I stand, eyes narrowing. “Why come at all? Was this some sort of spying mission?”
He shrugs.
“Kodiak Celius,” I say, “if the Titan camp is viable but my sister is dead, we’ll be living there together for years. Tell me you’re not heading back to your quarters for good. That’s ridiculous.”
His eyebrow raises. “Minerva Cusk is your sister?”
I nod.
“I hope she’s alive,” he says. “She is greatly admired by us, and does us honor as an adversary.”
“She’s sort of always been a worthy adversary for me, too,” I say, chuckling.
He cocks his head.
“Sibling rivalry stuff,” I say. I would never tell this brute, but the truth is that Minerva is both my greatest rival and the most important love in my life. There are dozens of Cusk children, raised by surrogates and nannies from my mother’s extracted eggs mixed with designer DNA from the greatest men in history. Only Minerva and I are children of Alexander the Great. Out of all my family, Minerva is the only one I loved. The only one who loved me. But I keep my expression wry and invulnerable. “So do you, what, have a pinup of her on your wall?”
Kodiak rolls right by that one. “Your presence here is a distraction to everything I’ve spent my life training for. My priorities do not involve chitchat dates with an enemy of the state who couldn’t even make it through a launch without knocking himself out.”
Kodiak leaves, the fabric of his suit zip-zapping between his thighs. Reeling, I leave my unfinished dinner and track him through the few rooms of my ship as he walks away. He glances over his shoulder and sees me there, but says nothing, continuing forward without saying a word.
“The OS’s voice,” he calls over his shoulder. “Change it back.”
I punch the orange door as soon as it’s shut.
A couple words in particular won’t quit my mind: Princelet. Dates. The contempt in Kodiak’s voice when he said each one. In Fédération, we pride ourselves on having moved far beyond the prejudices of the past. I nearly got a skinprint between my pecs saying Labels are the Root of Violence. But it’s like the Dimokratíans are still living in the twenty-first century. Backward, bigoted, homophobic, transphobic. Idiots.
“OS,” I say, clubbing the heels of my hands at my teary eyes. “Can you make your Devon Mujaba voice even sexier? Is that a setting?”
“No,” OS says. “Sexiness in a voice is too individualized an experience for the listener. I can’t control it globally.”
“How about making it quieter and higher and growlier and so that everything sounds like a question? Like this?”
“Let me see. Here are some effects I can achieve that are similar?” OS says, demonstrating, the words getting so high-pitched they almost squeak off at the end. It’s not sexy, but it definitely is annoying.
“That’ll do,” I say, smiling as I imagine Kodiak requesting data points and having them reported back by a shallow kittenish vocal-fry pop star.
“What can you tell me about the preparation Dimokratía spacefarers might receive?” I ask OS.
“The training?” OS responds. “The Dimokratía space program continues to select its spacefarers by testing the millions of children in its orphanages and determining which have the best combination of attributes? By which they mean resilience, constitution, strength, and reasoning power? Those selected are conditioned from an early age to maximize their fitness to space travel? Emotional needs are ‘vyezhat,’ or ‘driven out,’ whenever possible?”
“You can cancel the upspeaking for me, thanks, OS,” I say. “But keep doing it to Kodiak. So. That system sounds mighty fun for the little ’uns.”
“‘Brutal’ is the word most often used for it in the Fédération press,” OS says, “though the closest translation to ymir, the Dimokratía word for the process, is ‘transcendence.’ I would try not to worry yourself about Kodiak’s responses to your entreaties to friendship. They say far more about his training than they say about you.”
“Thanks, OS,” I say. “That’s kind.”
“I do not say it out of kindness. I am aware of the frailty of the human psyche. I said this so your unhappiness wouldn’t interfere with your capacity to undertake the asteroid harvesting I need you to accomplish so I can maintain your existence.”
“Cool, cool,” I say, heading back to my quarters. “I think I’m going to eat a pint of ice cream and go to bed.”
“There is no ice cream on this ship.”
“I knew that,” I say. “It was a joke.”
“I have logged it as a joke and will learn from it. Next time you make a similar statement, I will laugh.”
“I appreciate your growth mindset, OS. I know a certain broody Dimokratía centurion who could learn a thing or two from you.”
Additional thing I don’t say to my OS: I’m horny. As I get to work, my mind goes to warm Greek sand, idle warriors, olive oil . . .
_-* Tasks Remaining: 337 *-_
Our acceleration is so gentle that I don’t notice it most of the time, but it’s still strong enough to make my pillow drift to the edge of my bed over the course of each rest period. As I watch the training reels, it feels like my feet are higher in the air. I get up twice to check that the surface is actually level. I wind up putting the pillow under my shoulders and my heels on the bare mattress, so the forces even out. Like that, I manage to take a nap.
I wake to OS’s voice. “Ambrose, I need you.”
I jerk awake, banging my head on the ceiling. For a moment, I’m back on the private Mari beach, reaching through hot grains of pink sand. About to race Minerva to the rocky point under the scorching sun. Then I see a creamy swath of stars rotating outside the window and remember where I am. “What’s happened? Is something wrong with Kodiak?”
“No. Our path is projected to intersect the asteroid’s in one hour. You need to suit up. Kodiak will take lead, but we need you to be ready.”
I roll out of bed, rub my face, and stagger my way through 00 and into 06. “Is the asteroid detectable?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, the asteroid is along the ship’s axis of rotation, so it’s in our blind spot for the moment. It should come into range in seven or eight minutes.”
“Can I talk to you while you’re working?” I ask.
“Of course. I am busy troubleshooting any eventualities of intersecting the asteroid, but responding to you requires little computing power.”
“OS! Rude!”
_-* Tasks Remaining: 337 *-_
I watch from my airlock window as Kodiak, in his spacesuit, operates controls on the exterior of the ship. The whipping golden mesh net billows out into space. It’s not actually made of gold, but that’s the color it takes on beneath the light of the ship, its fine weave capturing any scant light that hits it, casting lines of light back and forth, like sunbeams on a seafloor.
“Ten seconds,” OS warns. The asteroid must be right beside the ship. I strain and peer, but I see only the revolving stars. The asteroid is completely dark, of course.
A swath of stars disappears.
“Five seconds. Brace.”
The ship rumbles and slows, casting me against the wall. When I make it back to the window, the golden net has closed around the asteroid. The dark boulder rolls to the edge of the net and teeters there, half in and half out.
Kodiak retracts one tether, and that side of the net rises. We’re on the brink of losing it entirely, but then his gambit pays off, and the asteroid tumbles into the secure belly of the golden mesh.
After the harvesting is finished, Kodiak bounds his way back to his airlock, reversing his body so he can use his heels to slow himself. His cord goes taut. But for that cord, he’d spin off into the void.
He passes over the gray portal and disappears around the far side of the Coordinated Endeavor.
“Kodiak?” I say, hand against the wall so I can feel the dull vibration of his airlock closing. “Kodiak, report.”
Static and t
hen—thank the lords—a voice. “Back in,” Kodiak reports.
“How did it go?” I ask.
There’s no answer beyond the hum of the ship. I watch the golden net reel in the asteroid, this chunk of lifesaving darkness, far more precious than the trillion-dollar tech in which it’s wrapped.
“Report, OS,” I say.
“The outcome has been optimal,” Devon Mujaba tells me.
_-* Tasks Remaining: 336 *-_
Because of the ship’s barbell shape, the ceiling windows in my bedroom provide a view right into Kodiak’s workspace, backdropped by swirls of distant galaxies. He’s kept his shades closed before, but now he’s started to leave them open. I catch the red of his suit as he sits at a desk. It’s just a shoulder I see, and occasional flashes of skin as his fingers tap a console.
Not removing my eyes from him, I ease myself to the bed. I lie back. My fingers toy with the fabric covering my chest. I could stare at this forever: swirling stars in the background and a human being, a real live human being, lost in a task. The fringe of thick dark hair that leads to skin, to the planes of his neck. Every few seconds he waggles his head from side to side, to stretch it. Maybe he’s stiff? I can see one smooth bump of spine. I have to remember the swells of muscle that join that neck to the rest of his body—he’s too far away for me to see them.
“OS,” I call out, “if Kodiak ever asks—not that I expect he will—please don’t let him know that I find him interesting to look at. I assume he already has an inflated ego around that very fact. Much as I do, of course.”
“I would have made that same judgment call,” Devon Mujaba’s voice says. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Keeping secrets now. I guess there’s no honor among operating systems.
_-* Tasks Remaining: 336 *-_
A short while later I’m sitting on my bunk, scanning through stale headlines on my bracelet. The news isn’t updating because of the solar storm, so everything’s weeks out of date by now. But it puts me out of my yearning mood to check in on what’s happening on Earth, or at least what was happening on Earth a few weeks ago.
There are some recorded reels from classmates. Every single one lined up for their one-minute slot to say hello. I was hoping for inside jokes and shared memories, but all they say are generalities about my achievement, how inspiring I am, blah blah. How can they think I’d want to hear that? It’s like none of them actually knew me. I’m probably the most admired and least loved person in our class.
I skip back to the news. Dimokratía and Fédération might have blown themselves to smithereens by now for all I know. Kodiak and I could be all that’s left. Ha. Good luck, world. There are a good dozen reasons why there’ll be no bouncing babies coming from us. Cusk has never been willing to send out combinations of spacefarers that could procreate, to prevent any high-risk space pregnancies.
“Latest prediction for when we’ll be back in communication with mission control?” I ask OS.
“We will be through the radio interference from the solar storm in under four hours.”
I scan through the messages until I get to the one from Sri, my cutest classmate by far. “Thank you for your contribution to the future of humanity,” they say in a monotone, and spend the rest of their minute saying not much else. I close the reel in disgust. Not one mention of the carved antique necklace I gave them, or that amazing picnic I arranged after hours on the hangar floor. Granted, I had gotten busy after and stopped responding to bracelet messages. “Wonder if Sri is still a little heartbroken,” I murmur.
“I have no way of determining that,” OS says.
“That was a rhetorical question. Anyway. When mission control has been in touch, has it been a joint mission control, or separate communications from Fédération and Dimokratía?”
A micropause. “It remains a Cusk-run mission control, located in Fédération and utilizing resources from both countries of Earth.”
“Inform Kodiak that, once the solar storm is over, I insist we communicate with mission control together. From the same room.”
“I cannot tell you whether Kodiak is listening to your messages, but I will transmit this to him if he allows it.”
I think back to Sri, how thrilled they were to be seduced, how they turned all buttery under my fingers. My skin starts to feel hot. Not horny hot, angry hot. Or maybe both. How can Kodiak continue not to see me? “Tell him this way: Let’s do this together. Manicotti at my place?”
“I have transmitted that message in your own voice. I’m not sure I could replicate all of its nuance.”
There’s a long silence. As I calm down, a surprising new feeling shows up beneath the anger and lust: shame. Kodiak makes me feel ashamed. Yuck. “Tell him never mind,” I say. “We can comm mission control separately. I have my computer buddy to keep me company.”
Another silence. I drum my fingers against the polycarbonate wall, lean my forehead against the window as I stare out at the stars. Rover is already in the room, clackity arms at the ready with a wipe, to scrub off my forehead oils the moment I move away. I want out of here, I briefly think. I wrestle the thought away. There is no “out of here.” At least not one that I’d survive.
A voice pipes through. It’s not OS—it’s Kodiak. “Relying on a computer buddy for your only company. That sounds terribly pathetic.”
I can’t help it—I grin. A stupid and sloppy one. “Pathetic is the neighborhood I’m living in right now. Until I can afford someplace better.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
_-* Tasks Remaining: 336 *-_
First thing I notice is that he’s showered. Well, we can’t actually shower on the ship. But he’s used some precious water to slick his hair back. It looks handsome, sure, but it’s the fact that he tried that makes him even more handsome. I almost comment, but resist the urge just in time.
He sighs and cracks his knuckles as he comes in, like he’s girding himself for some ordeal. As before, he keeps his eyes on the window, avoiding me as much as he can. It’s as if we’re still communicating over patched audio.
I meant to be severe with him. But instead I’m soft and puddly. I’ve never been soft and puddly, not in my whole life. Minerva will laugh when she finds out about this. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
He grunts in response. He actually grunts. Who does that?
“OS, call up the starmap, with our ship and mission control at either end of the visualization axis,” he says.
The space between us becomes a projection of our rotating ship, surrounded by stars. Kodiak expertly navigates the model, making rapid calculations through the brain-op’d calculator floating on the side. A glowing blue sphere appears around our ship. It looks like magic, and like magic it makes me feel safe. Illogically safe.
Kodiak nods, massaging his neck. “With the sun between us and Earth, there’s no way for a signal to break through. Too much radio noise from the nuclear activity.”
“Until three minutes from now,” OS says.
Kodiak cocks his head, does more mental calculations. The numbers sparkle up through the visualization, rising like bubbles in champagne.
“Is something wrong?” I ask him.
His voice drops to a whisper, not that there’s any hope of hiding anything we say from OS. “There’s so much chaos in the sun’s radio noise. I don’t know of any computer system powerful enough to predict the formation of sunspots and flares. It would be like forecasting the weather on an April morning three years from now.”
“Forgive me, Spacefarer Celius,” OS cuts in, “but it is well known that the Cusk Corporation came to its industrial dominance through software development. You might not be aware of all that I’m capable of.”
Um. Is our operating system getting defensive?
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?”
The Darkness Outside Us Page 4
