ISS: Science Power Platform

Science Power Platform One of the 180GK configurations explored in the 1980s. Image: RKK Energia Science Power Platform: the ISS’s cancelled power module by Maks Skiendzielewski Monday, April 27, 2026 The Science Power Platform is a name many station enthusiasts have heard, but it’s one for which it is surprisingly hard to find a detailed description. Before the name disappeared from International Space Station planning documents and “Assembly Complete” illustrations in the late 1990s, the module it represented was a key element of the station’s Russian Orbital Segment and a vital part of the accelerated assembly sequence that convinced the US to push ahead with the international project at full steam. In the end, the SPP was not as necessary as initially thought and, after suffering from a wave of funding cuts that plagued the Russian program in the ’90s and a series of redesigns that aimed to simplify the module while maximizing its utility, it was ultimately quietly dropped from the launch manifest. Though it may at first glance look like it had been thrown together from parts laying around at the RKK Energia facilities like a number of other esoteric unflown ISS modules (looking at you, Enterprise!), it was actually a direct derivative of hardware designed for the Mir-2 station and, in a bizarre twist, parts of it did end up flying to the ISS—on the Space Shuttle. So, how did it all come to be? Power-starved and hot Almost as soon as the Mir space station started taking shape in orbit, it became clear that one of the major factors limiting the station’s science output and productivity would be the available electrical energy. By the time of Mir’s demise in 2001, the orbital complex had become covered by a forest of solar arrays of different shapes, sizes and origins sticking out from every module. While the station’s base block launched with a pair of solar arrays—more efficient and bigger than the ones on its immediate Salyut predecessors—they were quickly joined by a third array installed during a spacewalk. The Kvant-2 and Kristall modules both launched with two large arrays each and after Spektr was redesigned to house American equipment it sprouted a third and a fourth array. Even Kvant, the first, stubby expansion module, had been retrofitted in orbit with two solar arrays, brought to the station together with the Mir Docking Module. Priroda was the only “proper” module not to have power generation capability, though this is partly because the single solar array originally assigned to it flew with the Docking Module (which was more of a dongle than a true module, frankly) and was deployed on Kvant. Thermal management too was significant problem for Mir. During the mid-1990s Shuttle-Mir missions, where the station had to host the Shuttle crews in addition to the normal expeditions and visiting crews, the onboard systems seriously struggled with the extra heat generated by the new arrivals from Florida. With that in mind, a follow up to the world’s first modular station would clearly benefit from a new way to deal with electric power and excess heat. NPO Energia’s 180GK Work on a successor to the Mir space station began at NPO Energia in 1984 and intensified after the Mir core module was successfully launched in February 1986. NPO Energia’s internal space station project, designated 180GK, was based on 100-tonne modules and a massive truss structure to be launched on the superheavy Energia launcher and would accommodate up to 12 crew, but remained a “paper project” until further development of the concept was officially approved in 1989—though in January 1988 it had already been announced to the media under the Mir-2 name. Large solar arrays or novel parabolic concentrators attached to the truss structure—the latter pursued at the time by both NASA and the Soviets due to their smaller size for the same power output than photovoltaic arrays—would provide plenty of electrical power for the experiments aboard the station and generously sized radiators would ensure heat rejection headroom. Another benefit of the truss structure was the additional space inside the pressurized modules, freed up by moving a large chunk of the science hardware outside, with as many as 12 large experiment platforms on the truss. But one more possible reason for designing the station with a large truss could have been the desire to maintain parity in vanity with the American Space Station Freedom, which at the time was also designed around a massive truss structure. Whatever the true reason was, Freedom was most certainly at the back of the Soviet designers’ minds. Sometime in 1991 the 180GK design was abandoned due to delays and budget cuts and the focus shifted to a more modest design, based on the structural spare of the Mir core module and similar in structure to the Mir station. The core module backup, designated DOS-8, was built almost in parallel with the DOS-7 primary article in case DOS-7 was lost during launch or shortly after separation, but at further stages of assembly all work shifted to the primary to prepare it for launch. DOS-8 was left on standby partially complete, ready to be quickly built up to the same spec as DOS-7 or to a modified design. By 1992 the plan had shifted to building a new station using DOS-8 with a handful of research modules clustered around the core, but this time supplemented by a truss. The station reused the Mir-2 name and from this point its configuration evolved continually until the project’s eventual merger with (or maybe absorption by) Space Station Freedom to form the International Space Station. Ur-Platform At the center of the new Mir-2 design (designated 27KSM) was the DOS-8 core module with a crossbar truss named the Science-Power Platform (SPP) attached to its side and outfitted with retractable solar arrays at one end and a parabolic solar concentrator at the other, as well as radiators, experiment platforms, and control thruster packs. In this initial mid-1992 design, the SPP’s structure was to be a scaled-up version of the experimental Sofora truss deployed from Mir’s Kvant module by Anatoly Artsebarsky and Sergey Krikalev in July 1991. A special fixture was used to build Sofora. It held a square frame with a hole at each corner; the pins of four hinged V-shaped tubular aluminum elements were inserted through the holes into the sockets of the previous segment’s elements. Then, the fixture heated up the sockets, which, fitted with shape-memory alloy sleeves, contracted around the joint. The truss was moved one segment forward in the fixture and the process was repeated. Flat-packed elements of the Science Power Platform would be flown to the station onboard Progress-M cargo ships and assembled by cosmonauts in orbit, though an alternative option was considered where the pre-assembled SPP would be launched on one or two Buran flights. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform Mid-1992 configuration of Mir-2 with the in-space assembled Science-Power Platform truss, in the all-photovoltaic variant on the top and with solar concentrators on the bottom. Images: Novosti Kosmonavtiki, Aviation Week and Space Technology. Another part with Sofora heritage were the two orientation thruster blocks, which were similar in design to the VDU roll control thruster mounted at the end of the Sofora truss. Closer to the center, two large radiators were mounted and, opposite the thruster blocks, sat mobile experiment platforms that could orient the experiments as required; on Mir, some experiments required that the entire station be reoriented to point the instruments. Providing power to the Mir-2 complex were four pairs of photovoltaic Reusable Solar Arrays (MEB) of the same design that flew on Mir’s Kristall module and later with the Mir Docking Module, though at a later stage of assembly on one side of the truss the arrays would make way for a pair of parabolic solar concentrators. Science Power Platform Assembly sequence of the 1992 Mir-2 design. Image: Aviation Week and Space Technology. The concentrators work by focusing sunlight onto a circuit of working fluid that expanded and drove a turbine—alas, even in space every new method of energy generation is a steam turbine. The main advantages of the solar concentrators cited by NPO Energia representatives are the reduction of the area needed to generate the same power by more than a factor of two, lower mass, and decreased atmospheric drag. In this configuration, assembly of the station was due to begin in 1996 and be completed within three years, with the solar concentrators joining the station as early as late 1998. In mid-1992, talks between ESA and Russian space program officials on deeper cooperation intensified, with the European agency eyeing Mir-2 as the destination for the Russified version of the Man-Tended Free Flyer (MTFF), which had just been dropped from the plans for Space Station Freedom, and a new collaborative Euro-Russian spacesuit. When the Hermes spaceplane was cancelled later in 1992, they agreed to salvage the technology for its robotic arm, the HERA (HErmes Robotic Arm), and use it on Mir-2. The renamed European Robotic Arm (ERA) appeared in the station’s design in late 1992/early 1993, attached to a mobile platform that could slide along the length of the truss, similarly to how Canadarm2 operates on the ISS. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform Top: Illustration of the early Hermes Robotic Arm (HERA) in use on the Hermes spaceplane. Bottom: Late 1992/early 1993 illustration of Mir-2 and the Chromos observatory showing the appearance of the ERA and its mobile platform on the station’s truss. Images: ESA/Fokker, garni-cosmos.com Octagons! By May 1993, illustrations distributed to the media showed a significant change in the design of the truss. While still attached to the side of the core module, it was now octagonal in cross-section and made up of a handful of large, pre-assembled segments, though it is unclear if these would fly on Zenit or possibly Buran—work on the Soviet orbiter had by that time slowed to a crawl due to funding issues and was completely abandoned later that month. Western officials and experts had been eager to point out that the previous hand-assembled truss would have been a major challenge for the cosmonauts had it remained in the final configuration. Freedom itself transitioned to pre-integrated truss segments in 1991 in part due to a whopping 2,000 to 3,000 hours of EVA required every year to build and maintain the station with its original truss, according to studies commissioned by NASA. Science Power Platform The interim Mir-2 configuration of 1992. Images: Novosti Kosmonavtiki, ESA via danielmarin.naukas.com Final Mir-2 configuration In an effort to make station expansion easier, provide more docking ports, and allow for a potential swap of the core module after it outlived its usefulness, two Universal Docking Modules (USMs) were added to Mir-2 in mid-1993 and the orbital complex took on the form most familiar to space nerds. USM №1 would be attached to the core module’s forward port with the two halves of the octagonal-section Science Power Platform berthed to its lateral docking ports: the SPP was now “intersecting” the pressurized module instead of being braced against the core module’s side. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform The 1993 Mir-2 configuration. Images: ESA via danielmarin.naukas.com, capcomspace.net Each half of the Science Power Platform was made up of two large segments: the first was docked to the side of USM №1 and contained a pressurized compartment that provided space for control moment gyros and electrical batteries as well as the mounting points for the large 8.4-by-6.0-meter radiators; the second section contained a narrower extendable truss that was deployed to its full length once the module was berthed to the station. The segments would be paired with Progress-derived tugs and launch on Zenit. Science Power Platform General layout and dimensions of the Mir-2 truss. Image: ESA via danielmarin.naukas.com Attitude thruster packs, now named the Remote Propulsion System, were once again mounted on the SPP, but by this point they had changed their shape to octagonal prisms that would fly inside the unpressurised volume of the first SPP segment and be repositioned on the truss using the robotic arm. Just like before, power was provided by a mix of photovoltaic arrays at one end of the truss and parabolic solar concentrators at the other; both had two degrees of freedom to allow them to be pointed towards the Sun more efficiently—the original Mir had become so power-starved by the late ’90s that often the entire station needed to be reoriented to produce the power required. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform Images ESA via danielmarin.naukas.com Merger of equals? In the meantime, discussions on merging the financially unstable Mir-2 and Freedom (renamed to Alpha after the 1993 redesign) projects had been intensifying and finally culminated in an agreement to combine the two stations. The initial configuration of the new international Space Station Alpha unveiled on August 26, 1993, included most of the Space Station Freedom hardware—dubbed the US Orbital Segment—and a smattering of Russian pressurized modules with half of Mir-2’s Science Power Platform docked to the zenith port of one of the three Universal Docking Modules now present on the station, which formed the Russian Orbital Segment. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform Images: Novosti Kosmonavtiki Interestingly, the new Science Power Platform used solar concentrators instead of the more conventional photovoltaic arrays. While they did promise a higher power output, they also required additional heat rejection capacity, so the American side quickly requested they be downsized from 10 kilowatts to just 2–3 kilowatts, which the Russians promptly rejected as it negated the whole point of using solar concentrators to generate a lot of power. More criticism came from NASA engineers, who doubted that the system could be developed in just a couple of years and join the station early in the assembly process: the illustration above on the right is not just a cutaway or partial view, but how the station would have looked just before the US side started building the Integrated Truss Structure with its large solar arrays. One of the incentives for inviting Russia to the project was, along with lowering the station’s burden on the American taxpayer, the ability to reach “Permanent Manned Capability” (PMC) much sooner than with the revised Freedom. Instead of assembling the truss from one end, adding pressurized modules in the middle and only reaching PMC after 11 or so assembly flights, permanent crew occupation could start as soon as the first US modules were attached to the Russian segment and electrically connected to the Science Power Platform, which was scheduled for the fourth shuttle flight to the station. The main truss could then be built from the center out. Science Power Platform 1993 configuration of Freedom at Man-Tended Capability (achieved after six Shuttle flights). Image: NASA via National Archives By autumn 1993, the solar concentrators on the SPP were replaced with the photovoltaic arrays from the other end of the Mir-2 truss, though a possibility was left for the concentrators to join the station at a later stage, when they would be attached to the shorter end of the American truss. By the end of the year, after plans to test demonstrators of the concentrators on Mir (predictably) fell through, the technology’s inclusion in the space station design was abandoned altogether. In October 1993, two of the three Universal Docking Modules were replaced by a single Functional Cargo Blok (FGB), later named Zarya, and the Science Power Platform migrated to the FGB’s zenith docking port. On November 1, 1993, the “Addendum to the Space Station Alpha Program Implementation Plan” containing the new design was officially approved and presented at the White House. Science Power Platform 1 November 1993 configuration of the space station. Image: NASA via danielmarin.naukas.com Before the end of 1993, the Science Power Platform was moved from Zarya to the zenith docking port of the Service Module—the ex-Mir-2 core module, later renamed Zvezda. Science Power Platform The SPP in its new location on the station. Note the solar concentrators on the American truss. Image: NASA via National Archives The SPP retained its late-Mir-2 structure and required three launches on the Zenit: one each to carry the two truss segments and one carrying a modified Progress spacecraft with a special cargo platform holding now six solar arrays, and control moment gyros.[1] A special rail for the ERA would be mounted on the Universal Docking Module and the SPP to allow the components delivered on the third launch to be transported to their mounting location on top of the SPP. All three launches were planned for September-October 1997 as of early 1994. Science Power Platform Early 1994 configuration of the space station. Middle: Legend: 1 — SPP-1 segment; 2 — SPP-2 segment; 3 — two-axis solar array joint; 4 — SPP solar array; 5 extendable part of the SPP-2 segment; 6 — remote propulsion system; 7 — radiator; 8 — docking point of SPP-1 and SPP-2; 9 — pressurised compartment with control moment gyros; 10 — docking point of SPP-1 with Service Module. Right: a one-off illustration with the SPP turned 90 degrees. Images: Novosti Kosmonavtiki Consolidation By early 1994, the ISS regained the fourth solar array pair on its main truss, while the Science Power Platform design evolved. Information on this version is very scarce, but all illustrations show a somewhat simplified structure, with the extendable section replaced by a single long unpressurised truss. Instead of the octagonal Remote Propulsion System attitude control units, the SPP now utilized new Autonomous Thruster Facility (ATF) packs. Each ATF unit would house its own propellant tank, for a total of 1,760 kilograms of propellant across two units, of which 1,680 would be usable. The attitude thrusters on the ATF seem to be the NIIMash 11D428A-16 units with about 130 newtons thrust and 290 seconds of specific impulse, also used on Zvezda and the Soyuz service module. This propellant mass might not seem huge for a station of this size, but the ATF thrusters would have been over 15 meters away from the orbital complex’s center of mass, which massively improves their effectiveness, especially for roll corrections. In fact, the same fuel-saving trick is currently being used with thrusters on the Nauka module. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform 1995 configuration of the ISS with the Science Power Platform and Autonomous Thruster Facility units. Images: NASA via NTRS As in the previous plan, the main truss would be launched on two flights of the Zenit, but now the second flight would also carry the first ATF unit. A total of four ATF units, all launching fully-fueled, feature in the flight planning documents, despite drawings and diagrams of the station’s layout only showing two units. Completely replacing the first two units just two years after launch seems unrealistic, so there must be a different explanation. I have not, unfortunately, been able to find it. Science Power Platform A diagram of the two Science Power Platform segments in the 1994–1995 Zenit-launched configuration. Image: NASA As of 1995, the launch of the first SPP truss segment (assembly flight 5R) was scheduled for November 1998, followed by flight 6R with the second truss segment and first ATF unit in February 1999. The first solar arrays would be delivered on flight 7R in April 1999. After a short break, SPP assembly would resume with flight 12R in November 2000, carrying two ATF units and flight 14R in October 2001 would deliver the final fourth ATF unit and the remaining solar arrays. The solar arrays would launch aboard a dedicated Progress-derived cargo spacecraft launched on Zenit and, after arriving at the station, would be moved to their mounting point with the help of the ERA along the special rail running down the truss and the Universal Docking Module below. Science Power Platform Solar array delivery for the Science Power Platform aboard modified Progress spacecraft. Images: Robotics and Autonomous Systems, ESA New launcher, new platform The adopted assembly sequence emphasized Russian modules in its early phase, with a gradual shift of the balance towards American segment hardware later. For Russia’s strained space industry, the idea of supporting both the Mir program and the new ISS at full force was considered unfeasible, so after all shuttle flights to Mir were successfully completed, the orbital complex was to be abandoned in 1997, with all efforts redirected towards building the ISS henceforth. However, there was still some useful life left in the Mir complex—two modules, Priroda and Spektr, had not even been launched yet—and the RKK Energia proposal to start assembling the ISS by adding new modules to Mir and discarding the old hardware later was rejected by NASA. So, by 1996, the Russians started pushing for a simplification of the Russian Orbital Segment to allow the simultaneous operation of Mir and the ISS during the initial phase of the latter’s construction until the end of the decade. In January 1996, a delegation of Russian government and industry personnel travelled to Houston and reached an agreement for the US to join in on the utilization of Mir until 1999 and for both countries to fully shift focus to the nascent ISS thereafter. The Russian side also announced that to maintain the launch schedule they would abandon the use of the Zenit launch vehicle for ISS assembly, citing high launch costs and the availability of just one launch pad in Baikonur suited for the Zenit. The SPP would now be delivered to the ISS on two flights of the shuttle. In March 1996, the feasibility of launching the SPP on the shuttle was confirmed and, in May, the preliminary design of the module was presented to NASA officials in Moscow. Revision B of the ISS Assembly Sequence document scheduled the first SPP mission for flight 9A.1 in November 1999. The change of launch vehicle necessitated a thorough redesign. The new Science Power Platform retained the pressurized section (Block A) from the previous version, but now the entire module would launch pre-integrated, with the truss section (Block B) mounted directly to the pressure hull. Science Power Platform General layout of the Science Power Platform. Image: Semyonov 2001 via Nicolas Pillet, translated by Yours Truly Like in the pre-1994 design, a secondary truss would extend from the unpressurized section to provide clearance for the eight solar arrays: four arrays would now launch together with the rest of the SPP, temporarily mounted to the side of the truss, while the remaining four would be delivered together with micrometeoroid shields and extra hardware on the second shuttle flight. The module would mass around 15 tonnes at launch,[2] which would increase to around 20 tonnes after all outfitting hardware and payloads were installed. In the stowed position, the SPP’s length was 13.45 meters, which would increase to 19.90 meters with the secondary truss fully extended. The pressurized compartment was 5.9 meters long with a 1.0-meter unpressurised compartment directly above it, both with a diameter of 2.20 meters. The extendable truss measured 6.2 meters long and 2.55 meters in diameter. Science Power Platform Image: NASA via Wikimedia Commons Six gyrodynes would be installed to aid the station’s attitude control, together with orientation thrusters on the truss section. Of course, the design also included some lovely payload attachment trunnions to interface with the shuttle’s payload bay. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform Images: Lopota 2011 via Nicolas Pillet, RKK Energia via RussianSpaceWeb.com Shortly thereafter, the Russian Space Agency made the decision to develop a new heavy-duty variant of the venerable SSVP docking port for use on the station’s Russian segment, including the Science Power Platform. The “hybrid” SSVP-M8000 retains the soft-docking “pin-and-cone” mechanism from the standard SSVP-G but borrows the larger and stiffer hard-docking collar from the APAS-89/95 system to cope with the larger forces experienced by the unprecedentedly heavy space station. The new delivery method also required a unique berthing maneuver. As the shuttle’s Canadarm manipulator would not be able to reach far enough to position the SPP’s over Zvezda’s zenith docking port, the module would be “handed off” to the station’s Canadarm2 and only then berthed at its destination. No spoilers yet, but the “hand-off” would end up being performed for real some 15 years after being conceived for the SPP. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform SPP handoff maneuver and berthing. Images: IFAC Space Robotics, General Contact Dynamics Toolkit The European Robotic Arm remained part of the SPP complex, joined by a newly developed manually operated platform that would ride along the truss with one or two cosmonauts. A Regul-OS communications antenna was placed at the top of the truss; when plans were being drawn up for ATV flights to the ISS in 1999, there was briefly a proposal to place the antenna for the MBRL data link for approaching spacecraft on the SPP as well, but the hardware was installed on the Zvezda module instead. In addition to the 50 kilowatts of power generation, the Science Power Platform featured a five-segment radiator panel running on ammonia—a first for the Russian space industry—capable of rejecting 30 kilowatts of waste heat. The unit measured 4.15 meters at the widest point and extended 21 meters from the module’s centerline. Science Power Platform Image: ESA (cropped) During development of the two-phase ammonia circuit, the phase change behavior and heat transfer dynamics in microgravity proved to be difficult to control, so an experiment was devised to test the system before it was signed off. Named Kontur (circuit in Russian), the full-scale heat exchanger circuit was delivered to Mir on Progress M-42 and tested in the summer of 1999. The Kontur hardware was mounted on the outside of the Progress spacecraft to avoid the possibility of an ammonia leak finding its way into the habitable volume of the station. Despite a number of hiccups before the experiment even made it to space and some hilarious problems with the hardware when it did—like the discovery that when deployed, the radiator partially obscures the TORU docking antenna and two ammonia lines fall right over attitude thruster nozzles — the function of the system was validated. Staying true to its name, the Science Power Platform was also designed to house some experiments. In the Russian Orbital Segment’s 1999 configuration with nine modules, the SPP would account for 8% of all science payloads by number, at 24 experiments. Building the thing… In 1997 RKK Energia’s Experimental Machine-building Plant (ZEM) started preparations for the manufacturing of the pressurized compartment. By 1999, significant work was done on the pressure vessel, truss structure, solar panels, attitude control engine pneumohydraulic circuit, the electrical layout, and the control logic, and the testing campaign framework was developed. For the SPP, a new minimum service life requirement of 15 years—double that of Mir hardware—was introduced, which necessitated stricter tolerances and quality criteria. The ZEM plant was responsible for the assembly of the pressurized compartment, but delegated the fabrication of the pressure hull components and truss elements to the Progress factory in Samara. Outfitting hardware like solar arrays and a cargo boom, as well as final assembly and testing of the SPP remained the responsibility of the ZEM. At least two pressurized compartment hulls were fabricated: one static test article and one dynamic test article. Science Power Platform Science Power Platform SPP pressure vessels at RKK Energia. Images: Lopota 2011 via Nicolas Pillet The pressure vessel itself was divided into three main sections: the hemispherical forward section, the central cylindrical section, and the truncated conical aft section. The cylindrical section was welded from four shorter segments 2.20 meters in diameter. The forward section is essentially the front half of a Soyuz orbital module, with a spherical profile 1.1 meters in radius, though on the SPP the half-dome is densely packed with electrical connector feed-throughs. An active SSVP-M docking unit would be attached at this end. …slowly Between 1996 and 1998, work on the Russian segment of the ISS progressed at a very slow pace due to the perennially low funding allocated for the project. In May 1997, the launch of the SPP with the first four solar arrays was scheduled for flight 9A.1 in July 2000, with the remaining arrays arriving on flight 14A in May 2002 together with the ESA-built Cupola. By 1998 those dates had slipped to January 2001 and August 2002. Work conducted in 1998 and 1999 at a cost of 161.7 million rubles was completely self-funded by RKK Energia as Roscosmos refused to include it in the contract and, in mid-1999, work practically stopped. The 9A.1 flight slipped to November 2001 and the 14A flight, which would now also carry MMOD shields for the Zvezda module, slipped to August 2003. In early 2000, Roscosmos appropriated less than 25% of the requested amount of funding and, after a short burst, work had to be stopped again. By August, the 9A.1 flight slipped further to October 2002, and the second assembly flight was split into two: dtwo arrays with their beam would now fly on the 1J/A flight in February 2004, with the two remaining arrays joining during flight 14A in May 2005. By 2001, the Russian Space Agency realized that the plethora of ISS modules they had designed were beyond their means and had to be cut back, which triggered a three-year effort to land on a workable, more modest configuration of the Russian Orbital Segment. Science Power Platform US Congress delegation visits shop 439 at ZEM in 2000. A Science Power Platform pressure vessel visible in the background. Note the presence of the payload bay attachment trunnions. Image: Semyonov 2001 via Nicolas Pillet Contraction One of the early proposed configurations from this period reduced the Science Power Platform to a simple truss with just four solar arrays, berthed to the Pirs docking module, which would be relocated to Zvezda’s zenith port for this purpose. Science Power Platform Simplified version of the Russian Orbital Segment: 1 — Science Power Platform (simplified); 2 — Functional Cargo Block; 3 — Multi-Purpose Module; 4 — Universal Docking Module based on FGB-2; 5 — Service Module; 6 — Docking Dompartment. Image: Lopota 2011 via Nicolas Pillet While this configuration would have been the easiest to develop, it sacrificed half the power generation capability and transferred all of the heat rejection responsibility to the redesigned Universal Docking Module and the Multi-Purpose Module. The SPP’s gyrodynes, orientation thrusters and science payloads would also need to be transferred elsewhere. After further studies, in February 2003 a revised proposal which featured the Science Power Module, a reworked version of the SPP, was approved by Russian Space Agency management. By this point, the launch of the Science Power Platform had slipped to January 2007, with the launch carrying the remaining solar arrays scheduled for January 2008. After the redesign, the new Science Power Module was scheduled to launch sometime in 2009. The Science Power Module would gain an extension to the pressurized compartment with a radial docking port, where Pirs could be redocked. The extendable truss section and the radiator were reduced in size, but the solar arrays retained their size. A smaller radiator was now part of the new Multi-purpose Laboratory Module, compensating for the reduction on the SPM. The European Robotic Arm was also moved to the MLM, together with roll control thrusters and some payloads. The MLM, built using FGB-2, the structural spare of the Zarya module, has since been given the name Nauka. Science Power Platform Russian Orbital Segment — 2003 version: 1-Science Power Module; 2 — Functional Cargo Module; 3 — Multi-purpose Laboratory Module; 4 — Small Research Module 2; 5 — Small Research Module 1; 6-Reseach Module; 7 — Service Module; 8 — Docking Compartment. Image: Lopota 2011 via Nicolas Pillet This change in direction came but three weeks after Columbia disintegrated on reentry, putting a three year pause on shuttle flights and ISS assembly. A year later, in 2004, the Science Power Module received a minor redesign, with more payloads on the exterior of the pressurized compartment, wider spacing between the solar arrays, and tweaks to the truss structure. Science Power Platform Science Power Module as proposed by RKK Energia. Images: Zemlya i Vselennaya In 2005, the decision was made to retire the Space Shuttle by 2010 and reduce the number of remaining flights to the bare minimum to finish the assembly of the space station. By joint decision of NASA and the Russian Space Agency, flight 9A.1, which would have carried the Science Power Platform and its successor, the Science Power Module, to the station, was among those cut. This marked the end of the Science Power Platform. The original module was a vital part of early ISS assembly plans as it provided power to the American modules before the large ITS truss was built, but with the introduction of the Z1 truss, which allowed the American solar arrays to be temporarily attached above the Unity module before the truss was ready, the Science Power Platform lost its strategic importance. It was still the main powerplant for the Russian segment, though, and was designed to provide power and heat rejection capability for nine modules then planned for the ROS. With more and more Russian modules revised, scaled back, combined with others, or simply cancelled, the SPP made increasingly less sense, especially as its science return was relatively low for the cost of building the 20-meter tower. After the shuttle program started winding down, the Russian side negotiated for a continuation of the power supply deal from the US segment to the Russian modules, which let it get away without its own power module. Still, the arrival of the Nauka laboratory in 2021, along with its solar arrays, noticeably lowered the Russian electricity bills owed to the Americans. A new Dawn In June of 2005, the MLM was relocated to Zvezda’s nadir port which, together with the decision to exclusively use the Soyuz for crew rotation from 2009, created a shortage of available docking ports on the Russian segment. At the same time, even with the flight of the Science Power Platform/Module cancelled, NASA remained contracted to deliver a spare elbow joint for the European Robotic Arm and outfitting equipment for the MLM such as the radiator and science airlock. In 2006, RKK Energia started working on how to solve these two problems and came up with a rather elegant solution: the Docking Cargo Module. The DCM would be around six meters long and 2.2 meters in diameter, with one active SSVP-M docking port and one passive SSVP-G to accept visiting Soyuz and Progress spacecraft; the module would be delivered by the Space Shuttle together with the MLM outfitting equipment. Two designs for the DCM pressure hull were considered. The first—а) in the diagram below—used two forward halves of the Pirs-type docking module welded back-to-back with extra shuttle payload bay trunnions attached. This was essentially a copy of the Mir Docking Module that flew to the ISS’ predecessor on STS-74 in November 1995, but with different docking ports. Science Power Platform Two DCM variants. Image: Lopota 2011 The chosen design—option б) in the diagram—used an asymmetric pressure vessel based on the Science Power Platform pressurized compartment and was proposed by ZEM specialists to make use of the leftover hardware. In May 2007, the module’s creation was approved and its delivery to the station was agreed with NASA. Later that year, it was redesignated as the Mini-Research Module 1 (MRM-1) and given the name Rassvet, meaning Dawn in Russian. To modify the SPP’s pressure vessel for MRM-1, its aft-most cylindrical section segment and the aft section were removed and a new short aft section based on the Pirs docking module was attached, with extra strengthening and an additional payload bay trunnion. The forward end and the first three cylindrical section segments together with the original payload bay attachment trunnion were retained from the SPP design. Two mothballed Science Power Platform pressurized compartments were used to build Rassvet: the static test article was used for both static and dynamic tests, while the dynamic test article was used build the flight article. Science Power Platform SPP pressure vessel before conversion into the Rassvet pressure vessel. Image: Lopota 2011 via Nicolas Pillet One more feature Rassvet inherited from the Science Power Platform was the hand-off maneuver from the Shuttle’s Canadarm to the station’s Canadarm2. Science Power Platform Image: Novosti Kosmonavtiki At this point I should probably note that Rassvet is not a copy of the Mir Docking Module. It’s ultimately derived from the same hardware and shares many similarities, but it’s a distinct development that differs in the structural layout. This confusion was probably not helped by the frequent mentions that Rassvet is the “mirror image” of the MDM. This is true insofar as the handedness of equipment installed on the module is flipped because Rassvet flew “feet forward” in the shuttle’s payload bay, with the active port pointing at the aft bulkhead, while the MDM flew with the active port pointing forward, but it does not mean that the design of the module is identical and mirrored. Epilogue By December 2009, Rassvet’s assembly was completed and the module was transported to Florida for launch on STS-132 aboard Atlantis. The mission lifted off on May 14, 2010, and Rassvet was successfully berthed to Zarya’s nadir port four days later, bringing Science Power Platform hardware to the space station almost two decades after the module was conceived. In the end, the Science Power Platform did not get built as initially designed, but it eventually made it to the ISS in one form or another despite the endless configuration changes. The space station we know in 2026 is made up of hardware first drawn up in the ’80s on the US side too, but the Russian segment hardware seems to have an especially esoteric background with ’80s plans often still veiled in Iron Curtain secrecy all these years later. After all, the Pirs docking module, its twin Poisk, the European Robotic Arm and, of course, the Zvezda Service Module, all formed part of the impressive Mir-2 complex. Just like Mir-2 itself, the Science Power Platform used to be the future once. [1] The RKK Energia company history mentions four Zenit launches in the plan agreed in June 1994. [2] 14.7 or 15.6 tonnes depending on the source. Thank you to Nicolas Pillet for providing images for this article. References B. Hendrickx, “From Mir-2 to the ISS Russian Segment”, British Interplanetary Society, 2002 Yu.P. Semyonov (ed.), “S.P. Korolev Rocket and Space Corporation Energia: at the Turn of the Two Centuries”, Moscow, RKK Energia, 2001 V.A. Lopota (ed.), “Rocket and Space Corporation Energia named after S. P. Korolev in the first decade of the twentieth century. (2001–2011)”, Moscow, RKK Energia, 2011 V.F. Utkin, “International Space Station and Applications Programme”, Zemlya i Vselennaya, №4, 1995, pp. 3–7 “‘Mir-2’ Space Station Under Construction”, 12 March 1989, in: JPRS Report Science & Technology USSR: Space, 2 May 1989, p. 53 S. Leskov, “Blagov on Plans for ‘Mir’ Modules, Mission Durations”, Izvestiya, Moscow, 21 February 1989, p.3 News Conference Held at Ministry on Space Research Plans to 2005, Moscow World Service, 21 August 1989, in: JPRS Report Science & Technology USSR: Space, 22 November 1989, p. 53 V.A. Likhachev, A.I. Razov, A.G. Cherniavsky, Yu.D. Kravchenko, S.N. Trusov, “Truss mounting in space by shape memory alloys”, Proc. of 1st Int. Conf. on Shape Memory and Superelastic Technologies, Pacific Grove, California, USA, 1994 “The Mir-2 long-term orbital station: projects and plans. (VIDEOKOSMOS review)”, Novosti Kosmonavtiki, №25, 1992, pp. 16–19 “Soviets Preparing Energia Booster/Buran-2 at Baikonur As Follow-On Mir-2 Station Is Canceled in Economic Crisis”, Aviation Week & Space Technology, April 22, 1991, p. 23 J. Lenorovitz, “Russia to Upgrade Mir 1 Space Station, Prepares for New Orbital Facility”, Aviation Week & Space Technology, May 4, 1992, pp. 84–85 C. Covault, “Russia Forges Ahead on Mir 2”, Aviation Week & Space Technology, March 15, 1993, pp. 26–27 J. Lenorovitz, “Russia Redesigns Mir 2; Primary Module Underway”, Aviation Week & Space Technology, August 10, 1992, p. 62 R. Boumans, C. Heemskerk, “The European Robotic Arm for the International Space Station”, Robotics and Autonomous Systems, Vol. 23, 1998, pp. 17–27, doi.org/10.1016/S0921-8890(97)00054-7 A. Zak, “Problems in U.S. Space Station Program, Plans for ‘Mir-2’ Proceeding”, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 6 May 1993, p. 6, in: JPRS Report Science & Technology: Central Eurasia — Space, 28 June 1993, pp. 17–19 R. Bentall, “Reaching Out on Space: Europe’s Robotic Arm”, On Station, ESA Publications Division, March 2, 2000, p. 10 J. Rylaarsdam, “International Space Station Traffic Modeling and Simulation”, Master’s Thesis, Air Force Institute of Technology, March 1996, p. 40, after: R. Puckett, “DAC-1: Propellant Resource Assessment TDS 3.1.1–4. Final Report. Transmittal Memo #95–0034–04”, McDonnell Douglas Aerospace Houston Division, March 30, 1995 J. Smith et al., “Avionics Architecture for the U.S. Segment of the International Space Station Alpha”, AIAA, 1995 “Assembly Sequence Rev. D” in: “International Space Station Familiarization Manual,” NASA Technical Reports Server (NTRS), July 31 1998, ntrs.nasa.gov/citations/20250005232 “International Space Station Assembly Sequence (Revision E, June 1999)”, NASA Johnson Space Center, July 1999, IS-1999–06-ISS012JSC, nasa.gov/spacenews/factsheets/pdfs/rev_e.pdf “Preliminary ISS Assembly Sequence, Revision B, as of March I, 1996” in: “Space Cooperation: International Space Station. Protocol Between the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA and the RUSSIAN FEDERATION”, June 15, 1996, csps.aerospace.org SPP responsibility distribution agreement, Appendix 3, ibid. “International Space Station Assembly Sequence: Revision F (August 2000)”, in: “STS-106 Press Kit”, August 29 2000, A. Zak, “Science and Power Platform, NEP”, accessed 05.03.2026, available russianspaceweb.com/iss_nep.html “International Space Station: Assembly Flight Sequence as of February 2, 2003”, accessed 05.03.2026, spider.seds.org/shuttle/iss_030202.html V. Mokhov, “SM sent to Baikonur”, Novosti Kosmonavtiki, №6, 1999, pp. 56–57 K. Lantratov, “Zvezda: the way to space”, Novosti Kosmonavtiki, №9, 2000, pp. 5–13 K. Lantratov, “Composition of the ISS Russian Segment”, Novosti Kosmonavtiki, №10, 2001, pp. 22–23 Yu. Zhuravin, S. Shamsutdinov, “NASA paid for the flights of its astronauts until 2011”, Novosti Kosmonavtiki, №6, 2007, pp. 20–21 Maks Skiendzielewski can be found on The Artist Formerly Known as Twitter at @galopujacy_jez. A version of this article was previously published by the author on Medium. Note: we are now moderating comments. There will be a delay in posting comments and no guarantee that all submitted comments will be posted.

A Fortress Moon For Cislunar Security

Artemis 2 lunar flyby The Orion spacecraft flying around the Moon during the Artemis 2 mission. (credit: NASA) A Fortress Moon for cislunar security by Alan T. Dugger Monday, April 27, 2026 Geosynchronous Orbit, 16 October 2034, 02:19 UTC The maneuver was filed as routine. A Chinese-licensed commercial spacecraft operating in geosynchronous orbit had submitted its trajectory adjustment notice 72 hours in advance, declaring its intent to depart Earth orbit and enter a translunar transfer. It was headed toward the Moon. The mission profile identified the craft as a communications relay demonstrator supporting future lunar infrastructure as part of China’s International Lunar Research Station. Its launch, weeks earlier, had attracted little attention beyond the technical community. Commercial lunar missions had become increasingly common is the era of ILRS and Artemis. Its mass, propulsion profile, and declared purpose were consistent with its notice. For the first two days of traveling toward the Moon, the craft followed a predictable path. US ground-based radars and low Earth orbit optical sensors tracked its steady climb through high Earth orbit and its eventual engine burn that put it on its path to the Moon. Its trajectory aligned with standard energy-efficient transfer corridors long used by scientific missions from the US, Japan, and China. Nothing about its behavior triggered any formal concern. During its passage to the far side of the Moon, tracking was temporarily lost as expected. Line-of-sight from Earth had always created brief periods of uncertainty in this region and the Chinese had been operating on the far side of the Moon for several years now. But when the craft reappeared, its trajectory had changed. It was no longer following its declared orbit and instead was on a path that would have been consistent with a high delta-v trajectory change during its unobserved period. Analysts could not determine exactly when or why the craft did this nor could they guess what else might have happened during that unobserved period. Within hours, other additional irregularities were reported closer to Earth: a US commercial satellite experienced a brief and unexplained interruption in its communications link, and a US next-generation overhead persistent infrared satellite registered two intense infrared blooms rising from the Jiuquan Satellite Launch Center in northwestern China. Long March rocket launches. Neither had been announced. Neither had been predicted. The events appeared unrelated, but all three occurred within the same operational window. Individually, no event met the threshold of hostile action, but together they presented a problem. No system had maintained continuous awareness of the spacecraft’s activities during its lunar transit. No sensor had confirmed whether it had released a secondary payload, conducted surveillance, or tested a capability designed to operate elsewhere. No authority could state with confidence the reason for the launch or could understand the communications satellite’s brief outage. No one knew if the events were connected or not. Decision-makers faced a familiar dilemma. An action had occurred. Its intent was unclear. Its implications were unknown. And the ability to respond had already begun to pass. A space in transition The United States is entering a new phase of strategic competition in cislunar space. At present, there is no coherent and actionable plan to monitor, administer, or defend what is becoming one of the most strategically consequential regions beyond Earth. The prospect of a cislunar space conflict is no longer purely theoretical, but increasingly plausible. Cislunar space is that region of space between the Earth and the Moon. Historically, it has been treated as little more than a transit corridor for missions to and from Earth or as a background for scientific missions meant to study the Earth, the Sun, and the Moon from a distance. But sustained lunar programs and emerging plans for cislunar communications are making this region of space increasingly valuable. Analysts have already warned that existing space situational awareness systems are poorly suited to monitor activity in this system. Recent US policy documents acknowledge that an increasing number of nations and commercial providers now possess reliable and sustainable access to cislunar space. What was once an infrequently transited region is becoming an environment of sustained operations by multiple state, commercial, and hybrid actors with a diverse set of ideas, goals, and methods to achieve them. These activities range from scientific research, economic development, and human exploration to signal intelligence collection, secure data relay, and ambiguous proximity operations that blur the line between peaceful use and strategic competition. As a result, the prospect of a cislunar space conflict is no longer purely theoretical, but increasingly plausible. The focus on cislunar space is not missing, but the efforts are fragmented, often built around singular missions, and are frequently limited in concept. This reflects the traditional understanding of cislunar space as a transit and mission-support region rather than an operational domain. This is insufficient. As this domain increasingly becomes an area of strategic competition, a staging arena for effects felt on Earth, and missions aimed in deeper space, an architecture is required to increase awareness of domain activity and translate seemingly unconnected action into coherent narratives. What is required is a framework for presence without occupation, persistent awareness without total observation, and comprehensive coverage without continuous collection. If history can serve as a reference for the future, one historical concept meets all of these requirements: the fortress—not as a structure, but as a system of administration and control. The system required is Fortress Moon. Systems over satellites Historically, medieval fortresses were more than impressive walls bristling with archers or cannons. They were systems that housed small cities, markets, and populations within their areas of influence. They shaped the behavior of individuals and groups by providing structure, facilitating commerce, and enforcing security. They did not control everything, but they did control what mattered. Fortress Moon applies this logic to a new domain. The most effective way to monitor and defend cislunar space is not a single point of failure, but multiple points for success. Fortress Moon is not a proposal to build a physical structure on the lunar surface. Instead, it is a distributed system designed to connect sensing, communication, and response across the Earth-Moon system into a cohesive picture of activity. The network this framework enables makes actions taken by space players visible, attributable, and governable. This is a need that is not only relevant today but will become increasingly valuable as the cislunar area of operations becomes more congested and contested over the coming decades. Fortress Moon is a web of interconnected nodes distributed across cislunar space. From Earth orbits to the lunar surface and in between. These nodes consist of visual and electromagnetic sensors, communication satellites, and kinetic and non-kinetic delivery platforms. Some nodes are commercial, some are state-owned, and others are passively or actively dual use. No single node is decisive. Redundancy and resiliency are built in. If one vantage point fails to observe an event, another may capture its associated signals or patterns. If one pathway for a kinetic response is unavailable, other non-kinetic responses remain capable of shaping behavior. The result is a web of assets with overlapping fields of awareness and influence that can indicate, identify, and isolate possible threats. This web makes more practical sense for cislunar space. A lunar base or structure may concentrate power and capability, but can also be easily identified, obscured, or targeted. Lunar bases will also have an inherently limited reach when trying to create effects in Earth orbit or on the opposite side of the lunar surface. A web provides more comprehensive coverage while distributing capabilities across innumerable and sometimes elusive points. Expensive and exquisite single or limited-series platforms may provide an overwhelming advantage in the near future but will quickly become obsolete in the face of an adaptive and pacing threat. Nodes in the web may be narrower in scope, but can be rotated, upgraded, or replaced on shorter timelines and at lower costs. This allows the system to evolve as the environment changes. The most effective way to monitor and defend cislunar space is not a single point of failure, but multiple points for success. Fortress Moon enables deterrence by forcing actors to consider that trajectory changes, area observations, or communications become increasingly difficult to hide. Over time and with multiple points collected, patterns begin to emerge, intent becomes visible, and surprise becomes costly or impossible. Observation, deterrence, and capability Strategists have long understood that persistent observation can deter conflict as effectively as weapons. Thomas Schelling observed that the central challenge of surprise attack was not simply limiting weapons but creating systems capable of providing timely and reliable warnings of hostile actions. An actor that knows his movements are being observed, and that those observations are being communicated quickly to decision-makers, understands that the conditions required for a surprise attack begin to erode and his overall incentive to act quicky diminishes. Fortress Moon extends this logic into the cislunar domain. The web does not just need to announce its ability to destroy opposing systems in order to shape their behavior. Its presence alone can alter decision-making and deter any aggressive behavior. It demonstrates that hostile actions will be observed and responded to before they can achieve any effects. Critical to this deterrence is that Fortress Moon isn’t limited to just sensing. Awareness without consequences invites exploitation. The web must be able to deliver effects when needed. These can include electromagnetic interference, temporary anti-access or area denial, orbital pressure, public attribution, or economic and regulatory enforcement. Kinetic options, while deliberately constrained, must remain available. The power of the web is not in its ability to destroy, but to become aware of and mitigate actions proportionally before a fait acompli of events transpire. At its core, Fortress Moon is a systems problem, not a technological one. The United States, its allies, and its commercial partners possess all the tools required, but lack a cohesive architecture to link them together. Importantly, the technology that makes Fortress Moon feasible already exists today or is near-term in its realization. Space domain awareness sensors exist on Earth and are in orbit now. Government communications satellites have existed for decades, and commercial variants continue to grow and expand. Payload delivery systems for the Moon and on-orbit maneuvering and rendezvous proximity systems are maturing in parallel. What is missing is not hardware, but cohesion. Fortress Moon can begin today. As activity increases, capabilities grow, and new requirements are defined, nodes can be added incrementally. This enhances the effectiveness of the web, expands coverage, and builds redundancy without a monolithic “built-from-scratch” program. At its core, Fortress Moon is a systems problem, not a technological one. The United States, its allies, and its commercial partners possess all the tools required, but lack a cohesive architecture to link them together. Too often, efforts in space remain stove-piped with a narrow set of objectives given to a singular and expensive piece of equipment. Fortress Moon aims to shift that emphasis from one of invention to one of integration, from individual abilities to collective capabilities. By shifting the focus to architecture, data sharing, and coordination across government, commercial, and allied systems, the United States can begin to impose structure in an increasingly complex, dynamic, and evolving landscape. This reflects Christian Brose’s observation that modern military advantage lies in integrating sensing, decision, and response into cohesive systems rather than relying on individual platforms. The advantage lies not in one sensor, communicator, or weapon, but in how current and near-future systems and capabilities are combined to create a unified common operating picture of cislunar space. No single service, agency, or organization has the ability to patrol cislunar space alone. This is inherently a joint and interagency problem. The US Space Force would provide the backbone of space domain awareness, while US Space Command would command and integrate the architecture operationally. The National Reconnaissance Office could contribute resilient and advanced satellite constellations to strengthen orbital intelligence gathering. NASA’s civil exploration systems and communications infrastructure are optimized for deep-space observation, especially on the lunar surface and in lunar orbit. Commercial partners supply additional communication and sensing nodes and forthcoming logistics solutions. Here on Earth, US Cyber Command would help shape the information environment and provide cyber-enabled effects across the domain. Whose sky does the world want to live under? The alternative is a future plagued by episodic crises. Without persistent governance, cislunar space will be shaped by whoever is most willing to exploit the ambiguity. Norms have already begun to emerge unevenly and will continue to do so. Decision-makers will be constrained by tighter timelines, shorter decision cycles, incomplete information and the ability to assign attribution may be lost to uncertainty. This amplifies the risk of miscalculation and escalation that could manifest in space, in orbit, or on Earth. The choice is not between militarizing space or preserving a peaceful common. That framing no longer reflects reality. The only choice is between administering cislunar space deliberately or allowing others to define its order by default. Fortress Moon offers a solution where uncertainty remains beyond its boundary, but within its walls, the unknown is replaced by awareness and security. Fortress Moon offers a way forward. By prioritizing awareness, redundancy, and proportional response to threats, it treats the Earth-Moon system as a domain to be governed. Cislunar space is not empty volume nor is it solely the corridor from here to there. Rarely are the transitional spaces from one place to another treated as such. The sea lanes of the Atlantic controlled movements between the continents during World War II. Air corridors are frequently patrolled, covered in radar zones, and lined with air defenses. In ancient history, mountain passes were the strategic focus as much as the cities on either side. These regions were valuable not as destinations, but as corridors. Cislunar space is emerging as the next generation of this type of terrain; a domain whose importance lies in the movement it enables and the visibility it affords. Fortress Moon recognizes the historical advantage of understanding such a space and offers a historical response to that challenge. Fortress Moon offers a solution where uncertainty remains beyond its boundary, but within its walls, the unknown is replaced by awareness and security. Captain Alan T. Dugger is a United States Army Space Operations Officer and an assistant professor of military science at the University of California, Davis. He has a Master of Science degree in space studies and has been previously published on the topics of orbital warfare and space-enabled effects. The views expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official position of the United State Army, Department of the Army, or the Department of War.

Redefining Success In Space Diplomacy

Gezeravcı Turkish astronaut Alper Gezeravcı on the International Space Station during the Ax-3 private astronaut mission in 2024. (credit: Axiom Space) Redefining success in space diplomacy: emerging space nations in the Artemis Era and the case of Türkiye by Elif Yüksel Monday, April 27, 2026 For decades, nations measured space progress through visible technological achievements: how many satellites they built and launched, which rockets they developed, and which orbits they reached. Today, the frontier has expanded to include participation in lunar missions, Mars exploration, and asteroid initiatives. These indicators remain valid measures of technological capability. Yet capability alone no longer defines success in space diplomacy. The definition of success in space diplomacy is shifting. It is no longer measured primarily by launch and technological capability, but by the ability of states to translate space activities into governance influence. Success is no longer measured primarily by launch and technological capability, but by the ability of states to translate space activities into governance influence. In an exclusive interview on space diplomacy, the author spoke to Türkiye’s official national news agency, Anadolu Ajansı, on a request to describe this transformation as a shift “from orbits to outcomes.”[1][2] The central question today is no longer simply whether nations can access orbit: it is about what their access to space generates in terms of societal impact, economic growth, security capabilities, and governance influence. In this sense, space diplomacy is no longer merely about technical coordination or compliance. It is increasingly about structuring the governance environment of the space domain itself. Measuring successful space diplomacy This transformation also raises an important question: how should success in space diplomacy be measured today? While several factors shape space diplomacy, the author argues that two dimensions are particularly decisive: cooperation architecture and international impact. The first concerns how partnerships are structured. Are collaborations temporary and project-based, or are they institutionalized frameworks capable of generating long-term technological and diplomatic influence? The global space sector is entering a period where collaboration itself has become competitive. Space exploration programs, including lunar exploration, megaconstellations, commercial launch markets, and competing governance frameworks, are generating parallel cooperation architectures. In this environment, countries are not only competing technologically, but they are also competing for partnerships (e.g., the US-led Artemis program and the China-led International Lunar Research Station framework, neither of which Türkiye has formally signed). Strategic influence grows when partnerships involve shared infrastructure, joint research and development, co-production, and long-term institutional engagement. This creates a structural dynamic: increasing competition for collaboration. The second pillar of a successful space diplomacy is international impact, the ability of space activities to shape global governance debates. Because space activities are inherently transnational, their strategic value depends not only on domestic applications but also on how they shape global governance debates. Discussions surrounding space traffic management, debris mitigation, lunar resource governance—including “safety zones” within the Artemis framework—space situational awareness, and responsible behavior norms remain open and evolving. In such an environment, emerging space nations have meaningful opportunities to contribute to norm-shaping processes. Traditional diplomacy vs. space diplomacy This transformation also challenges traditional foreign policy reflexes. Conventional diplomacy often operates through tools that generate rapid feedback in areas such as negotiations, positioning, and crisis management. Space diplomacy, by contrast, may unfold over much longer time horizons, relying on infrastructure, institutional capacity, and technological validation. Its impact accumulates gradually rather than appearing immediately. In this sense, space diplomacy does not replace traditional foreign policy; it complements it by adding a long-term, technical, and institutional dimension that increasingly requires interdisciplinary expertise. Space diplomacy does not replace traditional foreign policy; it complements it by adding a long-term, technical, and institutional dimension that increasingly requires interdisciplinary expertise. In the evolving global space environment, emerging space nations are no longer peripheral actors. Yet visibility alone does not guarantee influence. Many governments pursue rapid “catch-up” strategies, attempting to participate in multiple international initiatives simultaneously. Even though increasing visibility demonstrates a valuable effort, participation alone does not ensure influence over how the space domain is governed. Strategic positioning increasingly depends on institutional depth, governance capacity, and coherent long-term policy frameworks. Moreover, even though they are considered “latecomers”, they can even turn this delay into opportunities, including having strategic flexibility when strategically tailored. Where Does Türkiye Stand Türkiye offers an instructive case for understanding how emerging space nations are repositioning themselves within the evolving governance architecture of space. Building on decades of experience in the aerospace and defense sectors, Türkiye has expanded its space ecosystem through institutional reform, technological development, and growing international engagement in civil space activities. The establishment of the Turkish Space Agency in 2018, followed by the National Space Program (2021) and the National Space Strategy Document (2022), positioned space as a strategic domain. Long-term efforts for sovereign launch capability—including the ongoing construction of a spaceport in Somalia—reflect Türkiye’s intent to expand independent access to space, while the discourse of “Uzay Vatan” (Space Homeland) signals the increasing strategic framing of space within national and foreign policy debates. Türkiye offers an instructive case for understanding how emerging space nations are repositioning themselves within the evolving governance architecture of space. Recent developments reinforce this trajectory. Earlier this year, Turkish Space Agency President Yusuf Kıraç was elected Chair of the Asia-Pacific Space Cooperation Organization (APSCO) Council—Türkiye is a founding member of the organization since 2006—becoming the first Turkish representative to assume this role.[3] The 2026 central government budget allocates approximately 8.7 billion Turkish lira (around US$270 million) for space and aerospace programs, while hosting the International Astronautical Congress (IAC) 2026 in Antalya further positions Türkiye as a platform for global space dialogue.[4] Türkiye also participates actively in global space governance as a party to all five UN space treaties and a member of key institutions including COPUOS, ITU, APSCO, COSPAR, EUMETSAT, IAF, EURISY, APRSAF, and ICG. Regionally, it plays a convening role within the Organization of Turkic States through initiatives such as the CubeSat project and the Space Explorers Academy, while maintaining bilateral cooperation with partners across Europe, Eurasia, the Middle East, and Africa.[5] Technological milestones further reflect this progress. With the development of Türksat-6A, Türkiye has become the 11th country to design, produce, and operate sophisticated GEO communications satellites within a sovereign national program. As of March 2025, Türkiye operates nine active government-controlled satellites: six communications satellites—Türksat-3A, 4A, 4B, 5A, 5B, 6A—and three Earth observation satellites: Göktürk-1, Göktürk-2, and İMECE or Göktürk 2B, the country’s first sub-meter resolution satellite with domestically developed optical systems.[6][7] Investments in science missions and critical technologies, including the first Turkish astronaut and science mission with 20 scientific experiments on ISS and suborbital flights in 2024. DeltaV’s indigenous hybrid propulsion development as well as TUBITAK UZAY’s indigenously developed hardware (e.g.,Tstar platforms and HALE) will be critical for the Lunar Mission of Türkiye, with its first phase being a high-impact landing on the lunar surface scheduled for 2027.[8][9] Taken together, these developments provide much of the strategic “raw material” necessary for effective space diplomacy and showcase the country’s growing role in regional and global space diplomacy. Institutionalizing space diplomacy as a pillar of Türkiye’s grand strategy In earlier analyses by the author, institutionalizing space diplomacy was proposed as a pillar of Türkiye’s grand strategy.[8] Within this framework, mechanisms such as a Turkish National Space Council and a Space Diplomacy Task Force could help align technological achievements with long-term strategic objectives and translate technological capability into sustained diplomatic influence. Translating this capacity into sustained diplomatic impact will require institutionalizing space diplomacy through clearer policy frameworks, stronger interagency coordination, and specialized expertise. In this context, preparatory work on the proposal for a Space Diplomacy Task Force, developed by the author, is currently underway and will be submitted to the relevant institutions. Also, the country’s space efforts would be strengthened with the establishment of a separate national space policy document prepared by interdisciplinary space experts, followed by a national space law in the longer term. Another critical dimension for practicing successful space diplomacy is investing in interdisciplinary specialized human capital. The future of space diplomacy will increasingly depend on Turkish space diplomats (e.g., space attaches, counselors, and interdisciplinary-trained career diplomats) serving as bridges through their interdisciplinary expertise and practice that connects space sciences, engineering, security, economy, law, policy, and international relations. Türkiye should invest in such specialized human capital that will make the country better positioned to navigate the governance challenges of the expanding and increasingly intertwined nature of space affairs. References Andolu Agency. “From Orbit to Results: Turkey's Space Diplomacy Course” Elif Yüksel. “Redefining space diplomacy for the 21st century: from orbits to outcomes.” SpaceNews, September 26, 2025. TUA. “Historical Success in Space Diplomacy: TUA President Yusuf Kıraç elected as APSCO Council President” December 8, 2025. MERKEZİ YÖNETİM BÜTÇE ÖDENEKLERİNİN PROGRAMLARA GÖRE DAĞILIMI (2026-2028) Organization of Turkish States. “Cooperation in the space area” Turksat. “Satellite Fleet.” TÜBİTAK. “İMECE Satellite Taken into the Air Forces Command Inventory as GÖKTÜRK-2B” May 27, 2025. Delta V. “TÜRKİYE'S PROPULSION POWER” TÜBİTAK. Catalog. Elif Yüksel. “Why institutionalizing space diplomacy should be a pillar of Turkey’s grand strategy.” The Atlantic Council, October 23, 2025. Elif Yüksel is a Turkish pioneer in space diplomacy and space policy. She is a Fulbright Scholar, Space Policy Institute Fellow, and an alumna of the International Space University. Currently, she works as an advisor and consultant for several private space companies and organizations and voluntarily serves as an Ambassador for the AstroAid Foundation.

The Twinstar Mission Concept

Twinstar The TWINSTAR starshade in its compact, origami-wrapped launch configuration, designed to fit within standard rocket fairings for transport to the Sun-Earth L2 point. (credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech) The TWINSTAR mission concept: A pragmatic path to finding Earth 2.0 by Sherine Ahmed El Baradei Monday, April 27, 2026 The search for a “Twin Earth”—a terrestrial world orbiting a Sun-like star with a breathable atmosphere—is the defining challenge of modern astrophysics. The Astrophysics 2020 Decadal Survey (National Academies, 2021) explicitly identified “Pathways to Habitable Worlds” as a top priority. However, the engineering hurdle is staggering: isolating the light of a planet from the overwhelming glare of its parent star requires a contrast ratio of 10-10, the equivalent to spotting a firefly next to a searchlight from thousands of miles away. A $3–5 billion budget—a parameter refined through mission studies at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University—is significant enough to support a four-meter-class observatory and a complex starshade, yet remains lean enough to be developed and launched within a single decade. To bridge this gap, the TWINSTAR (Terrestrial Worlds Identification Near Sun-like Targets through Advanced Reconnaissance) mission concept offers a solution designed to balance high-level science with fiscal reality. By combining a four-meter telescope with an external starshade at the Sun-Earth L2 Lagrange point, this architecture bypasses the most punishing stability requirements of current designs while fitting into a strategic $3–5 billion budget window. The “strategic middle”: why $3–5 billion? In the current NASA funding landscape, missions often fall into two extremes: “Probes” capped at $1 billion, and “Flagships” like the Habitable Worlds Observatory (HWO), which may exceed $11 billion. TWINSTAR targets the “strategic middle.” A $3–5 billion budget—a parameter refined through mission studies at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University—is significant enough to support a four-meter-class observatory and a complex starshade, yet remains lean enough to be developed and launched within a single decade. This cost-cap is achieved by aggressive “heritage-harvesting”: using existing, flight-proven technologies rather than inventing new ones (Larson & Wertz, 2018). The technology choice: the external starshade A primary debate in exoplanet imaging involves the method of starlight suppression: an internal coronagraph or an external starshade. While internal coronagraphs have significant heritage, they demand picometer-level (one trillionth of a meter) wavefront stability. TWINSTAR instead utilizes an external starshade, a separate spacecraft flying tens of thousands of kilometers ahead of the observatory (Seager, 2010). One of the most innovative aspects of this technology is its deployment. Because of its massive scale (more than 30 meters in diameter), the starshade cannot fit into any existing rocket fairing while fully expanded. Instead, it is launched in a highly compact, origami-like stowed configuration. Once in space, it unfurls like a mechanical flower, expanding from a tightly packed cylinder into a precise geometric “sunflower” shape. This shape is specifically engineered to diffract light away from the telescope’s aperture, creating a “dark hole” in the starlight where the planet’s faint reflection can finally be captured (NASA Exoplanet Exploration Program, n.d.). Twinstar An intermediate stage of the “origami” deployment, illustrating how the starshade petals unfurl in space to reach their full diameter. (credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech) To maintain the $3–5 billion budget, the choice of the spacecraft “bus” and its orbital destination are critical. The TWINSTAR concept utilizes the Sun-Earth L2 Lagrange point. This specific orbit is chosen because it offers an exceptionally stable thermal environment, far from the heat radiation of Earth. At L2, the observatory can maintain a constant orientation, keeping the sunshield positioned to block the Sun, Earth, and Moon simultaneously. This allows for the ultra-stable, long-duration exposures required to resolve faint planetary signals. Table 1: Comparative trade spacecraft bus suitability Criteria Hubble (HST) Nancy Grace Roman TWINSTAR (JWST-Derived) Orbit Low Earth Orbit (LEO) Sun-Earth L2 Sun-Earth L2 Thermal Stability Low (Day/Night cycles) Moderate (Stable L2) High (Cryogenic Sunshield) Pointing Specs 7 mas stability Milli-arcsecond class Milli-arcsecond class Cost Risk High (Legacy tech) Moderate Low (Active production) Suitability Low Moderate-High High (Optimal for Direct Imaging) By leveraging a JWST-derived bus (NASA GSFC, 2023), TWINSTAR gains the benefit of billions of dollars already spent on research and development. This platform is already flight-proven to provide the passive cooling and extreme stability required to keep the starshade and telescope aligned across 30,000 kilometers of empty space. Science traceability and target detectability The mission design is governed by a Science Traceability Matrix (STM) that links the goal of finding life to the physics of the telescope (Des Marais et al., 2002): Science Goal: Detect habitable exoplanets and search for biosignatures (oxygen, water). Physical Requirement: Achieve 10-10 contrast at an Inner Working Angle (IWA) less than or equal to 0.1 arcsec. Instrument Solution: A four-meter telescope, 34-meter starshade, and a visible/near-infrared spectrometer (0.4–1.6 µm). The feasibility of this approach is validated by calculating the IWA. A 4.0-meter aperture provides an IWA of 39.29 milliarcseconds (mas). As shown in the detection results below, this allows for the clear resolution of habitable zones (HZ) around our nearest stellar neighbors: Table 2: Target detectability calculations Target Star Distance (pc) Habitable Zone (mas) Detection Result Alpha Cen A 1.3 746 Confirmed (Clear resolution) 18 Scorpii 14.1 74 Confirmed (Clear resolution) HD 98649 38.0 25 Rejected (Planet hidden by IWA) Managing risk and heritage Despite the reliance on heritage, TWINSTAR must manage significant technical risks (Mankins, 1995). The dominant risk is the starshade starlight-suppression system, which currently sits at a Technology Readiness Level (TRL) of 5–6. Because no full-scale operational starshade has yet been flown, the precision required for formation flying—maintaining sub-meter alignment between two spacecraft separated by thousands of kilometers—remains a tall pole for the mission (NASA, 2020). To mitigate this, the mission plan recommends a precursor technology demonstration. Furthermore, by using Roman and JWST-class detectors in the spectrometer suite (Beletic et al., 2008), the mission keeps its instrument TRL at a high 7–8, ensuring that the primary development focus remains on the starshade’s mechanical deployment and station-keeping. Conclusion The TWINSTAR mission concept represents a scientifically robust and programmatically feasible pathway to fulfilling the Astro2020 goals. By decoupling the telescope’s size from its contrast capability via a starshade and utilizing a JWST-class bus architecture, the mission offers a high-reward search for life that respects the fiscal constraints of the modern era. The mission stands ready to provide the first definitive spectral fingerprint of a living world beyond our own. Selected references Beletic, J. W., et al. (2008). Teledyne Imaging Sensors: Infrared imaging technologies for astronomy. Proceedings of SPIE. Des Marais, D. J., et al. (2002). Remote sensing of planetary properties and biosignatures. Astrobiology. Larson, W. J., & Wertz, J. R. (2018). Space Mission Engineering: The New SMAD. Mankins, J. C. (1995). Technology Readiness Levels: A White Paper. NASA. National Academies of Sciences. (2021). Pathways to Discovery in Astronomy and Astrophysics for the 2020s. NASA GSFC. (2023). James Webb Space Telescope Project Documents. Seager, S. (2010). Exoplanet Atmospheres: Physical Processes. Dr. Sherine Ahmed El Baradei is an international expert and Associate Professor in Civil Engineering with over 20 years of research and teaching experience at leading academic institutions. She holds a PhD in Hydraulics and Irrigation Engineering from Cairo University, as well as a Master’s in Environmental Engineering and a Bachelor’s in Construction Engineering from the American University in Cairo. With over 35 refereed journal publications, she is currently pursuing an MSc in Space Systems at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University and holds an Astronomy certification from the University of Arizona. Recognized by the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs (UNOOSA) as a featured Space4Water Professional, she founded the Space-Water-Environment Nexus e-Center under the Pan-African Citizen Science e-Lab. In 2025, she was awarded a prestigious prize in Brussels, Belgium, funded by the European Union’s Marie Skłodowska-Curie Actions, for her service as Egypt’s national representative to the Mediterranean Science Team.

How The ISS Shaped The Culture of Artemis II

ship-to-ship call Astronauts on the ISS (left) and Orion during a ship-to-ship call as part of the Artemis 2 mission, as seen from Mission Control. (credit: NASA JSC/Robert Markowitz) Mirroring mango salad: How ISS culture shaped Artemis 2 by Deana L. Weibel Monday, April 20, 2026 Artemis 2 has frequently been described as humans returning to the Moon,[1] and it has sometimes been seen as an attempt to pick up where the Apollo missions left off. In truth, however, the Artemis missions, specifically Artemis 2, aren’t exactly either one of those things. The Apollo missions took place in a completely different time period, with a different level of access to technology and during an era when space exploration itself was still new. More than 50 years later, the Artemis 2 mission reflects a transformation that is not just about the use of new programming and equipment but also a significantly changed culture. This was not a conversation between strangers, nor did it resemble the more structured, and even awkward, exchanges the Artemis crew had with politicians or journalists. Artemis 2 follows naturally from decades of astronauts living and working in space aboard the International Space Station. The difference we see is not where the crew went. The difference is who the members of the Artemis 2 crew were when they got there. This is a group shaped not just by training, but by lived experience in space. Their time in low Earth orbit gave them a deep and familiar understanding of how to exist and operate in microgravity. That experience influenced everything that followed. A phone call for history On April 9, shortly before the Integrity capsule splashed down to Earth, the crew of the International Space Station and the crew of the Orion spacecraft Integrity were connected through NASA for what was described as a space-to-space phone call. Present on Integrity were Commander Reid Wiseman, Christina Koch, Victor Glover, and first-time astronaut Jeremy Hansen. Aboard the ISS during the call were Commander Jessica Meir, ESA astronaut Sophie Adenot, Jack Hathaway, and Christopher Williams. The three cosmonauts on the ISS did not take part. The conversation began following protocol, with a commander-to-commander exchange. Formality soon disappeared, and the tone became very relaxed. Although the audio could only pick up whoever had the microphone at a given moment, it was clear from the visuals that voices were overlapping and that the conversation was filled with lighthearted banter and laughter. The rhythm of the interaction felt comfortable rather than tentative. This was not a conversation between strangers, nor did it resemble the more structured, and even awkward, exchanges the Artemis crew had with politicians or journalists. Instead, it felt like a friendly communication between two groups of people who had worked with each other for different periods of time. The ease of the interaction was immediately apparent. Early in the call, Jessica Meir said, “We feel like we have you with us, and this is just making our entire week right now.” Reid Wiseman replied, “We have been waiting on this like you can’t imagine.”[2] Throughout the conversation, there was laughter, as well as gestures of encouragement and agreement. As a group used to communicating with only one available microphone, both crews were practiced in expressing agreement through body language as well as speech. Astronauts were frequently communicating physically rather than verbally, using clapping, miming, thumbs-up gestures, and even a Hawaiian shaka to convey meaning. It might seem that a mission traveling far beyond Earth’s orbit for the first time in more than 50 years would involve communication that was more formal or more cautious. Conversation during the Apollo missions ranged from formal to informal but radio exchanges between two spacecraft—for instance, between the Lunar Module and the Command Module—were more focused on the business at hand. In contrast, the Artemis-ISS call felt very much like people who cared about each other catching up after time spent apart. The interaction did not reflect uncertainty or distance, but familiarity and shared experience. That familiarity is one of the most important clues to understanding what Artemis 2 represents. It is not simply a return to the Moon, but a mission shaped by decades of living and working in space. ship-to-ship call The Artemis 2 crew during the ship-to-ship call. (credit: NASA) An experienced crew One of the most striking aspects of the Artemis 2 mission is just how experienced the crew was before they ever set out into deep space. These were by far the most seasoned space travelers ever to travel so far from Earth. Christina Koch spent more than 300 days in space before undertaking the mission, while both Victor Glover and Reid Wiseman had spent more than 160 days in low Earth orbit. Only Jeremy Hansen was a true first-time astronaut. The experience that three-quarters of the crew brought with them was not abstract or obtained primarily through simulations or high-performance aircraft but instead came from living and working in space over extended periods of time. The experience that three-quarters of the crew brought with them was not abstract or obtained primarily through simulations or high-performance aircraft but instead came from living and working in space over extended periods of time. This was a group of people who already had a deep and familiar understanding of how to live in space. They knew how to sleep, how to brush their teeth, how to clean their hair, and how the small, everyday customs of life in microgravity work. They were even experienced with repairing faulty spacecraft plumbing. The Apollo astronauts were all extraordinary, but none had anything like this kind of long-duration space experience before traveling to the Moon. Several had undertaken multiple missions, but none had the embodied knowledge that comes from weeks or months spent aboard a space station. Artemis 2 should therefore be acknowledged as the first NASA mission where astronauts with extensive lived experience in microgravity were sent beyond Earth’s orbit. What these astronauts learned on the ISS made a visible difference in how they behaved on Integrity. The call’s conversation was relaxed, playful, and confident. Everyone involved, with the possible exception of Hansen, was operating in an environment they already understood. They were not figuring out how to exist in space as they went along. Instead, they were extending habits and expectations developed on the space station. This difference shaped the interaction in subtle but important ways. Moments of shared identity One of the clearest examples of this familiarity came in a brief exchange about food that gives this article its title. Reid Wiseman brought up the topic of meals, noting that both crews were eating the same pre-made meals, including sweet-and-sour chicken and spicy green beans. He then said, “We want to know what you’re eating and we’re going to mirror you today.” Both crews laughed as Christopher Williams said he’d had the spicy green beans for lunch. ESA astronaut Sophie Adenot then added, “I had a mango salad this morning. I think you have this on board too.” Jessica Meir took the microphone and addressed Christina Koch by her nickname, saying, “Oh Nana, I know you love that mango salad just like I do.” Glover confirmed that Koch’s mango salad was “on the deck right now!”[3] This exchange was not small talk. It was a shared memory, or at least shared knowledge, drawn from time spent together in orbit or from weeks of life aboard the ISS. It reflected a level of recognition that develops through extended experience in the same environment. It also demonstrated how even small details can signal belonging within a shared cultural environment, even in outer space. Another moment that demonstrated this shared culture had to do with cohort identity. The astronauts participating in the call, apart from Adenot, all belonged to specific NASA astronaut classes. “The Chumps” from 2009 included Hansen and Wiseman. The following group, known as the “8-Balls” from 2013, included Koch, Glover, and Meir. The most recent group, “The Flies” from 2022, included Williams and Hathaway. These cohort names signal shared training history and create recognizable subgroups within larger interactions. They also reflect long-standing relationships that extend beyond any single mission. The 8-Balls dynamic was particularly strong during the call. Koch, Glover, and Meir interacted with emotional warmth, shared humor, and rapid conversational rhythm. At one point, Koch referred affectionately to Meir as her “astro-sister.” Their interaction felt less like something formal and more like the kind of communication seen among close peers or family members. This kind of relationship is built over time and reinforced through shared experience. Admitting inexperience Jeremy Hansen’s role in the conversation highlighted another aspect of astronaut culture. Although his selection in 2009 placed him among the more senior astronauts in terms of cohort, the fact that he had not flown until April 2026 made him the most junior in terms of actual flight experience. This created an interesting dynamic in which formal seniority and practical experience did not align. Hansen responded to this situation not by asserting his cohort status, but by emphasizing his inexperience in a humorous and self-aware way. Rather than being a continuation or replication of Apollo, then, Artemis actually fulfills the promise of the International Space Station. When asked about whether anything funny had happened, Hansen described a mistake he had made during training: “I just had a process escape on my water training up here. I left the PWD valve open a bit too long.” His voice rising in volume, he continued, “Now I will say I’m not the only one to have done this, but I do have the record so far for the largest process escape.” The response from both crews was immediate. Laughter broke out, and Koch used her hands to mime the size of the floating water leak, apparently more than a foot across. Hansen’s willingness to tell the story, and to frame it humorously, made him more relatable and reinforced his place within the group. The idea of being a “rookie” in this context is not a fixed category. It is situational and performed in real time. Hansen’s humor and the crew’s response placed him inside the group as a full participant, with his mistake creating a shared moment rather than setting him apart. This kind of interaction demonstrates how status is negotiated through communication rather than determined solely by formal hierarchy. ship-to-ship call The ISS crew during the ship-to-ship call. (credit: NASA) A culture of collegiality Another example of shared understanding came through several references by Koch to the ISS crew’s activities, demonstrating her deep awareness of the other team. She said to Christopher Williams about his March 18th spacewalk with Meir, “Chris, it was awesome to watch you and Jessica go out on a spacewalk. I was lucky enough to sit console for your suit-up.” Later, referring to another activity that had likely been rescheduled due to the successful launch and return of Artemis 2, Koch told Meir, “Sorry to steal your… spacewalk day.”[4] Scheduling shifts are common in space operations, where priorities must be balanced across multiple missions. Koch’s comments showed awareness of ISS operations and acknowledged the impact of the Artemis mission on the station crew’s plans. Her remarks were specific, informed, and aligned her with their experience rather than placing her mission above theirs. This reflects a type of humility often seen in the astronauts I’ve interviewed that recognizes and validates the work of others in the larger community.[5] Astronauts do not simply train for spaceflight. They learn how to live physically in space and how to coexist with other people in space. An astronaut I call by the pseudonym Alan (anthropologists typically use pseudonyms to protect research participants’ confidentiality) described arriving on the ISS as being like a house guest who needs to learn the basics of an unfamiliar home, like learning where the towels are. This kind of knowledge is not procedural. It is cultural, passed from one crew to another through experience. Another astronaut, “Beverly,” told me that when she “interviewed people to be astronauts, my whole thing was would I want to spend six months in a small place with this person?” The space station is not just a workplace. It is a system for living and working together over long periods of time, and the way activities and interactions happen there shapes how astronauts interact, make decisions, and understand their environment. During the space-to-space phone call Victor Glover made this point by explicitly comparing culture on the ISS with what was possible on Integrity. After being asked what surprised him on the journey he mentioned the feeling of the translunar injection and the amazing view of the Moon but also brought up a bit of mission-based culture shock. He explained, “How we move around and eat, those things have also been surprising. Because the difference between ISS and here is we don't have another module to deconflict, and so everything we do essentially starts with a spatial conflict and we have to take the time to work it out in every activity.”[6] (Deconfliction refers to mapping out the location of different spacecraft, setting aside different workspaces, etc. so that operations run smoothly. Glover is essentially noting that the Integrity is a much smaller place to live than the ISS.) This example brings home just how much the experience of living and working on ISS informs living and working on Integrity. Astronauts’ shared experiences on the ISS shape how they move, how they communicate, how they make decisions, and how they interact. Conclusion There has been some discussion about whether a flyby mission should count as going to the Moon. NASA has never defined lunar travel solely in terms of landing. Apollo 13 astronauts Fred Haise and Jack Swigert neither landed on the Moon nor conducted a standard lunar orbit , yet they are still counted among the 24 people who have gone to the Moon.[7] (Apollo 13 was meant to orbit the Moon and include a lunar landing, but its infamous accident meant that the crew only experienced a lunar flyby, very similar to the flyby done by Artemis 2. I don’t mention Jim Lovell here because he did do a standard orbit of the Moon as an Apollo 8 astronaut.) By that same standard, the Artemis 2 crew has also gone to the Moon. The question of whether the mission “counts” is therefore not especially meaningful within NASA’s own historical framework. The call showed that what astronauts have learned in low Earth orbit will define space culture moving forward. Some observers have dismissed Artemis 2 as a repetition of earlier achievements. This perspective misses many important achievements of the mission but also its cultural significance beyond important demographic firsts. The experience and background of the crew are meaningfully different from those of the Apollo astronauts, influencing what they did, what they paid attention to, how they made decisions, and how they interacted with one another. Rather than being a continuation or replication of Apollo, then, Artemis actually fulfills the promise of the International Space Station. The ISS, built and operated by international teams, was designed for and expects cultural diversity among its crew members, serving as a model for harmonious cooperation. The stage for this was set when NASA changed its recruitment approaches in 1978, seeking excellence among applicants from groups that had been excluded previously when piloting skills were given priority.[8] This diversity was reflected in Artemis 2. The crew brought a range of backgrounds, experiences, and perspectives that shaped how the mission was experienced and understood, a change that had an impact beyond the crew itself, influencing how different groups of people on Earth related to the mission. It became clear, for example, how important it was to Canadians that Jeremy Hansen had gone to the Moon.[9] Many people in the African American community were deeply engaged with Victor Glover’s experience.[10] Christina Koch’s presence made a profound difference for women and girls, who could now say that one of their own had traveled to the Moon.[11] These responses show that who goes to space matters as much as where they go. Given all of this, the ease between the crews of the International Space Station and Integrity during their space-to-space call was not surprising. It was the result of shared experience and shared culture. In the context of how culture changes, is shared, and unites people, Artemis 2 was less a sister to Apollo and more the child of the International Space Station. It showed that what astronauts have learned in low Earth orbit will define space culture moving forward. The ISS has spent nearly 30 years as a workspace and home, the birthplace of a new culture with its own customs, understandings, and even foodstuffs like mango salad. Glover, Koch, and Wiseman did not arrive at the Moon as novices encountering something entirely new. Instead, they arrived as people who already knew how to live in outer space because of long months spent on the ISS. And their crewmate, Jeremy Hansen, is an even newer type of astronaut: one who has learned to live in space while Moon-bound, perhaps the first member of a truly lunar community. Bibliography Creech, Steve, John Guidi, and Darcy Elburn. "Artemis: An overview of NASA's activities to return humans to the moon." In 2022 ieee aerospace conference (aero), pp. 1-7. IEEE, 2022. McNeal, Stephanie. “The NASA Artemis II Mission Is a Rare Hopecore Moment for the Girls.” Glamour, April 9, 2026. Mobley, Cedric. “Honorary Howard Alumnus Victor Glover Pilots Spacecraft around the Moon and Farther than Any Human Has Ever Traveled.” The Dig at Howard University, April 3, 2026. NASA. “Spaceship-To-Spaceship Call - NASA,” April 10, 2026. Pope, Alexandra. “Iconic Moments from the Artemis II Mission to the Moon and Back.” Canadiangeographic.ca. Canadian Geographic, April 10, 2026. science.nasa.gov. “Who Has Walked on the Moon? - NASA Science,” February 26, 2026. Swanson, Glen E. “Chief Communicator: How Star Trek’s Lieutenant Uhura Helped NASA.” The Space Review, August 15, 2022. Weibel, Deana L. The Ultraview Effect. University of California Press, 2026. Endnotes Marshall Smith et al., “The Artemis Program: An Overview of NASA’s Activities to Return Humans to the Moon.” “Spaceship-To-Spaceship Call - NASA,” NASA. “Spaceship-To-Spaceship Call - NASA,” NASA. “Spaceship-To-Spaceship Call - NASA,” NASA. Deana L Weibel, The Ultraview Effect. “Spaceship-To-Spaceship Call - NASA,” NASA. “Who Has Walked on the Moon? - NASA Science.” Glen E. Swanson, “Chief Communicator: How Star Trek’s Lieutenant Uhura Helped NASA.” Alexandra Pope, “Iconic Moments from the Artemis II Mission to the Moon and Back.” Cedric Mobley, “Honorary Howard Alumnus Victor Glover Pilots Spacecraft around the Moon and Farther than Any Human Has Ever Traveled.” Stephanie McNeal, “The NASA Artemis II Mission Is a Rare Hopecore Moment for the Girls.” Deana L. Weibel, Ph.D. is a Professor of Anthropology at Grand Valley State University with a joint appointment in GVSU’s School of Interdisciplinary Studies. She has held a lifelong interest in pilgrimage, tourism, and scientific expeditions. A member of the American Anthropological Association and a Fellow of the Explorers Club (and current chair of the Chicago/Great Lakes Chapter of the latter), Weibel has conducted ethnographic field research in a number of settings, including the Black Madonna shrine of Rocamadour, France; Spaceport America; and the Vatican Observatory. Her forthcoming book, The Ultraview Effect: What We Can Learn from Astronauts about Awe, Humility, and Exploring the Unknown, will be published by University of California Press in May 2026. You can learn more at http://www.deanaweibel.space.