Poor Anton, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to torture you soon. You’ve cheated on your husband and lied to your mistress, and now both lovers think the worst of you. Quite awkward, really, considering you’re all stuck up there in the void of space huddled inside what is essentially a glorified tin can. What’ll we do with you? (I’m getting a little sadistic here.)

I got it, we’ll tackle your masculinity, or really just take it away. Your two lovers feel quite humiliated at the moment. The goddess Arianrhod was humiliated once, accidentally giving birth in front of an entire court. She soon put a stop to that however. What does one do when a baby or two accidentally pops out in public? How does she handle that embarrassment? Punish the child, naturally. He should have stayed in there until she was somewhere a bit more private. Curse him, Arianrhod. Take away his name, his fighting abilities, and any change of love. That will show him, tiny offender. So, Anton, now it’s your turn. “Chief Flight Engineer,” you say? Not anymore. Let’s strip you of your title. Mission Specialist McCune—your husband—has just been promoted to Chief Mission Engineer. And your weapons, your tools? That robonaut project you’ve been working so hard on? In suspense. There are more important objectives anyway than just playing with ourselves. (Not that you can play with yourself, or your two ex-lovers, anyway, what with the blood flow problem in a micro gravity environment, hah!)

And as for your chances of love, oh Anton, I think you’ve already blown that one yourself.