The Last Dance

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “No, Inspector.” He shook his head emphatically. “I think this crew has that much trust in their captain, trust that he and they have followed the proper course for their mission.”

  “I see. Is there something we should do to prepare for that risk?”

  Adika frowned. “I’m not sure I should say, because in the event, I might be leading the mutineers. Off the record.”

  My eyes grew wide. “Commander, I’ve studied your file. You have one of the finest records in the International Space Corps, dating all the way back to your time in the Rapid Response Team. I would not expect you, of all officers, to consider willfully violating Admiralty orders.”

  “Inspector, my oath is to three things, in order: safety of the mission, success of mission goals, and faithful execution of lawful orders. If those orders compromise the safety and success of the mission, then they are not lawful, so they are not binding upon me. You swore the same oath, you know it is to principles, not to men; but if I were to swear an oath to a man, it would be to Nick Aames, who every day demands we live up to those principles. If the Admiralty orders this crew to do something that will jeopardize this mission, you can trust that we will not do it. Removing Captain Aames is a high risk to this mission.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bah. I don’t buy it. Aames the Perfect. Aames the Observant. Aames the Challenging. I heard it all from your wife. She doesn’t like him, yet even she has fallen under his spell.”

  At that, finally, he smiled. “Constance likes Nick more than she will admit. But they are too much alike, and that gets on her nerves. They both have high standards, and I live to satisfy them.”

  I slapped my hand upon the desk, making the old blue e-reader bounce. “You all treat him like some legendary figure, wiser than the Initiative and the Admiralty put together. With all due respect, he’s just one person. No one is that good. He’s just a man, as flawed as any of us. I don’t understand this man and how he can inspire such fanatical loyalty. You all know this isn’t real, it’s a myth. Aames wasn’t born fully formed as some sort of . . . some sort of super captain.”

  “Yes, Inspector, it is a myth, one he cultivates to keep the crew striving to improve. I have known Nick Aames since he was a raw officer trainee. I am well aware of his flaws and how he has learned to work them to his advantage.” Adika looked closely at me, and suddenly I felt as if I were under a microscanner. “You are sincere? You wish to understand the captain?”

  “I do. If it will help me to understand the situation on this ship, I do.”

  Adika leaned back, relaxed at last. “Then let me tell you of when I first met Nick Aames. Back when he was not such a pleasant fellow.”

  4. WORKING OUT

  OFF-THE-RECORD ACCOUNT OF COMMANDER CHUKWUNWIKE ADIKA, CHIEF OF SECURITY OF THE IPV ALDRIN

  COVERING EVENTS FROM 20 APRIL 2046 TO 10 JUNE 2046

  I first met Nick Aames in Lunar Survival School. That was back before the System Initiative consolidated most space services into the International Space Corps, back when almost every major nation had their own competing program; but no matter where else they competed, agencies wanted their best cadets to study under Sergeant Fontes. Under the best survival training in the system. Luna, the United States, Russia, India, China, Australia, the Celestial Arch, and numerous commercial space agencies all sent their best students to Tycho to study under Sergeant Fontes. He had taught at LSS for a generation, since before the war where the Free Cities gained their independence. If you go to LSS today, you still will learn a curriculum designed by Fontes.

  I attended as a member of the United Nations Orbital Patrol: Chukwunwike Adika, the first Nigerian recruit, determined to make my people proud—as well as my father, a state governor who expected great things from his children. My brother was already an undersecretary in the Ministry of Justice, and my sister was regional vice president of the largest software company in Africa. I was no scholar and no diplomat, but I was tall and strong and fast and clever. I saw myself as heir to a long tradition of Nigerian warriors. The UNOP (the predecessor to our Orbital Defense Corps today) was a chance for me to make my mark where my siblings could not, where even Father had not: on other worlds.

  Nick was serving in the United States Unified Space Service. That marked us as friendly competitors at the school; but for Nick, the emphasis was on competitors, with no friendly in evidence. He always had to be right, no matter the consequences, and he did not care who was wrong or how that made them look.

  Fontes fostered that competition. He wanted us constantly wary, constantly alert, and he was not averse to using any tool that could motivate us. On our very first day, we twenty students gathered in the gymnasium—a square fifteen meters on a side and five high—for what we assumed would be an introductory briefing. Instead, when Fontes arrived, he immediately began grilling us. He paced in front of us, a blocky man with dark-olive skin and pepper-gray hair, and looked up at the ceiling as he asked, “What are the two biggest risks in space? Mr. Hazeltine?” And he turned his cold stare upon Rick Hazeltine, a new recruit from the European Space Agency.

  Hazeltine, a short, thin blond man who scarcely looked old enough for space service, cleared his throat. Then he answered, “Ummm . . . vacuum and radiation?”

  Fontes continued to stare until Hazeltine blinked. “Someone else. Miss Barnes?” None of us had met Fontes yet, but he already knew us all by name. Because we came from so many services with so many different rank structures—Adelle Barnes was from the Australian Space Research Institute—we were all “Mister” or “Miss” at Lunar Survival School. There were only three “ranks”: student, instructor, and Fontes. Unless you really made a mistake; then Fontes would use your first name, as if you were some child who needed extra supervision.

  Barnes, a sturdy brunette half a head taller than Fontes, looked suddenly small. “Vacuum and cold?”

  Fontes looked up at the ceiling again, as if pleading. “This is going to be a long six months, isn’t it? All right, just the top risk. Anyone?” He looked down at us. Some hands were raised. “No, none of you Loonies or Archers, you grew up knowing this. I want to see what the Downies know.”

  Downies was a scurrilous slur against we who came from Earth, and it spurred the students to speak out. Voices came from around the room: “Heat.” “Energy.” “Vacuum.” “Asteroids.” “Cosmic rays.” I even spoke up with what I thought was a more sophisticated answer: “Coronal mass ejections.” But Fontes only glared at me as he glared at the others.

  Then on the far edge of the crowd, a short, red-haired American with a neatly trimmed beard spoke in a loud, rough baritone that cut through the clamor: “Ignorance and human incompetence.”

  We all paused to see how Fontes would react, and we knew from his smile that the American had scored. “We say uncertainty and human error, but that’s close enough, Mister Aames.” Fontes leaped in the low gravity and landed precisely in front of Aames. “How did you know? You have a friend who’s been through LSS already?”

  “No friends, Sergeant.” Aames shook his head.

  “Aames has no friends, class!” We all laughed. It was a weak joke, but I thought Fontes expected laughter. He leaned closer, his eyes boring into Aames’s. “Then tell me, Aames, how you knew the two biggest risks in space?”

  Aames stared right back, unblinking. “Easy, Sergeant: those are the two biggest risks anywhere. The world is simple, it’s people who screw it up.”

  At that Fontes laughed, a rolling bass rumble that filled the gymnasium. “You’re a hardened cynic, eh, Aames? That’ll serve you well. Ladies and gentlemen, you can all learn from this.”

  I leaned over to whisper to Hazeltine, but Fontes had very sharp eyes and seemed to see everything at once. “You have something to add, Mister Adika?”

  I shook my head. “No, Sergeant.” My face burned. I did not want such attention on my first day in LSS.

  But Fontes was unrelenting. “Out with it, Adika. It might be something important.”


  I glared, not at Fontes, but at the short American whom I somehow blamed for my embarrassment. “Sergeant, I was saying that I could think of one more critical risk: arrogance.”

  Lunar Survival School was as hard as Fontes could make it, but Nick seemed determined to make it harder. We all understood that any training mission could be deadly. Fontes said, “Luna doesn’t play nice, so we don’t either.” We all learned to double-check every reading and every piece of equipment; but Nick triple-checked everything, his own work and everyone else’s. He thrived on the stress, and he pounced on even the slightest deviation from procedure.

  I learned this the hard way on that very same day during suit-up drills. We had all arrived on Luna in spacesuits, and I had already trained in them during UNOP Basic Training. I saw the suit-up drills as merely remediation for those students who were new to space, but I had not accounted for Sergeant Fontes. This was a serious drill, more thorough than I had ever seen in UNOP. And I also had not accounted for Nick Aames.

  We paired up to dress ourselves and inspect each other; and as we paired alphabetically, that put me with Aames. For this drill, we each dressed ourselves in hard suits, each pair in a suit locker. (In later drills, we would dress each other, as well as simulated injured crew; and we would drill in both hard and soft suits.) Then we inspected each other. I am very tall for a Nigerian, just over two meters. Even in modern spacecraft, I feel cramped. Aames, on the other hand, is barely 1.7 meters. He had to use a step stool to inspect my helmet and hoses. And he took inordinately long at the job, prodding and tapping and pulling at seals. Finally I had had enough. “Are you finished, Aames? We should be on the regolith by now.”

  “We’ll breathe vacuum if we rush, Adika. I’ll let you know when you’re safe to go out.”

  And Aames kept working. I was almost ready to lift him off the stool and shout “Enough” when Fontes appeared in the doorway of our locker. He stood there in his own suit for several seconds, watching us, arms folded across his chest. Finally his patience grew thin. “Are you going to take all day, Mister Aames?”

  Without looking away from his work, Aames answered, “I’m almost done, Sergeant. There’s a lot of suit to inspect here.”

  Fontes drummed his right fingers on his left forearm. “A bigger suit doesn’t take longer to inspect.”

  At that, Aames stepped down from the stool. “Yes, Sergeant, it does.” I saw Fontes’s eyes narrow through his visor; but then Aames pushed a report out, and it showed on my comm, announced by a chime. A matching chime told me Fontes had received it as well. Aames continued, “Adika’s larger suit has more places for dust to hide. We can’t avoid dust, but we have to fight it every chance we get. Dust buildup will abrade the suit and eventually wear a hole. Here.” Aames indicated a point on my side, under my left arm. “Dust. And here.” He pointed at the back side of my right arm. “Neither would likely be an issue today, but over time it adds up. If Adika doesn’t learn to clean his suit better, he’ll be a liability for the rest of us.”

  I glared at Aames, livid. The very idea that I would be a liability! I prepared to argue with him.

  But before I could get a word out, Fontes nodded. “Not bad, Mister Aames. Are there any other exceptions in Mister Adika’s suit?”

  My temper rose still further, though I dared not show it in front of Fontes. They treated me like some sort of child. For an instant I was back home, back at the big dining table in the state house where my father and my illustrious brother and sister looked down on me—me, who towered over all of them, though they never seemed to notice—while they discussed my future as if I had no say in it.

  Aames pointed at another item in his report and spoke, pulling my mind back to Luna. “Here, Sergeant. Adika’s torso casing is three degrees out of alignment with his pelvic casing. It looks like the suit is a little tight for him, and he had trouble adjusting it.” I had had trouble, but I would not admit it to Aames now. “That subtle twist would fatigue him over time, especially when combined with the joint pressure variances.”

  Fontes nodded. “Very thorough, Mister Aames.” Aames didn’t smile at the compliment. Fontes continued, “And do you know how long it would take for these fatigue effects to manifest?”

  Aames frowned and punched at his comm. “I’m not sure how to calculate that, Sergeant. Roughly three hours?”

  “More like four to six. And how long is this exercise?”

  “Two hours, Sergeant.” I grinned. Aames had gone too far, and had made himself look like a worried woman. Fontes started to speak, but not before Aames could add, “If nothing goes wrong.”

  That stopped Fontes before he could correct Aames; and instead, he agreed. “If nothing goes wrong, yes.” He looked at me. “Mister Adika, file that report away. Study it. I’ll want a paper in the morning on the precise risk percentages posed by your suit. And in the meantime, I’ll see about getting you a suit that fits.” He looked me up and down. “Somewhere.”

  Then Fontes looked back to Aames. “You were right this time, Mister Aames, but don’t be a smartass about it. One of our most important rules here is: being a smartass is hazardous to your health. It makes you arrogant; and Mister Adika was right, arrogance is risky out here. Don’t assume you’ll be right the next time.” He looked at his comm. “Now, have you been inspected? We’re holding up the excursion.”

  Aames shook his head. “I haven’t given him a chance yet. I was making my report.” And then he stood, legs slightly parted, arms slightly away from his side, and waited for my inspection.

  I set to work quickly, but also nervously with Fontes watching me. I carefully went through the checklist, and also through Aames’s notes. I did not waste time, but I did not miss any item on the list. I found some minor exceptions, all well within tolerance but still large enough to note. As I reported each one to Fontes, I watched Aames’s face, grinning inside my helmet where he could not see. With my eyes I tried to say, See? You are not perfect either, you smug American. But despite my efforts, I saw no resentment in his eyes. In fact, I saw almost . . . satisfaction. The more I reported, the more his face relaxed.

  At last I finished my report. “That is all, Sergeant. I judge his suit is fit for duty for this excursion.” Fontes nodded and turned toward the passageway.

  But Aames did not move. “Check my boots, Adika.”

  Fontes turned back, and immediately my face grew warm again. I had looked at his boots during my inspection, but not as closely as I might have. I was too rushed, and the boots were so low and my head so high, and it was difficult to lean over in my suit. I tried to treat this oversight as a triviality. “Your boots are in order, Aames.”

  Aames refused to move. “Check my boots.” And he lifted his right leg and planted his right foot on top of the step stool. As soon as I got a closer view of the boots, my heart raced. The strap near the top of the boot was twisted 180 degrees. The clasp was closed, but the polymer fabric showed stretch marks and abrasions.

  I was angry and chagrined, but I was also disciplined. I knew my duty, no matter my feelings. I looked up at Fontes. “I must amend my report, Sergeant. Mister Aames’s suit is outside of safe configuration in two particulars: boot strap twisted, boot strap strained. There is a significant risk that the strap could break or come loose during heavy activity, and the result would be a dangerous pressure loss.” With my last words, I looked at Aames. I wondered at that moment if I would save him if I found him with such a pressure loss.

  Fontes made a note on his comm. “That’s a solid report, Mister Adika. And now I’ve had enough of waiting for you two. Both of you unsuit. You’ll spend today’s drill down in Excursion Services, getting your suits refitted and doing repairs.” He looked up at Aames. “What the hell is up with you, Mister Aames? You knew about the strap?”

  Aames pulled off his helmet and nodded. “Yes, Sergeant, and all of the other exceptions with my suit. If you check the appendix to my report on Adika’s suit, you’ll find the full det
ails there.”

  Fontes pulled open the appendix and read for several seconds. Then he looked up again. “What. The. Hell. Aames? Do you think this is some kind of game?”

  Aames shook his head. “No, Sergeant, just inspection. I knew how to inspect a suit, but I had no way to know if Adika knew how to inspect a suit. So I gave him things to inspect.” He looked at me, his face betraying no emotion. “You need work, but you passed.”

  Fontes slapped Aames on the shoulder, rattling Aames’s hard suit. “I decide who passes here, Aames. If you ever pull anything like that again, I’ll invent a whole new punishment duty specifically for you.” He looked at both of us and shook his head. “I’ve wasted enough time on you two. Get down to Excursion Services. Now.”

  He turned and left, and we unsuited in silence. Aames was done first, and he headed to ExServ. My anger churned in my gut: he had cost me two excursion hours, and there would be a mark on my record on my very first day.

  I ran past Aames, slowing just long enough to give him a rough shove and a message. “Remember what Sergeant Fontes said, Aames: ‘Being a smartass is hazardous to your health.’”

  Aames had been right, of course, and those exceptions could have been deadly in the wrong circumstances. He never deliberately sabotaged a test again, but he remained ruthless in his inspections and his peer reviews. He was scornful and belittling in his critiques, and he made no friends as a result. This seemed not to disturb him, as he showed no interest in getting to know his classmates, and that made him even more of an outcast.

  Some thought Nick was currying favor with Fontes. If so, he had a foolish way of going about it, since he continued to argue with Fontes and the other instructors. Nick followed their rules, but he always pointed out how he would do things differently if he were designing the protocols. At first Fontes doled out punishment duty for Nick’s impertinence, but he soon realized that Nick took this duty as just another learning experience. Nick saw an opportunity to supervise details of his work and that of others. It was more reward than punishment.