Chapter 5 #8
I lay a restraining hand on Kodiak’s shoulder, then snatch it away when he redirects his glower to me. “We’ll have our answer soon enough,” I say, “once the next three—make that two—minutes go by.”
“Yes,” Kodiak says. “But whose mission control will we be talking to?”
“It’ll be the Cusk Corporation’s, so it’s multinational! We’re thousands of kilometers from Earth. Let’s not keep buying into our countries’ cold war bullshit.”
“Maybe it’s convenient for you to disregard atrocities, since it’s your side that committed them. Fédération’s war crimes in the former Philippines are not ‘cold war bullshit.’”
I could list ten war crimes that Dimokratía’s committed for every one of Fédération’s, but I hold back. “If we start relitigating centuries of history out here, we’ll never finish. But we are going to find a way to talk to Earth. Our survival depends on it.”
Kodiak nods, arms crossed over the mass of his chest. “I’m not disagreeing.”
“Twenty-seven seconds until connection reestablished,” OS says.
Kodiak looks up sharply, the fluorescent lights spinning prisms across his tan eyes. “What did you say, OS?”
“Twenty-seven seconds until connection reestablished.”
Kodiak’s shoulders cord, and the hollow at the base of his neck flushes red beneath its dusting of hair. “That’s preposterous. You can’t know that.”
“Hey, let it go,” I say. Last thing I need is open conflict between Kodiak and the ship itself.
I move so I can look into his eyes. Talk in private?
He shrugs, brows knitting. The message is clear. There is no “private.”
“Connection established,” OS announces.
My skin pricks. “Hello?”
I watch numbers tick over on the window’s overlay as we wait for mission control’s response.
“This is Cusk mission control. Spacefarers Cusk and Celius?” comes a crackling voice a long while later.
“We hope you are all right.” Because of the lag time between us and Earth, the voice continues before we can answer.
“We are downloading all the technical data on your voyage so far as we speak. In the meantime, is there anything urgent you need to tell us?”
Kodiak looks at me darkly. Weird tack.
He’s not wrong. “Put my mother on,” I say.
Kodiak rolls his eyes. We wait the long minutes for mission control’s response.
“She is not present. She did record a personal reel for you in the event we came back into contact. It is currently uploading to your ship. Unfortunately, we have no new information from the Titan base.”
Not for the first time, I imagine Minerva frozen in a methane lake, Minerva poisoned by bad air and clutching the sky, Minerva driven insane and slitting her veins. I steel myself. “Understood.”
“No one’s meant to live forever,” Kodiak says huskily.
I glare at him.
“Spacefarer Celius, you have numerous Dimokratía transmissions recorded and encrypted using your memorized prime number. The Coordinated Endeavor’s operating system will transfer them to your secure data centers. There are no personal messages.”
“Okay,” Kodiak says quickly. “Mission control, please also upload the news since our departure.”
There’s only static in return.
“OS,” I ask. “Have we lost signal with mission control?”
“Yes. There was an unexpected flare from the sun.”
“All flares are unexpected,” Kodiak grumbles.
“Do you expect to get signal back soon?” I ask.
“That is hard to calculate.”
I lock eyes with Kodiak, measuring his doubt while I speak to OS. “Will you repeat Kodiak’s request for news in the meantime?”
“I will,” the ship responds. “However, it is against the Cusk Corporation’s policy for me to update you personally on Earth’s political situation.”
Kodiak nods. “They want to tell us any updates themselves, in case it’s bad news.”
Our conversation with mission control feels like it was deliberately cut short. My reasoning brain tells me I’m just experiencing isolation paranoia, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to trip OS up.
“OS,” I say, “as soon as connection is restored, request that mission control send me updates on what my mother has done with the porcelain pig, rosin cake, and tapestry fragments I gave her. Also, please tell me what Professor Calderon’s response was to my final essay in his queerness and nation-building seminar. ”
“I will transmit these unusual requests,” OS says after a micropause.
I pull my chair close to Kodiak, so our knees are almost touching. He smells like bleach and sweat. “I want to check—”
He puts his hand up sharply to stop me. Don’t say anything else in front of OS.
“I’m off to listen to my uploads,” he says.
“Meet me again afterward,” I tell him.
The only response is the padding of his bare feet against the floor as he returns to his half of the ship.
_-* Tasks Remaining: 336 *-_
I set the downloaded reel to play in my bedroom, sitting on the bunk and clutching my pillow while the three-dimensional representation of my mother appears.
There’s a reason she was the initial voice of the ship’s AI—she’s the one who funded this all.
During the twenty-first century, space innovation moved from state-sponsored to private ventures, and the trend continued into the present era, when suborbital quinceaneras have become a thing.
Once corporations got involved, there was moon travel, weekend sightseeing orbits, and space station vacations.
Cusk has been leading the astrotech industry for generations.
I’ve always been well aware we were rich, that we were among the few people who could afford high land, that our wealth let me grow up in a walled compound safe from the massive migrations of the starving, from the plagues and superstorms, from droughts and floods and epidemics and radioactive winds.
Once my mother’s reel has loaded, sound projects from the corners of the room, and suddenly I’m back on Earth, outside Mari.
There’s a yellow luster to the air, seagulls wheeling in a sky that looks real enough to make me worry about getting pooped on.
The temperature in the room doesn’t change—the holotech isn’t that realistic—but the light makes me unzip the top of my suit and fold it down, expose my skin to imaginary sunshine.
I run my fingers through nonexistent sand, hang my head and bask.
Eventually, I look up and see her—Mother.
She’s walking along the beach, dressed incongruously enough in her usual avatar clothing, a business suit and sandals.
I watch her approach, her smile frozen until she reaches me.
Then the avatar breaks into recorded motion as the reel begins.
“Darling. My darling Ambrose,” she says.
My breathing hitches, coming out in a sort of hiccuping gasp.
“I know you haven’t been gone so long,” she continues, “but it feels like forever. I was so sorry to hear about the solar storms. They won’t be going away anytime soon.
But I’ll continue to send messages like this, updating you on what we know.
I hope you send me messages back. I know you will, darling.
“We’ve continued to run through simulations of what might have happened to your sister.
One thing hasn’t changed: in the majority of all outcomes, she’s no longer alive.
If only the Titan camp hadn’t gone dark so soon after she arrived, then we’d know that she at least had life support set up.
Of course, you and I both know that if anyone could figure out how to survive on a frozen moon with a minimal atmosphere, it’s our Minerva.
My heart is with her, and with you, every day. You two are my crowning joy.”
Her words might be over the top, but I believe them.
Mother is cold, but also totally devoted.
She loves Minerva and me as much as she loves anyone.
She’s also incredibly ambitious, and her love for us merges with her love for the family dynasty.
It’s weirdly reassuring: when adoration is selfish, it’s not going anywhere.
Back when I was in the process of ghosting on Sri, they told me that I was a scientist about the heart. It wasn’t a compliment.
“Mom,” I say, even though she can’t hear me. “I miss you.” I say it quietly, because it’s not exactly a world-class spacefarer thing to say.
The reel pauses while I speak, Mom’s lip caught quirking in mid-syllable.
Once I shut up, the reel continues. “I need you to be strong, darling, stronger than any person should ever be expected to be. That’s why you were chosen.
You’re expertly trained in the procedures of space travel, of course, but you also have a high awareness of your feelings.
You’ve examined your own life more than most people your age have.
I assume you’re working alongside the Dimokratía spacefarer. Pause this if he’s in the room.”
Now it’s getting interesting. My skin pricks with tension as I wait a few beats of silence.
From somewhere back in time, recorded-Mother scans through her notifications on her bracelet, then continues.
“We know very little about him, unfortunately. We had to work hard even to get his name. Both countries’ space agencies examined the ship together, and there are no hidden weapons on board.
He might not be the special friend I’d choose for you, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be a strong ally all the same.
Your goals are aligned, after all—investigate Titan, rescue Minerva if you can, report back.
He’s motivated more by bringing prestige to Dimokratía and keeping up with Fédération, but that shouldn’t affect his performance. ”