and Kyla, with the help of two drones, were sorting through the vegetable warehouse; Sarah and I were organizing the dry goods and supply warehouses; Baz, as an energy supply specialist, was running power to the ATLAS, with Emily assisting him.

  We needed not only to restore the charge of the batteries but also to connect the vehicle's systems to a constant power supply to activate the heaters—otherwise, the delicate electronic systems could fail in the increasingly severe cold. We also wanted to restart the "SOS" system to learn what was happening on the planet.

  Outside, temperatures had reached levels I had never experienced in my life. Some days, the thermometer dropped to minus forty-five and even fifty degrees, accompanied by such a freezing, sticky fog that even during the day we had to find our way to the ATLAS by touch, clinging to a cable we had prudently strung.

  Thus passed December. And in early January, Baz finally reported that the batteries were fully charged.

  For such a momentous occasion, I went up to the surface with Baz and Emily. Despite the continuously operating heating system, the temperature in the cabin barely rose above twenty degrees. The metal parts of the seats were icy to the touch. But for the instruments, this temperature was quite comfortable, so we activated the ATLAS's systems.

  With a sinking heart, I launched the self-diagnostic system and watched with relief as green readiness indicators appeared on the screen. Then we activated the "SOS" system. Within the first minute, we saw flickering signals on the screen.

  "Excellent!" Baz rejoiced. "It turns out we're not the only survivors!"

  In a burst of joy, Emily rushed to Baz and gently pressed herself against him, and at that moment I understood that even the harshest conditions we found ourselves in could not stifle that attractive feeling called love.

  "Go ahead, Baz, we need to respond!" I commanded and turned on the ATLAS's transmitting antenna.

  About ten minutes later, a message flickered on our screen:

  "The Chinese International Orbital Station 'Tiangong' has lost contact with the People's Republic of China. Power reserves exhausted. Attempting independent landing on Earth. Request temporary shelter in any country where we manage to land."

  "Chinese!" Baz waved his hand in disappointment. "Giving shelter to those who destroyed the planet—that's a crime, in my opinion..."

  I put my arm around Baz's shoulders like a son.

  "No, my dear, you're wrong there. There are apparently so few of us left on Earth that refusing help to any living being today would be a crime..."

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  And I began transmitting our coordinates. I don't know if my decision was wise, but I couldn't have done otherwise.

  We turned on the emergency lights and radio beacon. After several hours of waiting, a roar was heard in the sky—a familiar, low rumble of liquid rocket engines, which we hadn't heard since the day of the catastrophe. From the low, leaden clouds, a reusable space shuttle emerged, resembling an enlarged "Shenzhou" with attached cargo and living modules. Powerful landing spotlights illuminated the mountain slopes, kicking up clouds of reddish dust and ash.

  The ship performed a controlled vertical landing onto its landing struts on a flat area at the very base of the mountain.

  Taking Baz with me, we quickly gathered flashlights and weapons and began the long descent down. Several hours later, picking our way along icy cliffs, we finally approached it. The shuttle stood almost level on its struts, hissing as it vented residual pressure and cooled its engines, releasing white clouds of nitrogen vapor into the atmosphere.

  Of the shuttle's two modules, only one had its landing lights glowing—this was obviously the habitable compartment. A characteristic click and hiss of an airlock unlocking sounded, and the door slid aside. A folding aluminum alloy ladder automatically extended downward. But no one appeared in the doorway.

  "Something's wrong," Baz muttered, instinctively gripping his shotgun.

  "Stay here," I said and slowly climbed the ladder.

  Inside the descent module, it was quiet and cold. Four seats, resembling modernized airplane seats, were empty. Control panels with touch screens and glowing switches flickered in standard mode. The radio station with its ordinary flat monitor was working, but dead silence came from the speakers, interrupted only by the hiss of static from empty airwaves.

  I opened the heavy hatch to the living compartment. Right on the floor, on the non-slip surface, lay a man in a blue jumpsuit with the emblem of the China National Space Administration (CNSA). He stirred weakly, opened clouded eyes, and closed them again.

  I dragged him to the wall and saw a second man. A gray-haired man in the same jumpsuit sat leaning against the control panel, his head resting limply on the console. Nearby lay a partially removed "Feitian" type spacesuit. I checked his pulse—there was none. The body was cold and stiff.

  The third crew member had apparently died long ago, probably still on the station. His body was neatly wrapped in silvery thermal insulation material and secured with straps under the ladder.

  In the adjacent cargo module, I found open cabinets with space food. All containers marked "food" were empty. Only empty, crumpled packages from freeze-dried noodles, rice, and compote littered the floor, like sad witnesses to a long agony of hunger.

  I descended and called Baz. Together, carefully, almost carrying him, we brought out the surviving astronaut. He was young, with a gaunt face and a small, uneven beard. His complete helplessness touched even the unyielding Baz.

  He quickly uncapped a flask of whiskey we had prudently brought for the long descent and began giving him small sips. Gradually, a faint flush appeared on the astronaut's cheeks. He opened his eyes.

  "What... what happened to the planet?" he whispered barely audibly, his gaze full of incomprehension and horror.

  "We'd like to know that ourselves," I answered honestly. "Weren't you... Weren't you warned about the nuclear attack on the USA?"

  He shook his head weakly, barely noticeably.

  "What's your name?" I asked gently.

  "Zhang... Zhang Wei," he breathed out.

  The return trip with the exhausted astronaut took us the rest of the day. Tired and frozen, we reached the ATLAS when, according to my watch, it was already deep night.

  Seeing the man barely able to stand, weakened from prolonged hunger, Emily immediately sprang into action. She quickly heated water in the cargo bay, found an unopened package of artificial honey, and added it to the warm water. Then she began carefully feeding the astronaut with a spoon, her movements astonishingly gentle.

  When, having eaten, the astronaut fell into a heavy, almost unconscious sleep on the folded jackets, I was about to send Emily to the shelter for Sarah when suddenly the emergency beacon screen abruptly came to life. A scrolling message in English began to flow across it, duplicated in several other languages, including Chinese:

  "ATTENTION! TO ALL SURVIVORS!

  IMMEDIATELY REPORT YOUR COORDINATES FOR THE PROVISION OF NECESSARY ASSISTANCE.

  PRESIDENT DIXON. OUR COORDINATES: ....

  ATTENTION! REPEATING..."

  The message repeated cyclically, lifelessly and persistently, like the signal of a metronome in an empty room. Baz, Emily, and I silently watched the flickering letters. In the cabin, only the steady hum of the ATLAS's systems and the heavy, uneven breathing of the sleeping Chinese man could be heard.

  I looked at Baz. In his eyes, reflecting the green light of the screen, I read the same question that was circling in my mind: could this be our salvation?