Nexus 2: Sins of the Past: Sontem Trilogy, #2

By Nicolas Wilson

Captain Drew Anderson and the crew of the Nexus embraced their decision to cut themselves off from the homeworld and parent company, Sontem. But their former coworkers have other ideas, and now Sontem's other ship, the Argus, is coming for the Nexus.
Learning to be a democracy has its growing pains, and the crew is still struggling to work together. But the Argus' chase threatens their new life, and the worlds they've encountered along their way. The Nexus' crew can capitulate...or face the annihilation of millions.
Nexus 2 is the second book in The Sontem Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicolas Wilson
• Release date: Jun 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513087276

Nicolas Wilson

Nicolas Wilson is a published journalist, graphic novelist, and novelist. He lives in the rainy wastes of Portland, Oregon with his wife, four cats and a dog. Nic's work spans a variety of genres, from political thriller to science fiction and urban fantasy. He has several novels currently available, and many more due for release in the next year. Nic's stories are characterized by his eye for the absurd, the off-color, and the bombastic. For information on Nic's books, and behind-the-scenes looks at his writing, visit nicolaswilson.com.

Book preview

For Jeff, for keeping my Nexus(es) running, and making my mother happy.

One

My ship was the most advanced vessel humanity had ever created, and it was being hunted through the cosmos by something bigger and faster, and commanded by one of only a few bigger bastards in our species than me.

I hated keeping his message from the crew. They deserved to know what was chasing us. But I also knew what the recording would do to morale. I cued it up, and played it again in my own head. Captain Anderson Grant, he said, then he laughed. "Your transmission amused me, but either you were playing the fool, or are one, and either way, I feel a certain...obligation to disabuse you of some misunderstandings. You want to know why I’m still pursuing the Nexus. Why does a slave-catcher pursue a runaway slave?"

I’d thought about that one, and the closest answer I’d come up with was because they had small dicks, socioeconomically and literally, and beating on a man in chains made them feel significant, or at least made their own chains chafe a little less.

Your record doesn’t impress me. That they gave you command of the ship after mine actively insults me. Your service was laughable. You haven’t the stones for war, which makes it so much funnier to me that you fired the first shots in this one. When I kill you, when I make you watch me murder every man and woman placed in your care, and when you watch the last remaining pieces of your ship burn up in a star, that will be me putting the universe right again. You brought this on yourself—and you brought it on your crew. It’s been too long since I’ve made war on men. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to do it again.

The ship no longer smelled new and clean. In places, you could still get a whiff of the burnt hair from where the Meh Teh casualties were especially high. I closed my eyes, wanting to hear Dickbite yelling at a SecOff; I wanted an excuse to punch someone without feeling like a bully, even if that meant his sensitivity classes weren't taking.

Maggie had talked about that—my need for destruction in the absence of control—or even just my desire to control. She thought it was unhealthy. I don't know that I disagreed, but ants want to be God—that's only natural. It doesn't change their lot in life, or how screwed they are in the grand scheme of things, but it seemed counter-productive to me to point out my newfound powerlessness, as if not wanting to be vulnerable was the issue.

We talked about that, too—me projecting my frustrations onto her. I wanted to fight the Argus—its entire oversized military contingent. I couldn't. Their ship was built for war; ours was built to withstand it if a reasonable opponent brought it—but not to take on a ship like the Argus, which said nothing of how thoroughly outgunned we were against three times as many soldiers as we had crew.

I'd been thinking that over. Elle wasn't going to like it, but as head of the security section, she certainly knew better than I did that pitting an inferior security force against numerically superior, battle-hardened military officers was not going to work out in our favor. She was going to hit me, probably a lot. And that got me thinking further. Elle? I asked, and Haley routed my throatmic over the comms. An instant later, she popped up on my eyescreen overlay.

Yeah? she asked. She was annoyed, because she knew there wasn't anything official going on: no fights, no briefings.

Up for a spar? I asked.

Against you? she asked, and couldn't stifle a laugh fast enough. I don't know. My schedule's already pretty full up. I had that baby I was going to take candy from, and that one-legged guy challenged me to an ass-kicking contest.

I'd skip out on that last one; guy's a perv. Gets off on all the ass-contact.

She smiled.

All right. But don't expect me to go easy on you.

I knew her far too well for that.

I practically ran down to the exercise deck. She was already on the women’s side of the dressing room. It struck me as odd that the company had basically treated us like cattle, selected us based around our value as breeding stock, but hadn’t opted for a co-ed locker room.

Bill, the head of engineering, told me that it had more to do with traffic. In a facility this size, you were bound to run into foot traffic concerns if you didn’t have more than one changing room. And if you were going to have at least two, gendering them made a kind of sense, and did make for a moderate reduction in harassment and sex-related assaults—not that either was particularly prevalent in a community this size, with this little privacy.

Staring at her location on my HUDmap, it was hard not to use an executive override on any one of a dozen security cameras there were in the changing room—presuming they hadn’t removed that authority. I hadn’t tested, but now, I was tempted. It wasn’t like I hadn’t ever seen Elle naked before.

I wouldn’t, Elle came over the comms.

Excuse me? I asked, and smiled, because she’d been smart enough to disable her portrait on comms before hailing me.

I wouldn’t spy on a woman in the changing room who is moments away from beating on you. I didn’t have a reply. You’re nothing if not predictable. But you’re also not a lonely perv anymore, so quit flirting with the idea and get dressed.

I dressed in what was essentially a short-sleeve and short-legged version of my uniform, and a set of shoes with extra grip on them. Elle was stretching, and I made a concerted effort not to take advantage of the view, but stopped beside her and helped her extend a stretch. I had you on camera, she said. And you were staring at the wall like you were trying to will it to transparency.

"So you were watching me on camera, to make sure I didn’t watch you on camera. Seems a little hypocritical."

Unless, of course, as head of security it’s my job to monitor the ship, including its chief officer—sometimes including protecting him from himself. Or from Sam.

Touché, I said, smiling. We did some Tai Chi to warm up. I usually found it relaxing and meditative, but I was too full of nervous energy for it to hit the spot, so I broke off early and circled her in a fighting stance.

She sighed. She enjoyed sparring with me. But she was also in better shape, and I don’t think she enjoyed beating me as thoroughly as  usual.

We traded a few jabs. It was like dancing. I remembered, before Dalaxia, about her complaining once that it was probably the closest she was going to get to dancing with me. 

She dropped her guard, like she always did. I wanted to hit her—not for all that had passed between us, but because I didn't want her to die, and because unless she learned not to drop that guard, there was a very real possibility it could get her killed. If I didn't first.

But the Argus was still quite a ways away from catching us—there was still about a one in three probability it never would—and right now, I needed a pop in the face more than she did.

So I telegraphed the hell out of a punch, swung so wide that even if she hadn’t been prone to react, I probably would have missed her. She sidestepped and hit me with a rabbit punch in the kidney, then used my hair for leverage to expose my face. And that was when she realized we’d been here before, done this dance a dozen times—and that even out of practice as I was, I wasn’t this shit a fighter. But that pissed her off enough she took the swing anyway, and smashed me in the face.

Elle had always impressed me with how hard she hit. She wasn't a big woman, or a muscular one, but lean, like a swimmer. I went down, and knew it was going to swell up from the impact. That meant I should swing by medical to get a shot of something to combat the swelling.

That hurt us. Just. Like. Last. Time. My brainworms complained so loudly I was surprised Elle didn't respond to them, but since she didn't, I ignored them.

I was dazed enough it took me a moment to realize she was still hovering above me. That's the last time I kick your ass for you. Work your shit out with Maggie.

I wanted to get up, but the flesh was very, very uncooperative. That was actually embarrassing, Dave said, kicking off the gym wall.

How long have you been there? I asked.

Most of the entire time.

Want to help me up? I asked, holding out my hand.

No. You look heavy. And I haven’t warmed up. He gave me a hand anyway.

How’s our course?

Unpredictable, he said with a grin. Moments like these, I remembered he wasn't far removed from a boy. He had an impressive enough record as a pilot and navigator, but he was barely technically a man. But that was true of most of the crew. They selected first for breeding health and compatibility. The division heads were the sole exception, and I was one of the older ones. "Haley’s a good half-generation ahead of the Argus AI, and I keep adding in little human elements to the navigation to make us that little extra bit less anticipatable. Specifically, this morning I added an interesting little detour, using one of the larger moons in this system to pull us towards a gas giant, then using its gravity to spin us off in an entirely different direction."

And SciDiv still don’t think that will be enough? I asked as he hobbled me into the changing room.

He averted his eyes and continued while I dressed. "According to their monitoring, between deep-space probes, long-range scanning, and having a higher maximum speed on their star drive, the best we can do is keep our chances of running into them in the middle sixties."

But that’s lifetime—that sometime in the next roughly fifty years, we’ll bump into them.

Right, he said. "But both are generational ships. It might be fair to assume that once the crew starts hunting us, they’re going to keep at it, even if the ones who catch us two hundred years from now are a different crew entirely—their many times over great-grand kids."

"I’m not banking on outlasting our pursuers. But if we can keep this up long enough, maybe they realize that a six in ten chance of success isn’t worth wasting their lives on."

It’s a crap bet, he said. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a better solution. But it's stressing everybody out.

Our navigator more than most? I asked.

He shrugged, but the tension showed on his face. "They got close—too close, around Maganda. We’re operating with no room for error here. We got away by getting them to chase that probe, but we don’t have time to set up an ambush, or anything, really. So we run. And I’m devoting all of my brainspace to it; I wake up plotting courses around stars. It's maybe hardest on me and my division, but it's hard on everybody."

I know, I sighed.

You really should get that eye looked at. It’s starting to look like a grapefruit a well-endowed orangutan made into his girlfriend.

Made into his... My face was too swollen to make it into the confused shape it should be. Like he ate it, then used his girlfriend as a toilet for it?

What? No. Like he masturbated into a grapefruit. What's wrong with you?

Possibly a concussion. But regardless, that’s an unpleasant thought.

Well it’s an unpleasant thing to look at. A toilet flushed, and an engineer popped out of one of the stalls. He glared at both of us, then shook his head and walked away. Without washing his hands, and yet, somehow he had the nerve to be judgmental.  I’ll walk you to MedDiv, just in case you really are concussed—though from the way she smacked you around, gloves or no, I’m pretty sure you are.

Walking with Dave, the ship felt less empty, less lonesome. Perhaps that was because I'd already seen him grow into his leadership role in his division, and his growth ran parallel to our maturation as a community.

"Speaking of knocking around—particularly in the direction of up, how are things with you and big ‘un?" I asked, and pantomimed a swollen, pregnant belly.

You mean since she had her little ‘un? he asked. Had it really been that long? Well, I’ll put it this way. You know how when couples get older, and sometimes one partner starts to get bigger, and the other partner eventually gets up the courage to ask them to tap the brakes on the Twinkies? The opposite of that.

So you’re encouraging her to get fat?

"More just discouraging her from shedding the baby bump. And she did not take it well when I said I liked her bigness. At least I had the foresight not to say we started dating entirely because of her bigness. But every time she goes to the gym, I’m a little less attracted to her. And is that wrong? It’s not that it hurts the rest of our relationship, but it’s getting kind of strange that I’m having to pull memories of her about to pop out of my spank bank when she tries to seduce me. Otherwise, we still get along just fine. She’s nice."

I know that high-pitched tone, though.

"I know. It’s been a really good, really nice relationship. But it never really progressed past nice. And I know that she doesn’t feel the same. She’s really in it, you know? I’m cool, fine, satisfied. But she’s in love, like a deep morass of affection."

"Heh. More ass."

He grinned. Completely unintended. But I think I’ve let it lie long enough that if I was going to be where she is, I’d be there. And I’m just not, yet. I don’t know. And I like her. If she was still big, hell, if she still had her baby beer belly, I’d be completely fixated on sexing her up. And I’m even actually enjoying being a baby-daddy; I don’t like when it shits on me, but that kind of thing seems more like an indication of deep psychological issues. Maybe it’s just a lifetime of bad romance in cartoons and TV and movies and everywhere that’s convinced me there’s supposed to be this magic spark, instead of this...alright existence. I mean, I just feel like it’s okay. That for now, it fits the bill, and is well worth the extra shower now and again. And I don’t know if that’s right, for me to perpetuate a relationship based on its adequacy. But she seems happy with its adequacy, too—though I’m not sure that would count if I ever sat her down and told her I may never be ready to use the L-word.

Lesbian-tryst?

Hyphenating it doesn’t make it not two words. But is that your four-year-old way of telling me you can’t help me, and that you possibly made boom-boom in your big boy shorts when you got slapped around?

"No, my code-word for that is Lubyanka trust."

I would have thought Lebanese trots would have been more on the nose.

You’re right. But advice...she’s happy. And I presume you are, too, right? He nodded. "I don’t know what she needs today, let alone what she’s going to need tomorrow. But I don’t think you second-guessing her choices, and in particular you foisting your uncertainty on her, is for her. You know, it could be that she’s completely happy with your meh-mance, and that this is your comparative bliss—but that by pointing out your reluctance to use what has become a kind of loaded emotional word, you could ruin it. And to what end?"

I don’t want to be dishonest with her or to mislead her.

Then don’t. Just know that there comes a point in a relationship where complete emotional disclosure stops being about them knowing what they need to know, and starts being about you trying to tell them things they may not want to. I can’t tell you where that line is. You probably can’t know for certain, either. But if you’re honest with her, and yourself, then together you can figure it out.

"I think I was actually more comfortable with you making poop jokes. Now that you’re making something adjacent to sense, I have to wonder if your brain is suddenly working better, or if mine has started working much, much worse."

We probably met somewhere in the middle.

You really know how to devastate me.

It’s a gift I try to share with the world.

The only part about that that surprises me is that it doesn’t get you hit in the face more often.

Me, too, actually. My theory is that my entire life is an elaborate ‘Make a wish’ scenario, and that off to the side is someone gnawing on his nails, wondering why I just won’t die already, since he’s worrying himself to death over the stress of stopping so many face-punchings.

He laughed, but it was full of anxious energy.

We didn’t talk the rest of the way down to medical; we were probably the two men on the ship most obsessed with keeping out of the Argus’ grasp, so we had plenty to think over. When we arrived, he nodded and left.

I walked through the medical bay, past the front desk and into Charles Canter, of medical’s office. He was reading, and set his reader down when he noticed me. Dr. Sacktug, you aren’t dead yet? I said.

Surprisingly, no. And just as surprisingly, you haven’t autoerotically asphyxiated yet.

Well, not to death.

Touché. Now am I to assume your purpose here is strictly annoyance, or did you want me to prevent that shiner from becoming more of an eyesore?

Ah—I see what you did there.

Or rather didn’t, because of your swollen eye.

Now you’re just showing off.

He hit a few keystrokes on his tablet and opened a drawer with a jet injector prepared. Look at my door, he said, and when I did, he fired a blast of high-velocity medicine into my temple. Then he took another bottle from the drawer and sprayed it over the wound, sealing it shut. And you’re free to leave my office.

That’s it? You don’t want to spoon me afterwards?

"Do you really want to further complicate your love life?"

It isn’t love if it isn’t complicated. I hesitated in his doorway. Anything I need to be aware of? I asked.

Since yesterday? No. Nothing’s changed. The crew continues to exhibit higher instances of stress hormones, still within acceptable levels, and we’re working with PsychDiv to maintain rigorous counseling to prevent further increases. Per established protocols.

No need to get prickly, doc. It’s just—

Your own stress levels are escalated, and without a concrete problem to address, you’re left with an excess of nervous energy. I can prescribe something for the short term, but stress is best handled with a combination of therapy and chemistry.

I’ve got an appointment later today.

With your assigned therapist, or my opposite number?

She gets me.

True, though I’m not entirely sure she wants to.

That a medical opinion? I asked, and because of our history, there might have been an edge to it.

More an observation.

There wasn't in his. In fact, he seemed to be keeping our history out of things, so I needed to, too. "Noted," I said, and left.

But before my quasi-scheduled session with Maggie, I had something on the books—a couple somethings. I was running a few minutes behind visiting SciDiv, because I hadn’t anticipated needing a trip to medical, so Stephen met me at the elevator. How were the latest volley of probes? I asked. He chuckled to himself. "Is that name going to make you think of them flying up alien butts every time?"

For the foreseeable future.

Wonderful.

I was skeptical, though given the success ratio of your plans, I think that's the only scientifically valid methodology. But it wasn't that difficult miniaturizing the full-sized sensor probes—once we'd hashed out with engineering which sensor arrays were actually necessary to act as long-range scouts. I still don't think they knew what they were talking about, but I was able to preserve a good base of instruments that— I tapped my wrist, though I wasn't old enough to have ever worn an actual wristwatch.

Fine. Eschew my—

Longwinded, self-aggrandizing—

"Thorough reply. We got in our third volley of probes this morning. But I think it gets me enough information to extrapolate on their likely effectiveness. The probes are a little more rudimentary than the full-sized pods, so I'd guess we're going to send two or three out for every actual 'hit'—actually striking a planet with advanced life. But as a method for minimizing the risk to the whole ship or even a landing crew—I think it will work. They won't have the range or the advanced capabilities of the pods, but they get us enough intel to know which planets are worth a trip from a manned pod. Which I still think is a little on the crazy side—"

Except when you're volunteering to go, I said. And I want to be clear, in no uncertain terms, that I wouldn't have considered it under any circumstances—you're too mission-critical to risk. But you getting an erection every time you use the word 'ambassador,'  or telling me you want to 'liaise on' an alien species, and that you prefer tentacles—doesn't exactly fill me with confidence, either. And I know, given my living situation, that this might come off as hypocritical, but bang within your own species. And if you can behave yourself long enough that you start to get dementia or some degenerative brain disorder, to the point where your headmeat isn't the irreplaceable resource it is now, I'll reconsider it.

He smiled.

And it has to be from natural causes.

Oh.

"Wait. You wouldn't actually cripple your own mind for a shot at getting an alien into bed. Would you?"

Depends on how hot she is, he said.

You wouldn't know until you got there.

He frowned. Ugh. Pass, then. With my luck, I'd end up being little spoon to a species twice as large and twice as ugly as a Romaleon.

"You know, you wouldn't have to sleep with the alien when you got there."

Your own precedent notwithstanding, he smirked. Also, yeah, I think I kind of would. Like if there was a mermaid at the top of Mt. Everest, and the only reason anyone ever climbed it was to bang said mermaid. Then, when I got to the top she was like ninety-hundred, both in years and pounds, and had a beard thicker and fuller than mine. Sure, it would be a let-down that she wasn't mystically gorgeous, but I think I'd still have to do it.

I hate you sometimes; I don't think that image is coming out.

You could try boiling water, he said.

On my brain?

It would almost certainly deal with the errant memory.

I stared at him a moment, and decided it was more prudent to simply move on. But the takeaway is that the sensor probes work.

In a nutshell.

Good. That might give me some ammunition to get EngDiv to finish on the pods.

He hesitated, as I was about to leave, so I lingered, just long enough to get him to start talking. I don’t think I ever thanked you for getting me back from the Meh Teh.

Oh, well, that’s not necessary.

No, I didn’t intend to, either—when my brain chemistry gets out of whack, I just occasionally lose stretches of time, and I have been known to apologize during them.

O...kay.

But I wished you’d left me behind.

Why is that?

Because I was being interrogated by one of their captains. Sexually.

Okay, you can stop now.

"Well, it hadn’t technically turned sexual, it was more...sensual. She would promise-slash-threaten to do something only sometimes permanently disfiguring, I would ask if I could have a hand free—not to try and break loose—just so I could stimulate myself. And it went on like that for hours. I think I actually enjoyed the denial."

You really can stop at whatever point you want, I said.

"The point was that I believe I got through to her. Admittedly, I can’t be certain about the biology involved, but I’m fairly certain she spent several minutes touching herself. And on more than one occasion, she interrogated me about how a male of our species—you know, with an output instead of an input—could be intellectually viable. It’s possible you saved my life; but it’s almost certain that you prevented me from having sex."

"You only think I saved you?"

"I got the distinct impression that if she enjoyed our tryst, she would have kept me around and alive. And, it’s still entirely possible the Argus will murder us all. Statistically, I can’t be certain I’m in a safer position, now."

I guess I’m somewhat sorry you didn’t get to become a space-yeti’s sex-slave.

He tilted his head in contemplation, then nodded. Apology accepted. I’m glad we can put this business behind us.

I never realized it was in front of us.

He narrowed his eyes at me. You might have a substance abuse problem. Or did I hallucinate us sharing a dimethyltryptamine enema?

"How do you share an enema?"

You get a hose with a y-junction, or you take turns.

And which did we—never mind, it doesn’t matter, because that didn’t actually happen.

"Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser; I’m sure I came to with a sore rectum absolutely caked with DMT. But as far as I’m concerned, it was a gift horse. Unless the horse raped me. Which might explain the bleeding."

I think an anus stuffed with hallucinogenics would, too. And where did you get that much DMT?

I can synthesize almost any compound in my lab. Because I am a genius.

I rubbed my eyes, and it was only a moment before I realized that I couldn’t possibly rub them hard enough to make me feel less frustrated without puncturing my orbital sockets. Haley? Would you lock down procedures for creating recreational substances?

Yes, captain, Haley said.

But, but, but—

Your butt will thank me. And from now on, you can get your drugs the way the rest of us do.

Fairies?

With a prescription from PsychDiv.

"They hate me down there. Those quacks refuse to diagnose me with anything—and I’m clearly deranged."

"Work with the psychologists. Don’t just look for a fix."

He droned through a groan that continued until the elevator doors closed around me.

I checked the time through my HUD as the elevator descended down to engineering. I was later still, and the effects of my spar earlier were starting to catch up to me. Bill noticed as soon as I entered his shop. You look like something a dog who suffered from IBS crapped out after eating too much chocolate, Bill said. 

You should see the other guy.

I've seen Elle after your spars. Sweaty, maybe even winded, but she usually doesn't even get a hair out of place.

I knew there was nothing I could say to defend myself, so I moved on. How are the modifications coming?

He took in a deep breath, probably to make himself as big as possible. Well, you know how I said that it was a mad idea, and couldn't be done. Well. I should have said 'shouldn't.'

You magnificent bastard, I said, clapping him on the back.

Thank you?

It's excellent.

I'm not sure I follow. At best, I think I've enabled you to be a crazier person than you already were.

I sighed. I was testy about having to explain my reasoning, but I knew it was important he understand. What do you think's the point of all this? I asked him.

I think that's above my pay grade—and more philosophical than I usually wax sober.

I meant the mission, ass.

To catch every alien STD a man can?

"Exploration. Making contact with new species—which can, occasionally, mean the odd STD. And securing mining rights."

But I thought we rejected all of that.

Not exactly. We rejected the idea that our corporate masters ought to be in control of our lives, or in control of vast amounts of space and the species that live there. There's still value in the core idea of mankind spreading its influence while trying to understand and cope with new peoples. And besides without it, what are we?

Pirates?

Essentially. But we're men and women of science. Explorers, inventors, and the ass-kickers who keep you nerds alive. Maybe you haven't noticed, since the last few months the modifications to the probes and the pods have been your entire purpose—and I know I've been working you long hours. But have you walked through the rest of the ship? The fear is palpable. And it isn't just fear of the man breathing down our necks. It's the fact that we don't know what we're doing, where we're going, or even why. We were tired of being used, tired of being lied to, tired of knowing how badly the species we met were getting screwed over because of institutionalized human greed. But now we need a purpose. Something to keep us moving forward, keep inspiring us.

That sounds actually sort of noble. So why didn't you tell us that from the outset?

I moved in closer to him. "Because it shouldn't be mine. It can't be my vision. It shouldn't be my mission. It has to be ours, a destiny we pluck from the stars, because we didn't learn from Prometheus."

What's wrong with being our George Washington?

Washington worked out because he survived the war and turned out not to be a tyrant. I'm more worried I'm becoming Franklin Roosevelt—a leader who overstayed, and who the people became overly dependent on. And for every Washington, you've got three revolutionaries who became monsters in their own right. Ultimately, this just shouldn't be about me. This is a generational ship, and I want the ship, and this fragile social contract we've negotiated, to last beyond me. And the best chance for that is for us, going forward, not to rely on me so goddamned much.

Is that why you let Elle beat you?

I didn't have a response.

"I mean, I know, gloves off, she's putting you down for the count. But she didn't used to walk away completely unscathed. So something's changed. Could be you're off your game, or that you've sweetened even further on her..."

Careful, I said, but he had anticipated my protest, and was already deep into ignoring me.

Or...it could be that you want to be diminished. In everyone’s eyes, hers, and even your own. I'm not sure that's wise. Or healthy.

Just because my brain's been known to lift her skirt for one headshrinker... I lowered my voice.

And a couple of alien infections?

...Doesn't mean she's taking on all comers.

So you've got a female brain?

It's why I'm so damned smart. But I noticed that in your haste to psychoanalyze me, you glossed over my question about the ship.

"Well that’s the problem, though, isn’t it? It’s not a ship. It’s a pod, designed to deliver advanced scientific monitoring equipment through the vacuum of space—not keep a human being alive."

And that’s why you’ve had months to work on it, I said.

And we’ve made progress—strides, even—but it’s not quite... he lowered his voice and leveled his gaze. I don’t trust it with a human being.

Will you ever? He swallowed and looked away.

"Hmm. That’s a fair question. And I’d probably answer, not with another human being."

Goddamnit, Bill, we’ve been over this.

"No, you dictated terms to me. But as of us parting ways with Sontem, you don’t get to dictate. It’s a democratic institution, now—which is largely your own damn fault—and you don’t just get to make these decisions on your own."

"You’re right. We can bring it up with the council, or even for a vote of the crew. But I will destroy you. If we open it up to a public debate, I will make it so that no one will ever take a word you say seriously ever again. Because you are a mumbling technician—"

"And you know how to work a crowd," he swallowed.

I exhaled deeply, trying to purge the bubbling rage before I spoke again. "You are right on one point. I should at least explain my thinking to you. One, because of your position, you have important information on the way your department works—and I mean really works, the interpersonal nitty-gritty that performance metrics won’t ever tell you, and that a replacement would spend a minimum of four months figuring out—probably closer to six, knowing your number two. Even the most valuable mind in engineering pales in comparison to that. You aren’t expendable, certainly not on the kind of mission that’s basically asking for mechanical failure. Two, if this pod does go all Apollo 13, I want you here, with functional life support, working the problem, not suffocating and freezing out in the vacuum."

What about my proposal? he asked.

"As a safeguard, it’s not bad. But the problems compound. We fire you along our same trajectory, which means eventually we will catch up to you. But unless you run into a problem early that won't prevent you from an abort, you’re going to get away from us. Even the minimum shot is going to be a week—a week before we can pick you up if there are any problems. I don’t care who you want to put up for it—pick your best, brightest, most mechanically-apt engineer, but there is no way in hell I’m letting you risk your melon on this. But that’s a logistical issue, one you’ve got time to sort out. The more pressing question is will the pod be ready for the ballistic test at the end of the week."

He sighed. So far, life support systems appear functional. But they would, wouldn’t they, in laboratory conditions?

That’s the reason for the ballistics test. We fire her off, send her on a trip around a galaxy, let her get yanked around by some gravity, and see if she’s holding water by the end of it.

"I’m going to say it one more time, in the hopes that a lifetime of concussions have simply made you extra thick-headed, not stupid, he said. I wanted to punch him in the throat for emphasizing that last word so hard. The pods were not designed for this. Retrofitting them with life support systems, and trying to make them safe for a human pilot—it’s a fool’s errand, engaged on a madman’s fancy."

It’s an imperfect solution, I said. "But we can’t risk the entire Nexus to make planetary stops anymore. The Argus is faster, and their scanning tech stronger—they will catch us if we stop—probably even if we slow the little bit it takes to drop and pick up shuttles. But if we let them turn us into fugitives, let them hound us for the rest of our days, that’s just a different kind of cage they’re putting us in. And I will not let that happen."

Then when does your plan go up for a vote? He folded his arms, because he thought he’d backed me into a corner, or at least exposed my hypocrisy to the open air.

"When it’s ready. When we’ve proven it to ourselves that we can accomplish this without undue risk to the crew."

And if we can’t?

Then you’ll figure something else out, you and Stephen. You’re bright guys.

When you’re lumping me in with the likes of SciDiv, I’m not sure I can take that as a compliment.

He certainly brings more madness into science than I’m used to, but he’s also still one of the more impressive scientific minds of our age.

"He’s walking proof at least of the link between genius and insanity—and substance abuse."

He’s been getting better.

At mixing exotic new pharmaceuticals? he said dryly.

We’ve switched out most of his chemicals. Two-thirds of the time, he only manages to make sugar pills. Which he somehow manages to get completely blasted on.

Maybe the only drug he really needs is his own twisted mind.

Let’s hope, if only because it’s less likely to give him a stroke.

Besides a stroke of genius?

Now you’re just trying too hard. I grinned. But end of the week. We’ve got a window then, and the next isn’t for three more, which we’d really like to hit with a manned trial, because after that, it’s another six weeks out past that, and we're already passing up potentially inhabited systems.

And I’ve significantly less time, as I presume I’m going to have to work with whoever we choose, to get their piloting up to standard.

You haven’t programmed an autopilot?

"Oh, we have. But especially on an untested system, I wouldn’t trust the autopilot with your life, let alone one of my people’s."

Noted. But I’d like the name of your candidate pilot. And you may want to give me a dark horse for a back-up, in case they melt down, or I may end up having to let one of the SciOffs do the test.

And then God help us all when the lab rats become guinea pigs.

I strode back to the elevator. I was running late, and I wondered if that was because I was putting things off. But things weren't going to be any easier just because I was dragging my feet, so I called up the head of PsychDiv on the comms. Maggie? You free?

She sighed peevishly. I’m not in a session, she said. Do you need to talk?

I’m not sure about need; I’d hate to sound needy.

Well, either way, I’ve been meaning to talk to you myself. So now’s probably as good a time as any.

I swallowed. Maggie and I had a past—flirtation is probably the best way to put it—and in combination with the fact that she was my head-shrinker, her ‘wanting to talk’ was one of the scarier things I could imagine.

I was pretty sure she wasn’t a cruel woman, so I’d give her the benefit of doubting that she was intentionally torturing me by keeping quiet for the first minute or so after I arrived in her office.