29. Full Capacity #2
And then they walked, five people going to work.
Except every person in that corridor turned to watch them go, looking over the group with expressions ranging from pride to awe to jealousy.
It was in that moment that Charlie realized this was her team, not Cael’s.
These were her people, her equals, her mentors and friends and colleagues.
Whatever Cael’s title may say he is, whatever the official hierarchy of the Emberkind claimed, these people walked alongside Charlie Wickett because they chose to do so, because they believed in her and welcomed her into their group.
And Charlie knew she was exactly where she needed to be.
They landed on the planet canopy without issue.
The thing was, with her newfound confidence from the walk to the shuttle, the feeling of having her friends supporting her around all the Engineering tasks, and the trust she felt humming through her veins that she could do this, Charlie knew she was doing the best job she had done yet for the Emberkind.
Which was why Charlie saw the solution before Cael even finished reviewing the problem.
Not only had the netting come down across four hundred meters of canopy, but it had also fused to itself under atmospheric entry.
Charlie took notice of them from the shuttle ramp.
Their twelve chirp patterns, Selowen had told her in the mission debrief while aboard the shuttle, would indicate how they were doing as a collective species.
Charlie could hear all of them at once now, and none of them sounded like joy.
Cael's approach was textbook. Not wrong, but no wiggle room.
His plan was to cut the netting section by section with standard plasma tools, working from the outside in.
This would take three hours, and every cut point sat within a few centimeters of a Glider's membrane, thin enough to see right through.
"You'll burn their membranes," Charlie said sternly.
"The margin is acceptable. They'll be fine," Cael said, not even bothering to look at Charlie as he gathered the tools.
"The margin is a mere millimeter of membrane tissue that they use to get around and live," Charlie insisted, already pulling the scan data up on her datapad.
"The netting's composite matrix is thermally bonded," she said, showing her datapad to Cael, who finally glanced over.
"If we instead pulse the containment field at the resonant frequency of the composite, the bonds will destabilize uniformly.
Which means the whole net will let go at once, freeing the Gliders and keeping their membranes in tact. "
Cael stared at the datapad, then at her. "That's not standard protocol."
"No, it's not. It's faster. And safer."
"The resonant approach is unvalidated," Cael argued, staring at Charlie.
"If your frequency is off, if any of your data is off, you destabilize the field wholly and every animal in that net drops four hundred meters.
I'm not authorizing an untested procedure on a protected species because you have a 'theory. ' A completely unfounded one at that."
"It's not a theory, Chief," Charlie said, attempting to level with him by allowing his rank to overstep her. "It's the resonant frequency of the composite. It's a straight-up number. In fact, I can show you the exact number in fully confirmed data."
"The answer is no," Cael said, unmoved. "We cut sectionally. That'll be all, human."
Human.
Not Wickett, or engineer, or even the flat "you" he'd been managing lately.
Months aboard and a rescue running on her math, and when it came down to it, Cael reached past all of it for the one word that put her back where he needed her.
A non-contact alien that had wandered onto his ship from a backward little planet having forgotten its place.
Charlie felt it land exactly where he wanted it to, but she kept her face unchanged, because she'd be damned if he'd see it work.
"Whoa, Chief, that's not cool," Tavi said, pushing up against Charlie.
"Tav," Charlie started.
"Nuh uh, Spark Plug, I'm done with the whole 'bit' this guy seems to think is acceptable," Tavi said. "With all due respect, Chief, Charlie is a phenomenal engineer. You don't need to reduce her to a level that makes you feel better."
Charlie watched as Cael's breathing increased, his markings shifting colors like a kaleidoscope.
"I've got this, Tavi," Reyna said, her voice coming through the shuttle comm, and the whole team went rigid. Cael's head snapped toward the console.
"How long has that channel been open?" Cael whispered to those around him. When no one answered, his voice got quiet as he addressed the console. "Captain. My apologies. I did not know you were on the line."
"That is very evident, Rask," Reyna said. Charlie heard the name land in Reyna's voice like an onslaught.
"Captain—" Cael started.
"Charlie," Reyna said, interrupting Cael and his probable intention to sidestep his misgivings.
"Here, Captain," Charlie responded, walking up to the console. Cael moved away the moment Charlie was in the space.
"Talk me through the failure mode. If your frequency is wrong, what happens?"
Charlie didn’t miss a beat. "The field wobbles instead of collapsing cleanly.
Worst case, it destabilizes and the net drops before it lets go.
That's the risk Cael's describing, and he's right that it's real.
If I'm wrong about the frequency, I've got about two seconds to cut power before it drops them, and I will, but it won't come to that, because I'm not wrong. "
A brief pause. "Stubborn," Reyna said softly so only Charlie could hear. She couldn't help the smirk that stretched across her lips.
"I ran the composite three times on the way down, Captain," Charlie began, offering more to convince Reyna.
"The resonant frequency is a property of the material, not a guess, and I have the confirmed number sitting on my datapad.
If anyone in this shuttle or aboard the Emberkind wants to check my math, I understand.
But I will say the number of Gliders stuck is increasing.
" She kept her eyes on the console, her entire focus on the voice coming from the speaker.
"It's a number, Captain. It doesn't care how it feels about me. "
Another pause came through the console, the length of a captain making a decision she'd probably already made.
"Do it," Reyna said.
Cael turned toward the console as if it had bitten him. "Captain, with respect, as Chief Engineer, this is my operation, and my professional recommendation is the sectional approach. If we deviate to an untested method and it fails, the responsibility is—"
"The responsibility is mine, Rask. It always was." Reyna's voice didn't rise, but it didn't need to. The authority oozed from the speaker. "You've given me your recommendation, and I've heard it. I've also heard the reasoning you couldn't provide when Charlie asked you for it."
Cael's mouth opened. Whatever he wanted to come out of it did not.
"You have your instructions, Chief. Run Charlie's approach and get those animals out of that net. I'll want the comm log the moment you're back aboard."
The channel closed.
Cael said nothing. Instead, he turned tight on his heel and made his way back to the shuttle. Nothing more was said.
"Go for pulse, Wickett," came Torvax's voice through the team's comms.
Charlie pulsed the field. Four hundred meters of composite netting shuddered, went slack, and slid off the canopy like mist disappearing in the presence of the sun.
The net let go, and the whole canopy took off at once.
Gliders dropped out of the mesh, caught air, and launched.
Dozens of them, petal membranes snapping open like stained glass catching light.
Even the chirping changed, all twelve patterns of it.
Though Charlie had never learned the twelve patterns Selowen had told her about, she knew they had changed, for every sound was joyous.
It was something Charlie was going to be hearing in her sleep for a week.
For a moment, the channel remained silent. Then Reyna's voice came through it one more time, and the edge she'd used on Cael was gone.
"Good work, Wickett." A pause. "I know they weren't space potatoes, but I'm glad you didn't put yourself in front of flying squirrels to die over either."
The channel closed.
Charlie laughed to herself. But then her chest tightened, more than before, more than it ever had.
Cael called the debrief for the ground team an hour after they were back aboard, and he called it from Reyna’s office.
Charlie found that part odd, being in Reyna’s office and not the briefing room, or Engineering. Instead, they were in the Captain’s office, with the Captain’s wall display, and the Captain nowhere in it.
Cael stood at the center of the room with Maren and Tavi and the two assistants arranged behind him while Charlie leaned against the back wall as the dark water of Admiral Vondra’s chamber filled the display on the wall, the stone shape of her sitting motionless, geode eyes catching what little light the water had left.
“Admiral,” Cael said. “Thank you for making time for the operational report.”
Charlie had been in rooms like this her whole life.
She knew what was coming before Cael even said a word of it, the way you know a storm from the pressure before the first cloud.
She’d stood in conference rooms at JPL while a man she’d handed a solution walked the room through it as if he’d dreamed it in the shower.
She’d learned to keep her face flat, her hands still, and to tell herself it didn’t matter, that the work was done, and it was good.
That it didn’t matter who said it out loud because it didn’t change the science, the solution, and the way it could change the world.