The room is small, dimly lit, and there is no one else inside. However, one whole wall is a one-way observation window into a brightly lit small cell—a questioning room. The cell is bare of furnishings except for a hard table and two chairs. Two people are inside, sitting across the table from each other.
One of them is Logan Sangre. The other is a girl with long dark hair with purple streak highlights and a red armband. She has a dark bruise on her face, while her hair and uniform is a mess. I recognize her as Trey Smith’s girlfriend, Brie Walton.
A single untouched glass of water stands on the table before her.
“Oh my God . . .” I whisper. “What’s going on?”
What’s Logan doing here?
Aeson Kassiopei glances at me. He then touches a console near the wall and suddenly I can hear what’s being said in the other room, as if I’m there.
“. . . Tell me, when and where was the order given? All I need is the time and location,” Logan is saying in a cold measured voice.
The girl says nothing, only continues staring at him from underneath dark straight brows. She is both fierce and strangely calm at the same time.
And then at last I understand. Logan is interrogating her.
“Sangre has been working here all day,” Kassiopei says suddenly. “He is good. I am impressed with his methods. He succeeded in getting two of the Earth Union to provide solid intelligence.”
“Wow,” I say. “So that’s why I didn’t see him in any of the classes or anywhere, not since he left my room this morning—”
As I say it, I realize suddenly how it must sound, and my face flushes with heat. What must Command Pilot Kassiopei think? That Logan and I spent the night together? I mean, we did, but it wasn’t like that, and Logan was just there to make sure my concussed head was okay overnight.
I glance up to gauge his reaction, and I see Aeson Kassiopei is looking at me strangely.
His eyes—in the low illumination of this room, there is a bared, raw glitter in them, liquid and intimate. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he blinks and looks away from me, as though unable or unwilling to meet my gaze in that instant, and once again observes the two people in the other room.
“This Earth Union operative, Gabriella Walton, has been particularly difficult,” he says in a neutral voice. “However, I expect your boyfriend will convince her to talk—eventually.”
“My boyfriend—” I begin to say, then grow silent, because, really, what was I about to say anyway? “I am glad Logan is being useful,” I say instead.
“Should I trust him?”
The question comes suddenly. And I am taken aback by it.
“What do you mean?” I glance up at Kassiopei.
“I said—should I trust him?” Aeson Kassiopei repeats, looking at me closely, and his gaze is suddenly piercing and intense.
I frown. And then I say, very softly, after the tiniest pause. “I do.”
Aeson Kassiopei nods. “In that case, so will I.”
And as I consider the peculiarity of this, and his answer, he nods, then tells me, “That is all, Lark. I wanted to show you this, and to have your confirmation. You may go now, you have seen enough. Sangre will be here, working on her for at least a few more hours.”
And then the CP exits the small dark one-way observation room, with me in tow.
We return to the upper levels, walking back along the same dim corridor, and when I ask what else is down here, the CP tells me that some of it is auxiliary storage, and some of it includes places for keeping prisoners—an incarceration deck. Finally, as we enter the corkscrew stairwell, and I smell a whiff of acrid smoke and burning fumes coming from another level below, he tells me there are incinerators there.
As we rise up the stairs and emerge on the main level, several Atlantean crew move past us, carrying what appears to be bodies in tarps. They use a special service elevator that’s located next to the stairwell, and go down.
“So the dead—they are getting incinerated . . .” I say in a soft voice.
Aeson nods at me sorrowfully. “Yes. The dead must be disposed of cleanly, to prevent the spread of infection in such a tightly enclosed space as a starship. None of this was foreseen, and we are not equipped to carry so many corpses in storage. We have enough cold storage facilities for standard circumstances of death, but nothing like this.”
“So they must burn. . . .” I glance at him. “This might be a stupid question, but you don’t simply jettison bodies into space?”
Aeson’s gaze hardens even more. “We don’t. We consider it disrespectful to the dead. It is also not very safe, especially not while we are in the Quantum Stream.”
“I see. . . . And are there no funeral services, no prayers said over them?”
Looking straight ahead before him, he says, “Not prayers—but songs. On Atlantis we say goodbye to the dead by singing them onward to the great mystery of whatever comes next.”
“Do you believe in an afterlife?” I ask. And in that instant as I wonder what God or gods the Atlanteans worship, or he worships—or if he personally even worships anything at all—I remember that some people deify the Imperial Family Kassiopei.
Aeson Kassiopei remains silent for a few moments. And then he says, “I prefer not to talk about it. . . . Maybe some other time.”
Respecting his wishes, I say nothing.
We walk back the rest of the way toward the inner hub area in general silence.
“You are free to go, Lark,” he tells me, as we approach the Command Deck sections. “I will see you tomorrow.” His expression is closed off, weary, and unreadable.
I nod, and watch his straight proud back, as he walks away from me.
Something strange prompts me to whisper in his wake.
Nefero niktos. . . .
But he does not hear me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sometime after midnight, I am awakened out of a troubled sleep by the now familiar androgynous voice of the ship’s computer.
“Now entering Neptune orbital perihelion. . . .”
About five seconds later, it comes back on with:
“Now leaving Neptune orbital aphelion.”
And then, another ten seconds later:
“Now entering the Kuiper Belt region. On approach with heliopause.”
I lie awake in the soft darkness, motionless so as not to trigger the light sensors. And I try to think—to imagine the impossible cosmic distance that now separates me from the tiny ball of rock called Earth, upon which I was born.
My Mom and Dad, my brother George, everyone and everything I know, is billions of kilometers away, literally.
Billions.
It’s not really something any human being can imagine. It’s completely off the human scale.
And just trying to visualize, to imagine any of it, brings back that sickening dizziness that I’m beginning to call space vertigo. My head, still not completely recovered from the concussion of a day ago, begins to hurt again.
I have no idea how, but eventually I fall back asleep.
The next day is completely uneventful. In the morning, when I get to the CCO, no one else is there except Anu, who informs me that the CP is doing ship-wide general inspection and will likely be out all day, and that Gennio is gone to do some other errands until late afternoon.
“I am going to be in Hydroponics in an hour, so you will need to watch the office until your first class. What and when is your first class, Earth girl?”
“Not until 1:00 PM,” I say, turning on my work console. “And it’s Pilot Training. It’s always Pilot Training, remember?”
“Excellent. Then you can answer the calls this morning.”
I frown at Anu, while my stomach starts to turn queasy with butterflies. I really don’t like where this is going. “Okay, what am I supposed to do if they talk to me in Atlantean?”
“Talk to them in English. They will understand. Everyone studied your English before we got deployed here.”
Anu makes a loud snort of laughter. “He knows English too.”
“Oh, crap . . .” I mutter. “How would I even begin to talk to him?”
“Ask Consul Denu. He’s supposed to be teaching you all the correct Imperial Protocol.”
“Oh, lord, no,” I say. But Anu is right. If I need help in this area, the Consul is the one person to turn to. But do I really want to open that perfumed can of worms by calling him now?
Oh, no. . . . Just, no.
Seeing my dour expression, Anu laughs and laughs.
I really, really, really want to kill the snotty jerk. I swear, one of these days. . . .
Somehow I survive the morning after the little jerk goes to Hydroponics, leaving me completely alone in the office. Lucky for me, no one calls except for one very serious looking, elegantly dressed Atlantean official from Poseidon, who fortunately addresses me in perfect English, and a couple of officers from other ships. I tell them all the CP is unavailable, and ask if they would care to call back or leave a message.
So this is what it feels like to be a receptionist or an administrative assistant or secretary, I wonder with minor irritation. Nothing wrong with it if you actually know what you’re supposed to be doing!
After a quick lunch in the Officers Meal Hall, I stop by my cabin where I attempt to finally call my brother and sister, to see how they’ve been faring. Gracie’s line doesn’t answer, so I leave a message. And Gordie’s is also unresponsive, so I leave him one too. In a nutshell it’s an “I’m alive, all is well, how are you, call me please,” kind of message.
And then it’s off to Pilot Training.
Today we are doing a different kind of flight simulation. Instructor Mithrat Okoi assigns us a straight flight path between imaginary obstacles.
“You will launch from the shuttle bay flight tunnel. And this time, as you exit the ship, you will continue going in a straight line, avoiding any obstacle that comes in your way,” the Instructor tells us, pacing our rows of console desks. “There will be a variety of obstacles placed before you, both stationary and moving, and it is your responsibility as Pilot and Co-Pilot to deal with them accordingly.”
Erin Tsai, in the front seat as usual, raises her hand. “Sir, how exactly do we deal with the obstacles? Can you please elaborate?”
“You have three options,” Instructor Okoi says. “First and best choice, you bypass the obstacle by going around it. Second, you destroy the obstacle—blast it out of your way by engaging your ship’s weapons system. Third, you crash into the obstacle, and you are destroyed, ending the scenario.”
Sitting to my right, Hugo Moreno gives me a dirty look. “I get to shoot, okay? I’m the one firing the weapons!” he hisses in my ear.
“Right, whatever,” I reply.
“In order to deploy your ship’s weapons,” the Instructor says, “the Pilot and the Co-Pilot must both be involved—”
I glance at Hugo and raise one brow triumphantly. He only glares at me.
“Both of you must act in tandem, since this is a joint process,” Instructor Okoi continues. “Remember, Weapons is a general sub-system, requiring a balanced approach. It’s a safeguard against potential abuse of the system, and against hasty decisions.”
This time Roy Tsai raises his hand. “So, how do we engage the weapons system?”
“To initialize Weapons, the Pilot simultaneously presses both the Red and Green Grid buttons on the right, while the Co-Pilot simultaneously presses both the Blue and Yellow on the left. Do it now!”
Hugo and I press two of the corners each on our consoles, with him acting as Pilot and me as Co-Pilot. Immediately all four grids are activated. In seconds, they blend, and the color of the hologram transitions to pure white.
Everyone in the classroom stares at this new White Grid floating in the air over each of our consoles.
“This is your Weapons System,” Instructor Okoi announces. “The white circle indicates your own ship and its present location. Any other color objects that populate the grid are either other friendly vessels, or enemy targets—ranging from simple training scenario obstacles to actual full-fledged enemy forces. And now, observe!”
He presses his hand-held device and suddenly the grid before each Cadet is filled with different color circles, scattered in random locations in the grid-space all around our own white circle.
“This is your enemy or your colleague,” Instructor Okoi tells us. “Your task is to first identify who is who, then avoid the enemy or destroy them.”
“How do we fire?” a girl asks.
“You don’t. First, the Pilot and Co-Pilot need to mark the items on the grid as hostile or friendly. Press the large four-color rainbow button on the bottom of your console. When the Weapons Grid is active, it serves as a Select toggle button. Now, for the sake of our scenario, let’s assume that all the orange circles are our allies—other Fleet ships, or friendlies. Toggle the Select button until the rainbow lights are steady, which indicates Friendly. Now use your fingers to touch-select each friendly entity in the grid—”
We do as we’re told, touching the hologram orange circles floating in the air before us with our fingers. Each one I touch suddenly gets a white line border around it.
“And now,” Instructor Okoi says, “press the Select button again. You’ve just isolated your allies from potential friendly fire, and marked them as safe. This tells the Weapons System not to fire on these entities under any circumstances.”
“Okay,” a boy asks. “This is kind of complicated. What if there are more than one type of enemy or more than one type of friend or ally—”
Mithrat Okoi glances at the speaker. “Valid questions. War is complicated. It is precisely why these preliminaries and careful pre-selection is so important before any battle is fought or actual fire exchanged. The answer to your question will be covered in detail at a later date. For now, assume that the rest of the grid entities are hostiles.”
He pauses, looking at us grimly. “At this point the Weapons Grid is defined. Next comes the moment some of you have been eagerly waiting for—you will launch weapons.”
Instructor Okoi points to the nearest Cadet’s console. “Now Pilots, swipe the touch surface in the direction you want to fire. And Co-Pilots, also swipe in any direction you want to fire. The weapons will fire in a 90-degree wide burst, with your swipe serving as the vector aimed at the target. If both the Pilot and Co-Pilot swipes overlap, the common overlap zone will receive additional firepower. Try it!”
I swipe to the right. Next to me, Hugo swipes straight ahead.
Immediately our grid comes alive with a wave of golden light that flares outward from the white circle in two directions to match our motion. All the objects in the way of the flare get obliterated and disappear off the grid. At the same time we hear multiple explosions.
The same thing is happening all around the classroom. “Whoa! Awesome!” Cadets exclaim, clap, and there are hoots and excited laughter.
“Silence!” Instructor Okoi roars at us. “This is not a gaming console. This is a war console. You’ve just theoretically obliterated thousands of lives. Real lives. You are never to react this way again in this classroom, or you will be disciplined.”
It’s like he threw a bucket of cold water at the room. Silence reigns, with only a few residual explosions sounding from various consoles all around us.
I watch, holding my breath.
“Now,” the Instructor says quietly. “As I was saying in the beginning of this portion of class, you have before you a scenario with obstacles. Your responsibility is to decide how to handle them. Destroy or bypass. You will fly the shuttle forward, until you get a clean run all the way to the end of the formation. Each moment, you will have to make the choice of ‘destroy or bypass.’ Now you know how to switch to the Weapons Grid. I recommend you use it as little as possible in your simulation flight. No one leaves the room until you have successfully completed one c
lean run. Now, proceed!”
And the Instructor resets our consoles to the beginning of the scenario.
Hugo groans, and I groan.
And we begin the simulation.
About two hours later I get out of Pilot Training. Hugo hates me, and I hate him, and the whole class seems to hate each other. For now, I think it’s sufficient to say that all of us suck badly at Piloting. I mean, given real ships, we would all die and kill each other in horrible flaming crashes. . . .
I drop by the CCO at 3:30 PM and this time I find Gennio there.
“Hey, Gwen!” He looks up from his work. “So have you been to see the heavy-duty 3D printers yet?”
“Huh?” I say. “What?”
“Oh, sorry! I thought you just had your Technology and Systems Class, never mind. That’s your next class. It’s down on Seven next to Hydroponics.”
“Yeah, I have that class at 4:00 PM. What are you talking about exactly?”
Gennio smiles at me with an expression closest to mischief that I’ve seen in this boy yet. “You are going to love the 3D printers. They make everything, including your new formal outfits for the Zero-G Dance. I know all the girls are super excited, because you get to choose the fabric and the fashion, and all that kind of thing.”
Formal fashions? Fabric? Who does Gennio take me for? As a card-carrying nerd, I am perfectly satisfied with my appearance-ignorant status. I own functional clothes that fit me comfortably and protect me from the elements. If it hadn’t been for my Mom—who never insisted, only made tactful and subtle suggestions whenever she steered me (again, tactfully) to the appropriate clothing section of the mall department stores—I would look worse than frumpy. I would look like wilderness grandma, and also own maybe two outfits and alternate-wear them every other day.
As soon as my natural fashion tendencies (or lack of) were established, we had it all worked out. For years, Mom would simply buy my clothes and I would let her. Seriously, if it hadn’t been for Mom’s general good taste, bullies in school would’ve eaten me alive and made even worse fun of my looks and outfits. As is, at least she kept me decently inconspicuous. In our family, Mom, Gracie, and George are the somewhat fashion-conscious ones. While Dad, Gordie, and I—we don’t give a crap.
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