by Dom Testa
She pulled up a chair next to the desk once occupied by Alexa. Manu was busily arranging things to his liking, including a photograph of his family. His parents, two brothers, and a little sister surrounded him in the image. He told Lita that it was taken during the crew’s final visit home before the launch, which she silently accepted as the explanation for the sad smiles.
She had her own sad-smile family photo beside her bed.
She also couldn’t help but notice what resembled a charm, dangling from a slim, dark chain. Manu had hung the charm from the edge of his vidscreen, but, although it didn’t stand out as a display, Lita had no doubt that there was significance to it.
For almost half an hour they talked about Manu’s new responsibilities. When they reached a natural break in the orientation session, which allowed them to stretch and relax for a minute, Lita said, “So, any questions so far?”
“After doing so much filing and record-keeping, do you almost wish for someone to come in with a scratch or twisted ankle?” Manu said with a grin.
“A doctor’s life is rarely glamorous,” she said. “But you’d never know that from watching the movies. Hollywood would never have survived showing what we really do most of the day: routine exams, doing a lot of reading and research, and filling out forms.”
“But you love it.”
“I do,” Lita said. “I grew up around it, so the behind-the-scenes stuff didn’t surprise me at all. It’s just a matter of being ready in an instant; that’s what all of your training is about.”
Manu nodded. “My grandfather was a nurse and EMT. I guess there might be something about caregiving that runs in our blood.”
That didn’t sound far-fetched to Lita; she’d known of many families that had several generations somehow involved in medical practice. She’d never thought of the art of caregiving as a gene that could be passed down, but who knew? Once again Manu had stimulated her thoughts, another sign that she’d made the right decision.
Before diving back into their work, she glanced at the charm hanging from his monitor. “If I’m being too nosy, please tell me. But I’m curious about this beautiful charm. Is there a story behind it?”
“No, I don’t mind you asking,” Manu said. He lifted the chain and held it out to Lita, who gently held it in her palm while examining the polished stone it held. “It’s an amulet.”
Lita raised an eyebrow. “An amulet? Like a … good luck charm?”
He smiled at her. “In a way, yes. Amulets turn up in a lot of countries on Earth, and there’s lots of different beliefs that go along with them. This one’s Egyptian, and it’s been in my family a long time. In fact, it belonged to that grandfather I told you about. He was raised practically in the shadow of the Great Pyramid, so he grew up bathed in the stories and traditions. He gave this to me when I was selected for the Galahad mission. Said I was taking the magic of the pharaohs with me to another world.”
“And what belief did your grandfather associate with this?” Lita said, turning the stone over. The reverse side was marked with smooth scratches, obviously etched with a particular message in mind.
“He said it was created to ward off evil.”
“Do you believe that?” Lita said.
Manu seemed to consider the question for a long time before offering a small shrug. “Let’s just say it was important to him, and to his father, and on back. I respect their beliefs, even though I haven’t decided yet for myself.” He took back the amulet when Lita held it out, and draped it once again over the vidscreen. “What about you? Do you believe in that kind of stuff?”
Lita leaned forward on the desk and crossed her arms. “For me,” she said, “it’s a question of faith versus fate. A lot of people see those as the same thing, but I don’t.”
“And how do you see the difference?”
“It’s just my own opinion, of course,” Lita said, “but I happen to think that faith involves believing in something that can affect what’s going to happen, whether that’s a supreme being or simply a higher power in the universe. Fate, on the other hand, to me implies that there can be no manipulation of what’s to be.”
Manu grinned at her again. “And which camp do you fall into?”
She gave a half-shrug. “I guess I’m a bit like you: still trying to decide. I’m grateful that I was brought up in a very tolerant and open-minded family. My parents taught me both sides and encouraged me to decide for myself which direction to go.” After a pause, she added, “But let’s face it, things happen as we go through life that make us sway back and forth between the two possibilities, don’t you think?”
“After what’s happened here, which camp are you in today?”
Lita started to answer, then stopped. It was a tough question, with a complicated answer. As much as she enjoyed the rapport with Manu and appreciated their talks, she wasn’t sure she was ready to open up this much with him. This was, after all, supposed to be merely a training session; somehow they had drifted into very personal terrain.
Of course, she had started it by asking about the amulet.
“I guess I’m on the fence right now,” she said with a smile. She sat back in her chair and hefted her workpad. Manu seemed to pick up the clue that it was back-to-work time. He sat up straight and punched a key to take the vidscreen out of hibernation mode.
For the next hour they covered more administrative territory, from crew data to pharmacy records to report filing. They ended the session with a cordial farewell and made plans to meet the next day for a refresher course on physical exams.
Lita glanced at the clock, noting the late hour. Getting Manu organized had been important, but now she had work of her own to finish, as well as a detailed summary to prepare for the next Council meeting. As enticing as sleep sounded at the moment, her responsibilites were piling up and demanding attention.
Except that Manu’s question kept forcing its way back into her thoughts. Where did she stand on the question of faith versus fate? Were the two compatible? And what did it mean if she wasn’t sure of her stance? She picked up the stylus pen from her desk and absently began tapping her cheek with it, her gaze drifting to Manu’s desk. The amulet sat mutely on its chain, yet somehow seemed to beckon her.
Evil spirits, he’d said, guarded against for generations. She agreed with Manu about respecting other people’s beliefs and traditions, but this was one belief that she could not share. She understood the value of customs or rituals that provided comfort, but her scientific mind was reluctant to embrace good luck charms; to her they fell into the category of superstitions.
Manu had said that he was undecided about the amulet’s power, and yet she also got the sense that he was hedging his bet. The fact that he displayed it near his workspace suggested that he might be willing to believe. Lita was okay with that.
Besides, she reasoned, with the ways things had been going lately aboard Galahad, a little bit of supernatural protection couldn’t hurt.
* * *
“You haven’t responded to my messages,” Gap said, leaning against the door frame. With night officially blanketing the ship, he’d trudged through Dome 1 in the darkness, glancing up at the stars that filtered in from above, guided by the light that spilled from Bon’s office.
The Swede kept his eyes on the desk vidscreen. After a long stretch of silence, he answered in a reluctant tone. “It didn’t seem urgent. I’ve been busy.”
“I came by an hour ago and couldn’t find you. Most of the workforce has been gone for a while.”
Bon finally looked up. “Should I check in with you at all times?”
Gap tried inserting a smile. “No. Maybe I’ll just put a tracking beacon on you.”
The humor seemed to have no effect on Bon, who turned his attention back to the screen. Gap slowly walked over and sat in the chair facing the desk, then tilted back onto the chair’s rear legs. Now he was able to see Bon up close, and at once something jumped out at him.
“You’re soaked in swe
at. What in the world have you been doing?”
Bon’s voice was laced with irritation. “I told you I’ve been busy. Is there something specific I can help you with?”
“Yes. I need to know if you got the message about the Council meeting tomorrow; it would be nice to get a response to that. Plus, I thought the message about crew rotation was pretty simple. Shouldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds to answer that.”
“Yes, I will be at the meeting. No, I’m not prepared to rotate for another couple of days.”
“May I ask why, or is that too much?” Gap said.
“Because we’re in the middle of two large harvests right now, and I’d like to keep some continuity until we’re at least past the heaviest load.”
Gap nodded. “Good enough. See how easy that was?” When he got no response, he added, “What’s going on with you? I mean, besides the usual. I don’t expect a spirited conversation when we chat, but there’s something else these days.”
Bon looked up again; this time Gap could see that his hair was matted against his forehead and appeared damp. On top of that, there seemed to be a slight tremor in his hands; faint, but there nonetheless.
“I get very weary of these verbal games,” Bon said. “Why don’t you just ask what you really want to ask?”
“All right,” Gap said. He brought his chair back onto all four legs and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been even more hermitlike than usual since we lost both Alexa and Triana. You’ve retreated into some sort of emotional cave, and now you’re not answering messages. On top of that, you have the exact same look that I saw after one of your Cassini connections. Do you have the translator?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve used it, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
Gap felt a ripple of anger and took a deep breath to keep from lashing out. “And you felt like you could do that without discussing it with the Council?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, enough with the one-word answers,” Gap said. “Save us some time and talk about this with me. What are you doing with the translator in the first place?”
Bon sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Triana brought it to me before she disappeared. She made the decision to keep it in her possession, and then made the decision to give it to me. She was the Council Leader at the time, remember? She didn’t have to get your blessing for everything that she did.”
“Spin it any way you want, Bon, but you know that she couldn’t ask the Council about giving that thing to you without giving away her plan to leave. That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t have reported it to us afterward. And it certainly doesn’t mean that you should just begin using it without discussing it with the Council. The thing is, you know that. And not only that, someone should be with you when you connect. Probably Lita.”
“It doesn’t affect me the way it used to,” Bon said.
“Right. That’s why you look like you’ve just run a marathon.”
Bon shrugged but didn’t respond.
Gap studied the face staring back at him. During the early stages of their Galahad training on Earth, he and Bon had developed a tenuous friendship—or at least the closest thing to a friendship of which Bon was capable. But the extreme differences in their styles and personalities had ultimately pushed them apart, and things cooled. A mutual interest in Triana furthered the split. They had settled into a cool but cordial working relationship, but the tension continually simmered underneath.
The next question was likely to evoke a vague response, but Gap knew that it was the only natural follow-up. “What did you talk about with the Cassini?”
Bon chuckled, but it was humorless. “Personal.”
Gap shook his head. “Sorry. When it comes to that link, it can’t be personal.”
“Oh, really? According to who?”
“Like it or not, Bon, I’m the acting Council Leader, and I have responsibilities. Quit fencing with me on this.”
“Quit pushing me,” Bon shot back. “Yes, you’re the acting Council Leader, whatever that really means. But I’ve paid my dues and then some when it comes to the Cassini. It was my link with them that got us through the Kuiper Belt, and it cost me. I don’t think anyone would begrudge me a private connection now and then. Well, not most people, anyway.”
“I see. So now you’re calling in your chip as the ship’s savior, is that right?”
“I didn’t bring this up, Gap; you did. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything wrong, nor anything that required the attention of the Council.”
Gap pushed up from his chair. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but it has now come to the attention of the Council. And it will be on the agenda for tomorrow’s meeting.”
Again, Bon gave no response. He looked up at Gap with an icy stare.
“In the meantime,” Gap said, “I’ll hold on to the translator until the meeting.”
“No.”
The ripple of anger quickly became a torrent, and Gap found himself doing everything in his power to keep from exploding. He knew that he was essentially powerless at this point; he couldn’t wrestle Bon to the ground and physically take the device. This round had gone to Bon.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Bon said. “Tomorrow.” He lowered his gaze back to the vidscreen and resumed his work.
Gap seethed inside at the dismissal. He spun on his heel and quickly walked from the office, back into the gloom of the dome’s night.
10
The fist landed with a dull smack against the side of Karl Richter’s jaw, knocking him backward, but not off his feet. At first his eyes widened with shock, but they quickly narrowed as he stepped forward to close the gap between himself and his attacker. The three farm workers who had witnessed the punch were frozen in place, not believing what they were seeing.
“You don’t seriously want another one, do you?” Liam Wright said. He held one cocked fist at his side, slowly pumping it up and down. “Now beat it.”
Karl, the side of his face turning a dark shade, lunged. He wrapped his arms around Liam’s midsection and drove him into the damp soil at the edge of the corn plants. Once on the ground, the boys’ fury exploded. Arms and fists flailed with only occasional success as they rolled a few feet into the stalks of corn, snapping several at knee height. Their grunts and exclamations were muffled under the canopy of plants. Dirt flew as each tried to gain traction. In seconds Liam had Karl pinned to the ground and managed to connect with another blow to the side of his head.
Two of the farm workers, at last shocked into action, leapt into the fray and grabbed Liam’s arm before he could do further damage. In turn, he swung wildly at both workers, which allowed Karl the chance to roll away and clamber to his feet. As soon as Liam looked back to find him, Karl stepped in and landed his own solid punch. There was a crack as Liam cried out and fell to his side.
Karl stood back, breathing heavily, wincing from the shots he had taken. He relaxed his tense muscles and dropped his arms. At that moment Liam flew upwards and grabbed Karl in a wrestler’s headlock. Blood from Liam’s broken nose began to spatter over both of them. They tumbled backward, a writhing mass, and then slammed into one of the field’s irrigation pump units. The plastic shell on the unit cracked as it bent sideways, ushering a fountain of sparks and loud pops as it shorted out. The two boys collapsed over the ruptured pump. Karl let out an animal cry of pain.
By now the third worker who had been frozen in place jumped forward, joined by the two who had unexpectedly been victims of the fight. They again pulled at Liam, who this time voluntarily stepped back. The four of them looked down at Karl.
A shard of plastic from the crushed irrigation shell had punctured his right thigh. He rolled to his left in agony, revealing a fresh cascade of blood that soon saturated the ground.
The third farm worker stripped off his shirt and knelt down. He pushed Karl’s hand aside a
nd examined the wound, doing his best to wipe the blood away with the shirt. He turned to the others and yelled, “Get help! Hurry!”
While one worker sprinted away, Liam coughed once and spat. He gingerly touched his nose and managed to smear blood across the side of his face. Looking down at the groaning figure on the ground, he said, “Is he okay?”
The worker turned to glare up at him. “As if you care. Why don’t you get yourself up to Sick House? You’ve done enough for one day. Go on, get out of here.”
Liam stood motionless, unsure, for several moments before turning and walking up the path. By the time he approached the lift he passed Manu and another Sick House worker, running in the other direction, each holding a first-aid bag.
* * *
Hannah couldn’t understand why it was so difficult to recall memories from her younger years. A few things were imprinted, but there were large gaps. It was as if a firewall sealed off portions of her life, refusing to allow her access. She had casually mentioned it to Dr. Armistead during their training, without making a big deal of it. As the mission psychologist, Angela Armistead had been responsible for evaluating each potential crew member’s ability to adapt to a long space voyage. The last thing Hannah had wanted to do was send up a red flag. And yet she was curious about why her mind behaved the way it did, and wondered if the dark spots in her memory were somehow tied in with her need for order and discipline.
“I know that pop psychologists like to automatically assume that you’re blocking out some traumatic experience,” Dr. Armistead had said at the time, offering a supportive smile. “That might be true in some cases, but I personally think that it’s often merely a case of our brains maximizing their resources.”
She went on to explain that each person was wired a little differently. Some placed an emphasis on emotions or feelings, while others might be more likely to follow a routine of logic and reason; there was no correct way, no wrong way, just different ways. In Hannah’s case, Dr. Armistead explained, she felt most comfortable with things in a proper sequence. It helped to explain Hannah’s obsession with order and neatness, her need for items and objects to be strictly aligned, and her razor-sharp attention to detail. The fading of early memories was, quite possibly, her mind’s way of organizing the most important and pertinent information, keeping all things crucial in an easily accessible “file,” while closing those that offered no real benefit. And, since many childhood memories were emotion-based, they might not register as critical.
