by Tarah Benner
“What’s the Operating Room?”
“It’s where all our senior programmers work,” Porter explains. “They consult directly with Mr. Van de Graaf to fix major bugs.”
I nod slowly. It seems to be a big operation for two dozen twentysomethings.
“So, when a ticket is submitted, do your programmers send out someone in maintenance?” I ask. It seems unlikely that one of these nerds would lift a finger to fix the water pressure or repair a squeaky door.
“Oh, no,” says Porter. “Pretty much everything around here can be resolved with minor tweaks to the code. A colony this large requires constant fine-tuning, but it’s basically one big machine.”
“Huh. So can I submit a ticket for the bots?”
“Which bots?”
Porter looks as though he’s about to start taking notes, so I hasten to add, “Just a blanket hatred of all of them.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says. “I utterly loathe the bots. Creepy little things. I swear their eyes follow you around the room no matter where you’re standing . . .”
I nod numbly. The orange paint job is giving me a headache. “What’s with all the orange?”
“Oh, we’re super into colorology around here. Orange stimulates ambition and excitement. It promotes quick decision-making and keeps energy levels high.”
“Okay,” I say, panning my Optix around the room to get some good footage. “So why do all the complaints go to hospitality first?” I ask. “Why not just send people here?”
Porter lets out a burst of chilly laughter. “Clearly you have not seen any of these beautiful prodigies interact with actual human beings. And you thought the bots were bad!”
I must look confused, because he adds, “Most of us work here because we’re better with computers than flesh and blood. The hospitality people deal with people. We deal with problems.”
While I’m pondering that philosophical nugget, Porter leads me through another set of doors to a much quieter space that’s painted blue. It’s filled with offices encased in glass, some of which are frosted to obscure what’s going on inside.
“Mr. Van de Graaf believes collaboration only goes so far,” Porter explains. “Creatives need privacy to do their best work.”
I roll my eyes. As a journalist, I can’t afford to be so particular. In fact, I’ve done some of my best work sandwiched between tourists on the subway.
Tripp’s office is located in the very back corner. When we walk inside, I get the immediate impression that a tornado has passed through, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.
Stacks of papers and vision boards are scattered all over the place: on the desk, on the floor, on the coffee table, and in the futuristic orange chairs situated around the room.
“Can I get you anything?” asks Porter. “Coffee, wine, water?”
“Water would be great,” I say.
He gestures to a fancy-looking steel machine built into the wall. “Still or sparkling?”
“Er . . . still,” I say.
Porter crosses to the machine and pours some water into a slender glass tumbler.
“Can I take your things?” he asks, setting my glass down on a coaster and holding out his arms for my jacket and bag.
I hesitate. It feels awkward to be treating him like a servant, but it seems rude to refuse. I smile and hand them over.
“All right, then. Mr. Van de Graaf will be with you shortly.” He offers me a quick thin-lipped smile. “Please make yourself comfortable, and holler if you need anything.”
I nod. Porter closes the door behind him, and a second later, the glass walls frost over automatically.
I take a sip of water and meander around the room, taking in the design ideas all over the vision boards. There are tile samples for the fitness center, sketches of the mall, traffic-flow analyses of the common areas — even a sample menu for a first-class meal.
When I reach Tripp’s desk, I notice some papers that look a lot like a line-item budget. Shifting a piece of pasteboard loaded with pictures of high-tech shower heads, I flip on my Optix and quickly snap stills of each page of the budget.
A second later, the office door flies open, and I hurriedly drop the showerhead poster and step away from the desk.
Porter is back, and he’s giving me a look that says he knows what I’ve been up to.
“Mr. Van de Graaf will see you now,” he says, a sour edge to his voice.
I get a sudden tingle of panic, but then Tripp swoops in, and I know Porter won’t say a word.
Tripp’s hair is still perfectly disheveled. He’s wearing the same charming smile he had on at lunch, but I can tell from the dip in his shoulders that he’s tired or stressed.
“Maggie,” he says, squeezing Porter back out into the hallway and shutting the door behind him.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I say, circling around his desk to put as much space between me and the papers as possible.
Tripp’s face scrunches up. “So formal, Ms. Barnes. Porter give you the grand tour?”
“Just the Workshop,” I say. “I asked if I could lodge a bot complaint.”
“You don’t like my bots?” he says, sounding genuinely put out.
“Your bots?”
“Well, I bought the company that makes them,” he says defensively. “That makes them my bots.”
“I . . .” I hesitate. I hadn’t expected him to feel so personally invested. “Well, they’re creepy,” I say. “And one of the low-tech ones got lost trying to deliver my cargo. I was late for work, and I’m still wearing yesterday’s underwear.”
“Oh my,” says Tripp, his eyes flashing with mischief. “Well, I will definitely bring this to the programmers’ attention. Though, technically, those delivery machines are being rebranded as ‘AutoMates’ to avoid confusion with our more humanoid bots.”
“Whatever,” I say, nimbly stepping back as he attempts to close the distance between us. “And while you’re at it, you might want to have your programmers recalibrate the bots’ scooping vigor.”
“Their what?” he asks, eyebrows shooting up as he breaks into an infectious laugh.
I blink very fast and try to reorganize my thoughts. “They scoop the food too vigorously, and the juices slosh out into the other tray compartments.”
If some douchebag in first class can complain about the water pressure, then I can complain about the meat juice in my fruit cocktail.
“Noted,” he says, cracking a sideways grin and snatching the drink out of my hand. “Did Porter serve you water?”
“I asked for water.”
He rolls his eyes and walks back over to the drink dispenser. “Ms. Barnes, it’s happy hour. Red or white?”
“Red.”
“Cabernet all right?”
“Perfect.”
He sets my tumbler on the counter and pulls out a stemless wine glass. He hits a button on the machine, and a stream of wine dispenses into the glass.
He pours himself one, too, and then sidles back over to me. I take a sip. It’s a good cab; I’ll give him that. It certainly doesn’t taste as though it just came out of a cafeteria milk dispenser.
“So . . .” I say, turning my Optix to record. “You clearly had a big hand in designing this whole place . . . bigger than you let on.”
He shrugs, looking charmingly unimpressed by his own abilities. “I may have picked out some carpet samples.”
“Don’t be modest,” I say, pushing some vision boards aside and perching on the edge of his desk. “It doesn’t suit you.”
He licks his lips, and that devilish grin is back in full force. “Oh no?”
I shake my head. “Come on. Tell me what it was really like designing this place.”
“What’s there to tell? It was a lot of late nights . . . a lot of battles with my father.”
“The architect.”
“Architect slash engineer,” he corrects. “All my father cared about was that the exterior could withstand the G-forces of
constant rotation and that the interior was insulated from radiation. He seemed to forget that five thousand people would be making this place their home. He didn’t think that it needed to be beautiful or have decent water pressure . . .”
“But you did.”
He takes a drink and licks his lips. “I knew people had to be comfortable if we wanted this place to be a success.”
“Smart.”
“I thought so.” He shrugs. “Some of our investors didn’t.”
“What happened?”
He gives me a sideways look over the top of his glass, as if he doesn’t want to go into it but decides to make an exception for me. “We parted ways.”
“How did you come up with the money to finish the project?”
“I put up some of my own money,” he says, holding my gaze. “Well, some of my shares in the company.”
“You sold off some of your shares?”
“A few.”
“What did your father think about that?”
He laughs. “You’re gonna have to take off your journalist hat if you want to get anything real out of me.”
I stare at him for a moment. He’s serious. I flip off my Optix and unclip it from my glasses. “Fine,” I say. “This can just be on background.”
Tripp smiles. He clears off another corner of his desk and sits down next to me, and it’s as though his whole body relaxes. “Honestly? I think it might have been the first time my father ever respected me as a man.”
“Wow.” I have to hand it to Tripp. He’s not boring.
“Can I ask you something else?” I murmur, wondering how far I dare push my luck.
He scoots a little closer, and those green eyes twinkle with unrestrained mischief. “Anything.”
“What’s the deal with the Space Force?”
“What?” Tripp’s eyebrows disappear into his curls, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “Ever heard of a transition?”
“I don’t like to beat around the bush.”
“What about the Space Force?”
I give him a cut-the-bullshit sort of look. “I’m not blind. I’ve seen how many people you’ve brought on board for your own private military. Something’s going on — some threat to the colony that you haven’t disclosed.”
Tripp is still giving me a weird look, but he isn’t angry. He’s curious. “This doesn’t sound like the sort of interview Topfold usually does.”
“This isn’t an interview,” I say quietly. “And you aren’t talking to Layla Jones.”
He sets down his wine and leans in until his face is just a few inches from mine. “So this is the real Maggie Barnes: whip-smart . . . sexy . . . suspicious to the core.”
I snort, and I feel my cheeks heat up. “I’ve never heard someone describe me that way, but I’ll take it.”
“How do people usually describe you?”
“Pushy, nosy . . . a nuisance.”
“I can’t imagine anyone would classify you as a nuisance,” he says, edging closer.
I can see where the dark stubble is cutting through his skin, and I’m surrounded by the scent of him: cedar and sandalwood. It isn’t hard to guess what’s on his mind, and I feel a slight tug of longing deep down in my core.
“The Space Force,” I repeat, more for myself than for him.
He closes his eyes and pulls back. “Geez . . . You really have a one-track mind, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid that feature comes standard,” I say, still feeling off-kilter in a way I don’t appreciate.
First Jonah, now Tripp. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Fine.” He backs off and rubs the base of his neck with his hand. “The Space Force . . . Well, we are not unaware of the fact that Russia has been watching our operations very closely over the past eighteen months.”
“How closely?”
“Like, spy satellite closely.”
“What are they planning?”
Tripp quirks an eyebrow. “Depends who you ask.”
“What does the Department of Defense think Russia is up to?”
He sighs. “You’re really not recording this?”
“I’m not even wearing my Optix.”
He lets out an exasperated groan and grabs me by the hand. “Maggie, if I tell you this, it has got to be off the record. I don’t want the biggest story about Elderon to be what the Department of Defense thinks Russia might try to do to us.”
“You want the biggest story to be that Elderon serves its residents prison food?”
Tripp squeezes my hand and lets out an exasperated groan. He looks as though being in the same room with me is making him question his sanity. I can relate.
“I’m serious,” he says. “If the press gets ahold of this, it could ruin everything.”
“Why?” I ask in a low voice. “What do you know?”
“Promise me,” he says. “This is off the record.”
“Fine,” I sigh, getting the gut-wrenching feeling that I might be ruining my own chances at the story of a lifetime.
He takes a deep breath and shuts off his desktop, which has been pulsing in sleep mode for the past twenty minutes.
“The Department of Defense thinks that Russia could see this as an opportunity to derail American space development. They think that Russia could launch an attack on Elderon.”
My eyebrows shoot up. This is an even juicier confession than I was expecting. “What sort of attack?”
“Nobody knows,” says Tripp. “Look, my people spend half their lives fending off cyberattacks from all over the world. We’ve received threats from people claiming to work with the Bureau for Chaos, some claiming to be Russian hackers . . . I’ve gotten death threats from North Korea, the American right wing — even some environmental groups. This isn’t anything new for us, and we don’t have any hard evidence that anyone is mounting any attack whatsoever. But my company has a lot riding on Elderon, so we put together the Space Force so that we’re prepared to fight whatever we have to.”
“Including a physical assault on the colony.”
“Missiles, invasions, cyberattacks . . . you name it.”
I shake my head. Tripp has already given me way more than I bargained for.
“And you’re . . .” I clear my throat. “You’re confident that the Space Force is prepared to ward off an attack from Russia or the Bureau for Chaos or . . .”
His expression grows serious. “Trust me . . . Nobody does defense like a trillion-dollar tech company.”
14
Jonah
The next day I skip the latrine and sneak out of the pod without Ping. It’s the first day of Reception, and I need a chance to clear my head before I meet my squad.
I haven’t led my own unit in more than two years, and I have this nervous itch — as though I might have forgotten how.
They don’t teach leadership in Space Force officer training. Everyone there is already supposed to be a leader. The purpose of those two weeks was to get us acquainted with the Space Force’s mission, values, and training procedures. We went over the three stages of basic training that all new recruits will go through and completed a battery of tests.
I passed them all with flying colors, but there’s no erasing my record. There’s a stink on anyone who’s been administratively discharged, and I’m pretty sure the other officers could smell it.
Only my COs can access my personnel file, but it doesn’t matter. If anyone in my company lets slip that I was tossed out of the army, I’ll lose all credibility with my unit. That’s why I can’t afford to give anybody a reason to doubt that I belong here.
I do my workout in the civilian fitness center. It’s not as though I’m hiding my morning fitness regime — I just don’t want to draw extra attention to myself. I warm up with a jog on the treadmill and do some shadowboxing on the mats. I bust out fifty push-ups and a hundred sit-ups and then sprint from one end of the gym to the other.
It’s oh five hundred, and I have the place to myself.
>
Once I’ve sweated out my nerves, I head back to the pod and take a long hot shower. I’m not hungry, but I shovel down a bowl of cereal anyway and chug two glasses of water.
I don’t see Ping at all, which is good. I can’t shake my first-day jitters, and the last thing I need is his nonstop commentary.
Still, it’s a little weird when I make it all the way to the training center without seeing him. The PTC is the only place in Sector R that’s large enough to fit the entire company. It’s a huge open gymnasium, and for the next eleven weeks, it’s entirely devoted to new recruit training.
I step through the double doors, and the familiar stench of Reception hits my nostrils: new uniforms, new boots, and the sweat of anxious recruits. In the army, this would be the day that everybody gets their heads shaved and gear is distributed.
In the Space Force, the recruits already have their gear. They’ve been inoculated and given full medical clearance. All that’s left is for them to take their physical fitness test and get an official initiation into the galactic armed forces.
I cross the room to the huge number thirteen printed on the wall and stand beneath it. This is our squad number, and the four recruits I’m expecting will be looking for it.
I take a deep breath and face the door with my head up, chest out, and arms folded in front of me. I led my own squad once before. I can do it again.
A few more recruits trickle in as the minutes tick by. Most of them disperse to the other squad leaders, but a couple come over to me. One is a tall blundering giant with small eyes and a flabby face. The name on his uniform says Casey, and I remember that his first name is Trevor. Trevor Casey — space weapons expert.
I also get an angry-looking Indian girl with dark frizzy hair and a tall ginger who looks as though a strong breeze would knock him over.
All three recruits are silent and nervous, and they don’t have a clue in the world. At least they have respect for authority. They salute me, and I rack my brain to retrieve the other two names: Lee Davis, space comm specialist, and Adra Kholi — former delinquent hacker turned NSA white hat.
Then the doors swing open, and I see Ping bounding toward me. He’s wearing his uniform, but it looks all wrong. One of his pant legs isn’t tucked into his boots, and he’s got too many buttons undone.
