The Last Dance

by Martin L Shoemaker

  I learned that incredible body of his, including that roadmap of scars that hinted at the violence in his past. These fascinated me from a clinical perspective: How had he suffered that cut in that spot? How had he survived a deep trauma like the long scar across his chest? Who had shot him in the back, and why? But he refused to talk about these past missions, preferring to leave his past buried. The only scar he commented on was on his calf: a nearly perfect impression of human teeth, both upper and lower jaws. When I asked about that, he laughed and said, “It was a performance review that got out of hand.” But when I asked for details, he refused to say more.

  But I didn’t mind. I had secrets—I never explained how I had landed on the Aldrin—so I could hardly fault him for his own. These secrets only intrigued me more. The only real disagreement we had regarded Anthony: I was getting to like the kid and see potential in him; but Chuks kept cautioning me. “His enthusiasm never lasts, Constance.” Normally, “Constance” bothered me. It was such a formal name, and it didn’t feel right to me. I was just Connie. But when Chuks said it, he imbued the name with a softness, a quality that made me feel special.

  We sat in an observation room, curled together on a couch, staring out at the stars as they spun by. “You’ve known him longer, Chuks, but I just see something there. I think he’s changing.” I didn’t tell Chuks about my conversation with Anthony and his determination to show his dad he could do this. That was private, not my secret to share. But after that, I believed in Anthony, and I wanted to support him. “And I don’t think Captain Aames would push him like this if he didn’t believe Anthony could do it.”

  Chuks shook his head. “You do not understand Nick Aames yet, Constance. He tests people, tests them to the breaking point. If they pass the test, he raises the bar. If they break, then he is satisfied because he knows their limits.”

  I looked into his eyes. “I thought the captain was your friend.”

  “He is. But it is difficult being Nick’s friend. He tests his friends too. It is just what he does.”

  “Some friend.” I frowned. “Well, maybe he doesn’t believe in Anthony, but I do.”

  Chuks wrapped his arms tighter around me. “You are a good woman, Constance. Despite your temper.” I glared at him; but then he smiled, and I did too. “I just don’t want you to be hurt when Mr. Holmes returns to form.”

  Over the next few weeks of running, my faith in Anthony grew as he shaped up well. Thanks to the exercise and a carefully selected diet, he quickly dropped his excess weight, and that made the running easier. Soon I was able to lift my limits and let him set his own pace. I was glad that I was getting a good workout too: it was the only way I could keep up with him.

  As his body shaped up, so did his mood, and not just because he had more stamina. The passengers who had laughed at him soon forgot his embarrassment, but they didn’t forget his power and influence. They began trying to curry favor again; but with his new confidence, Anthony also became more discerning. He was quick to cut out the obvious toadies and focus on the ones who were willing to treat him as just one of the crowd. And one way he selected his companions was by inviting them to run with him. The sycophants soon gave up on that, while those who stuck with it grew closer as they challenged each other to faster paces and longer runs. It wasn’t long before I gave up on keeping up and concentrated on my own pace. Soon we had six regulars who joined us each day, four scientists and two bodyguards. We ran for a full hour, followed by dinner in the lounge; and they were friends to Anthony, perhaps the first true friends he had ever had.

  And sometimes we had another companion: at least once a week, Captain Aames joined us even though it wasn’t his watch to run. Then I completely gave up on the race, and I just hung back and watched. The captain still pushed and still taunted, but Anthony found it easier and easier to keep up. The captain still won every race, but their times got faster every week.

  On the days when the captain joined us, he also dined with us, and he even put dinner on his tab. I won’t say he let his hair down, but he showed a shrewd appreciation for morale and unit cohesion. He sat with us, inquired as to experiments and preparations, and listened to jokes and stories. He programmed the lounge’s music system with his own eclectic mix of classic waltzes and Brazilian lounge songs. And every week at some point, he stood and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, ship’s duties call, and I must go. Let the real party begin.” He would leave then, usually with a plate of pão de queijo; and after that, just as he said, the celebration started and the drinks were ordered. But Anthony never again drank like he had that first day, and he would stop if I commented, or even just gave him an odd glance. He was determined not to lose control again.

  In the tenth week of racing, however, Captain Aames broke the routine. He stayed at the table long past his usual departure, and he signaled the waiter for a round of drinks. Anthony ordered his usual, the house beer, and slowly sipped it. The captain watched him, not judging, just watching. Finally he asked, “So, kid, are you ready for those therapy nanos yet?”

  Anthony almost spewed his beer. The captain had sucker-punched him there. Then he took a long drink. I suspected that was to give Anthony time to think of his answer. Finally he set down the half-empty glass. “No, Captain. I’m still not interested. I think Dr. Baldwin is doing a fine job of keeping me healthy without polluting my body with unnatural machines.”

  The captain almost smiled at that. “Unnatural machines. Ah, yes . . . Doctor, I completely forgot we had an expert on nanomachines here.”

  Anthony tightened his grip on his glass, but he kept control. “Not an expert, Captain. I’ve just done my research.”

  “Yes, yes, your research. I forgot. Don’t be so modest, kid, it sounds like expertise to me. So tell me: What is the activation frequency of a salt-ion scavenger nano?”

  Anthony hesitated a second. “I’m not sure, Captain. The . . . sound frequency—”

  “Light frequency, kid,” the captain interrupted. “Modern nanos are generally activated by specific spectral signatures. Try this one: What’s the orbital period of Phobos?”

  “Oh, I know this one!” Anthony was so eager to answer, he ignored the fact that this wasn’t a nanotechnology question. “Approximately 7.7 hours.”

  “Approximately will get you dead in space, kid. Okay, back to nanos: How many generations of sintering nanos can you get out of a typical batch before they start to degrade?”

  “I don’t know, Captain. We have specialists on the mission to deal with that sort of issue.”

  “Specialists, yes.” The captain nodded. “And what is your specialty, kid?” He let the question hang in the air for almost three seconds before turning to the rest of the runners. “Oh, that’s unimportant right now. We have all of these experts with us. Isn’t it fantastic that we have all these experts on this mission, Doctor? Savoy, what’s your specialty?”

  Laurence Savoy, a tall, shy Frenchman with dark, curly hair, blinked. He wasn’t used to the captain’s attention. Finally he stammered, “Atmospheric chemistry, Captain.”

  Aames nodded. “And you, Meadors?”

  Minnie Meadors, a tall blonde from Boston, was quicker with her answer: “Astronomy, Captain. Seven hours, thirty-nine minutes, fourteen seconds.”

  “What? Oh yes, Phobos. You must love the viewing from here.”

  “It’s phenomenal, sir. A dream come true.”

  “Enjoy it, Meadors. It only gets better as we approach Mars. This is a chance most astronomers will never get. And you, Krause?”

  Katherine Krause, a short, sturdy German woman, replied eagerly, “Geology, Captain. I’m counting the days to my first field survey.”

  “I look forward to your reports. And Martinez?”

  Jerry Martinez, a medium-height, muscular Hispanic male, answered with a big smile, “Software engineering, Captain.” He pointed a finger around the table. “As soon as we land, they’re all going to think up new requirements for their systems, things they ne
ver thought of before. Somebody has to reprogram all their gear to meet those new requirements.”

  “Excellent. You should talk to Chief Carver. He pulled out some software wizardry on our previous Mars mission.” He paused. “Of course, a big factor in our survival was cross-training. Did I tell you about that, Doctor?”

  I wondered where Aames was going with this, but I played along. “No, you didn’t, Captain.”

  The captain nodded. “We lost some good personnel, but we had the essentials covered, thanks to cross-training. Say, does your mission have a cross-training plan?”

  Meadors shook her head. “No, Captain, but that’s an excellent idea. I’ll bring it up with the mission planners.”

  Aames shook his head. “Don’t bother. I already suggested it, fourteen months ago, but they rejected it. They said that was ‘Old Space’ thinking, and they have a ‘New Space’ mission plan. But now it seems like your people have a lot of leisure time.” He slapped his leg. “That’s it. I’m making an executive decision. You’ll all start cross-training seminars for your team. And for my crew as well, since many of them hope for a Mars mission someday.”

  The runners stared at him, openmouthed. Finally Martinez spoke up. “You’re serious.”

  “Deadly serious, Martinez. Deadly. The seminar sessions will be recorded so crew on other shifts can follow along. I’ll expect each of you to organize the seminars for your field and to present me syllabi and progress reports to review. Martinez, you can start with software engineering on Mondays. Everyone should know more about programming and how to communicate with programmers. Meadors, you’ll do astronomy on Tuesdays, Krause and geology on Wednesdays, and Savoy and atmospheric chemistry on Thursdays. I’m sure I can talk Major Adika into teaching Martian survival on Saturdays, and we can all take a break on Sundays.”

  Anthony looked at the captain and swallowed. “And Fridays?” But I was sure he already knew the answer.

  Aames stared right back at him, but those blue eyes didn’t flinch. “On Fridays, you’re going to teach us everything there is to know about nanotechnology. And when we have questions, you’ll find the answers and teach us those. And repeat, and repeat, until we’re all as expert in the subject as you are.” And then he leaned in, almost into Anthony’s face. “Unless you think you can’t do it, kid?”

  Anthony held the captain’s gaze, and he kept his voice low and level. “I can do it. Captain.”

  “That’s what I like to hear! Doctor, if the kid needs any help, see to it that he has supplemental reading. Oh, and kid, I expect you to be an active participant in all of these seminars. Can you do that?”

  This time there was steel in Anthony’s voice. “Yes. Sir.”

  Aames leaned back. “Good, good.” He looked around the table. “That goes for all of you. If this is going to work, I need you to set examples for the rest of your team.” At last his gaze returned to Anthony. “I expect you to be leaders, not spectators. For the good of the mission.” Then he placed his palms on the table and stood; and just like any other week, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, ship’s duties call, and I must go. Let the real party begin.” And he left.

  As soon as the captain was gone, Anthony drained the rest of his beer. Then he stood to leave as well.

  I was worried. The captain was pushing too hard, and this was completely out of nowhere. I was afraid all the work we had done might be lost in this one blundering move by that—by that tyrant, Nick Aames.

  I looked across the lounge. Chuks stood in a corner with a good vantage on the room. He had his earpiece in, so I was sure he had heard the conversation. He looked at me, frowned, and shook his head. I had learned to read his face and body language: I am sorry. The bar has been raised.

  But I wasn’t ready to give up hope. I went after Anthony and saw him down the hall. “Anthony, wait.” He kept walking toward his cabin, so I ran to catch up. “Anthony, stop. Let’s talk.” But he kept walking, so I kept pace. “Anthony, you’ve come so far, you’re doing so well. Don’t let—” I looked around to see who might be listening. A guard stood a discreet distance away, so I lowered my voice. “Don’t let the captain’s pigheadedness undo everything you’ve done here.”

  Anthony just kept walking, not looking at me, but at least he answered, “I’m not, Doctor. He can’t break me that easily.”

  “But then where are you going? What are you going to do?”

  “To my room. To study. I have a seminar to prepare, Doctor.” And then he did turn and look at me. “I look forward to your supplemental reading list.”

  That stopped me in my tracks, but he kept going, back stiff and straight and walking with an easy stride. For the first time, I really saw his father in him.

  But as determined as Anthony was, he still needed a lot of help for this challenge. I ended up spending my spare time tutoring him, not just recommending reading. He was bright—his father’s genes ran true there—and he had the benefit of a very expensive education and private tutors; but he had never had to work at learning. Material that came easy to him, he blew through. When a topic proved too tough for him, though, he just turned to something else. No one had ever expected him to have the discipline to see his way through a hard part, and no one had taught him the analysis and study skills to master a subject. Now suddenly he was “enrolled” in five graduate-level studies, plus teaching one, and Captain Aames expected him to sink or swim.

  And he wasn’t sinking, but only because he spent all his nonexercise time studying. He even stopped showing up for dinner after workouts, until I put a halt to that.

  “Doctor,” he protested.

  But I answered with a phrase he was learning to hate: “Doctor’s orders. You need some downtime, or you’re going to have a breakdown.” He accepted my order, grudgingly, but the dinner conversations became more like an extension of the seminars. He kept probing his friends for answers, desperately trying to keep up with their work. His alcohol consumption dropped to almost zero, but I made a point to buy him a glass a night just to relax him. When he refused the first glass, I threatened to write out a prescription.

  Anthony’s determination was infectious. If Aames wanted to break him, then I was determined to keep him whole. But that had a cost: our tutoring time meant less time with Chuks; and though Chuks was a good man and tried not to show it, he resented it. “Constance, you will only be disappointed,” he said one night; but I read disappointment in his own face. “You waste our time. In the end, Mr. Holmes will lose interest, and you will have accomplished nothing.”

  Our time. I bristled at that. “It’s my time. If I want to spend it tutoring, I will. You don’t own me.”

  “I don’t want to own you, Constance, I want to protect you.”

  “You’re not paid to protect me; you’re paid to protect Anthony. Is my tutoring a danger to him?” Before Chuks could answer, I stormed out of the observation room. I was tired and frustrated, but that only made me more stubborn: if I had anything to say about it, Anthony would master his studies.

  Eventually Anthony’s hard work and my tutoring paid off. He started asking smart questions in the seminars. When it was his turn to lead a discussion, he was always prepared, though I noticed he had a trick of delegating the more technical parts to the experts in the room, then synthesizing their responses into new insights.

  In Chuks’s Martian survival seminar, Anthony was often the first one with the right answer to any challenge. It turned out the one topic that really did interest him was Mars itself. He had to know everything about it; and in every other seminar, he managed to turn the topic back to “How will this help a team to survive and succeed on Mars?” Chuks was harsher with Anthony than with the other students, always dissecting his answers and pointing out weaknesses and mistakes; but Anthony just studied harder, and soon there were no weaknesses for Chuks to find.

  And in his own seminar, Anthony quickly grasped how limited his “research” had been. He devoured my supplemental reading, until I had to
call up more from Earth. He kept challenging the scientific consensus on nanotechnology, but his arrogance and confidence were gone. He now demanded that each precept be challenged and defended. He worked with the discussion leaders to explore nanos from the ground up. He asked Lieutenant Copeland, supervisor of the Aldrin’s nano labs, for permission to observe the labs; and after Captain Aames intervened, she approved him. Several weeks later, Anthony asked for permission to run some experimental batches. That approval took longer, and the captain demanded stringent oversight; but in the end, Anthony was approved to test a new design for waste reclamation nanos. His first two batches made an unholy stink, but Lieutenant Copeland said they showed promise. His third batch produced no odors, and his fourth batch improved on the efficiency of our stock nanos. Copeland agreed to put them through further testing.

  We were about four weeks from the Martian gravipause at that point. The next Friday, when I showed up for Anthony’s seminar, I was surprised to find the classroom almost empty. There were usually a dozen students, plus another dozen watching via comms. This time, the only people in the room were Captain Aames, Lieutenant Copeland, Chief Carver, and Chuks. I didn’t look at Chuks. My temper had passed since our last argument, but something else was wrong, and I wasn’t sure what. As Anthony grew more capable, Chuks became more distant, but he didn’t explain why. I wondered if he resented being wrong. Then I refused to believe that such a good man could be so petty. Then I grew angry at myself: Did I really know Chuks was a good man after only four months?

  Captain Aames was not big on saluting except when on station, so I wasn’t surprised when he spoke before I could salute. “Just in time, Doctor. Have a seat. Mr. Holmes should be here any minute.”

  I sat in the seat that he indicated, making me the last person in a semicircle around the podium. Aames gave me no instructions, so I sat quietly.

  When Anthony came in the door, I could tell he was as surprised as I had been; but he had practiced being unflappable in front of the captain, so he just walked up to the podium. The lights automatically lowered around us, and a big ceiling spot came on, pinning him in its beam. In the spotlight I could see just how much the exercise regimen had done for him. He was leaner, he stood straighter, and he carried himself with confidence. He looked every inch his father’s son, only more at ease.