by CK Burch
″Pardon my François,″ Markov said.
Doctor Rene Fleur, ship psychologist, looked up from her datapad and smiled. She wore a standard blue USDSE jumpsuit just like everyone else except the scientists did. It was unzipped to the collar, her throat long and beautiful, and her red hair was pulled back into a professional bun. A couple of stray strands fell across her cheeks, drawing attention to her green eyes. Markov knew these eyes well. He'd seen them many many times over the years. ″Are you apologizing for the language or for calling her a bitch? Because I've heard saltier dialogue from you in our time together, Captain, and I've heard you call many a woman a bitch without flinching.″
″Yes,″ Markov said. ″No.″
″You seem agitated.″
″Quite.″ He crossed his arms. Normally he didn't mind laying out on the doctor's couch like this, it could be very relaxing after a day of walking the decks, checking in on crew and scientist alike, but now all he wanted to do was pace, pace and snort and bellow and rage. He was angry. He was intensely angry and he felt ashamed. This was not like him.
″What has you so agitated, Captain?″
″Everything,″ he spat out. He'd always found Fleur a resource – there was no one on the ship who knew him better, or that he knew better. They had a unique relationship, one that changed beyond the doors of her office, but only slightly. All he ever wanted to do was talk to the doctor. Somehow she knew how to get the words he needed out of him. So now he went for it. ″It's this fucking scientist, this scientist who thinks that she knows fucking everything and can run my goddamn ship for me. It's this last mission, the last fucking mission of my goddamned career that I'd just like to run and be done with and head home and leave this work to someone who can do it for another ten years. It's both of those things combined, because as much as this had seemed like a simple fucking dive-and-derive it's turning into one speed bump after another. One more obstacle in my way. And now this! This fucking alien archaeology bullshit! God, why can't they just fucking get what they need from this fucking star and let me go home?″ He breathed deep, through his large nostrils, past the bushy mustache that crowded his upper lip, and released through his lips, through his teeth. He wished he could smoke but had given that up years before. He couldn't unclench. Goddamn. He just couldn't relax. ″I was speaking with Straub in the observation deck today. I told you about him.″
″One of Tybalt's scientists, yes.″
″Yes. I told him we might have to abort the mission. I don't know what I was thinking. There's no reason to abort anything. There's no data or rhyme to the thought. I need to contact Captain Udeh and speak with him, but I've been putting it off. I think he'll confirm that there's no reason to not proceed with primary orders, and that he might even reflect the current line of thinking that we need to study the object. God!″ A brief chuckle escaped him. ″I feel like I'm surrounded on all sides.″
″You've been with the ship a long time,″ Fleur commented, not even fazed by his outburst. This was why he liked her. She wasn't even fazed.
″Yes,″ he said.
″And I've known you a long time. Ten years?″
″Ten years. On this ship.″
″I believe I was thirty-two when I joined the crew.″
″Yes. You don't look a day older than that still.″
Fleur blushed despite herself. Markov took the patient time to complement her when he could, because he found her beautiful. Markov had always known her to be a beautiful woman, and perhaps that had softened him slightly to her questioning. It had allowed him to open up. His complementary comments were careful, but precisely aimed.
″Sixty-five is the average age of retirement in the USDSE, isn't it?″ Fleur said. Her voice betrayed nothing. Her skin faded to a light shade again.
″Yes.″
″And you've been looking forward to this for a while, haven't you? To retirement?″
″You know goddamn well that I've been counting the minutes.″
Again she smiled, patiently, knowing this tennis match between them. That smile could cut through the most violent of his storms, and had on many an occasion, but this storm was a different one. They both knew it. ″Captain, if I may be so bold, I think you're homesick. I think you have been for a while, and that you've done an excellent job of burying it and keeping it internal around the crew, but with the way the mission is currently shaping up I believe you're turning into a pressure fissure of impatience. This is my official analysis mind you. That's how I have to log it in my standard reports.″
″And your unofficial commentary?″
″You're being an asshole.″ Fleur did not hesitate. ″From what I hear from the crew, Doctor Tybalt is a far cry from the portrait you've painted. She's warm, friendly, has a fantastic sense of humor, and her running around checking on things has as much to do with interfering with your captaining as my taking a jog on the recreation deck would. The crew haven't been this ecstatic at a research project in forever. Especially with a gorgeous young scientist palling around with them, making ribald jokes and drinking in the galley with both her team and your crew. Honestly? I think you're in defensive mode because you see her as the blockade between you and home. And I think you couldn't be more wrong. You have an extraordinarily strong case of cabin fever and it's affecting your judgment and your temper.″
Markov laid his head back on the couch and tried to come up with some kind of recourse, a defense of some kind, but could not. He'd heard all of the above about Doctor Tybalt from the crew, everything Fleur had said had been said to him twice over at least, and that was a part of it. They loved her. They fucking loved her. But then again, maybe they had reason to and he didn't. Because scientists liked to dick around when everything was on the floor and to take their time studying and analyzing and researching. He'd seen them come and go through his decks. And Tybalt was exactly that kind, the kind who leapt upon minor details and examined them in triplicate just to be sure they saw what they were seeing. And yes, he had cabin fever. Had it for a while now. So maybe, just maybe this once, it was as simple as one plus one.
He wiped his brow. ″Do you have any suggestions?″
″Have a drink,″ she said. ″Go to your cabin, have a drink. Or two. Not enough to make you unfit for duty, but you're already halfway there in this state. You need to find a way to relax and ease the stress of your mind and remember that this is a mission that will end at some point regardless of the circumstances, and that you will be going home once it does. Home for good.″
″Home for good.″ He said it aloud to see how it felt on his tongue. It made the rest of his mouth water. Home for good. It didn't just feel good, it felt amazing. His barrel chest rose like a mountain then deflated with a long, slow release of breath from his lungs. He felt like smiling, but he was still a long way from actually doing that. ″Home for good.″
″It's not that far away,″ Fleur said. She made a few notations on her datapad and smiled. ″You just need to relax.″
Markov nodded. He sat up, rubbed his temples – he'd been fighting a headache all damn day and the brightness of the Sun in the observation room had been no help – and stood. He looked down at Fleur, who he always thought of with her last name, never her first, because that kept his mind on the professional side of things and away from anything that could inappropriately attach himself to her. But the truth was that, after ten years of doing this, there was a part of him that loved her and wanted her to know. Perhaps his stress wasn't homesickness – perhaps it was separation anxiety.
But that was a thought that he would never give voice.
***
Doctor Catherine Tybalt sat in the galley, going over new research data from the primary feed that they'd been receiving and quietly sipping her coffee. The new readouts that had been coming off the ″artifact″ orbiting the Sun were incredible to say the least: the way the material that the object was comprised of held onto solar radiation made the Prometheus look like it was trying to scoop
up solar waves with a plastic spoon. That was why the exterior of the thing stayed so damn cool, because it was sopping up the radiation and the temperature with it. Tybalt hadn't been this excited since – well, since the departure of the Icarus from USDSE Outpost 12. This was something extraordinary. Someone had said something about this discovery being one for the books, discovering a radical new find in xenoarchaeology, but Tybalt had been more concerned with not how the object had gotten in orbit, but why it still existed there. And if the numbers were correct, it was because the materials that made it were at least ten times stronger than the Icarus's experimental new shielding. At least.
The problems that were presented were twofold: first, since the object itself was quietly hovering just inside of the new max safe depth for the Icarus, bringing the object onboard would be something of a tricky situation. Second, or probably rather the first problem depending on how things went, was that if the new shielding didn't hold up as it should then they wouldn't even be able to get that close to the object to begin with. What had begun with her agonizing over collection data and scope modulation during the past week of preparations had declined into a deep, thoughtful silence over the last twenty-four hours, meditating on what to do about the object, or if anything even could be done about it at this time. There might be a chance that a second expedition would have to be launched just to retrieve the object if it were impossible this time around, but if the object were to move at all, in any way, the precarious orbit it held – and it was precarious, decaying in minor ways with every revolution – could see it dive too far into the chromosphere for any sort of retrieval. And then what? Tybalt had attempted to contact the project team on the Prometheus, and then eventually their captain, but there was too much interference from the Sun's proximity for her to send a decent transmission. Which was strange, but she'd accepted it. She'd been meaning to talk to Captain Markov about it, but she'd gotten the impression that he didn't like her. Not one single bit. Maybe it was her youth. Or her blonde hair. That was always a detractor when she was trying to get other scientists to take her seriously. Frankly, while she enjoyed the company of the crew and laughing with them, their captain was someone she could do quite well without too much interaction, thank you. The captain had taken a liking to Doctor Straub and had kept company with him frequently, which was just fine with her. The captain could be sexist all he wanted, but at least there was some connection with him to the expedition, and that at least set her mind somewhat at ease. Straub could be a communication between the two of them, and that could be one of his functions. It kept him out of Doctor Kerrick's pants long enough for him to get some work done, at least. Christ, they were like rabbits, but acting as if no one knew. Everyone knew. And it was damned annoying. So far it hadn't interfered with the research expedition, but the moment that the fucking got in the way of the science it was going to come to an end.
Tybalt leaned back from her datapads (three lined the tabletop in front of her) and tried to sip more coffee but found the mug empty. She sighed. She was tired. She was more tired than she could remember being since university, jockeying for a Master's degree at seventeen. There had been a whole lot of midnight oil burnt during that final semester, and the lack of coffee now recalled that sensation of near hopelessness as she'd done work on unified field theory and quantum mechanics in the creation of a theoretical Dyson bubble around the Sun. That was her sole drive. The amount of information to be collected, from both the Sun and the universe surrounding, was staggering in possibility and in scope. But that was the reason that she was here now, on this mission to test the limits of heat/radiation shielding, to collect data from the Sun, and now this object was presenting itself with the biggest leap forward towards her Dyson bubble since she'd graduated. Four years of hard, hard work post-university had led her to this moment. As driven as she was however, she was not obsessive, and it was beginning to look as though she'd have to let this one go. There was just too many risks involved, but so much potential born of making those risks.
She stood and walked round to the coffee dispenser on the far end of the galley. The crew who cooked were not behind the stoves at the moment, called away to their primary duties on the ship. There was plenty enough food in the storage to be released at the press of a button, and Tybalt desperately ached for a bagel to go with the coffee, but the coffee would do for now. There were no bagels on this ship, or anywhere within reach for a long time. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a bagel since leaving Earth. Good god. The little things, the minor comforts. At least this ship had the sense to maintain soy creamer for the coffee. There, at least, showed evidence that there were no heathens aboard.
After she'd finished pouring soy into her mug, watching the beige color swirl like an iris, she turned and found Doctor Sydney Kerrick standing directly behind her, reaching out as if to tap her on the shoulder. Tybalt jumped – and immediately she knew that she was working too hard. Her nerves were never like this.
Kerrick's hand went to her chest and she breathed quickly. ″Oh!″ she said, and smiled in relief. ″God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.″
″Don't worry,″ Tybalt replied. She looked around at the empty galley. ″It wasn't a difficult thing, considering the circumstances.″ She realized that she hadn't seen anyone in the galley in the last eight hours that she'd been here, which would normally be unusual, but at the same time there was a lot going on with ship and crew preparations. If they stayed on target, they were six hours from dive test. She'd been on one dive test previously, and no one had eaten or slept until the dive had been completed. It was a strange ritual, but these spacemen had a way of focusing with unearthly precision when faced with such tasks. She no longer questioned what the ship's crew needed to do to prepare for missions; after all, she'd been in here all by herself, drinking coffee and studying data readouts. Tybalt gestured towards where she'd been sitting. ″Join me?″
″Of course.″ The two women had barely sat down when Kerrick blurted out, ″I think Captain Markov is thinking of aborting the mission.″
Tybalt had almost taken a new sip of the fresh brew, and stopped. She put the mug down with enough force to rattle the datapads on the table. ″What makes you think that?″
″I was talking with Stephen – Doctor Straub. He'd been on the observation deck with the captain looking at the object in the debris field, and he said that the captain was thinking of aborting the mission, but that he had to speak to Captain Udeh first.″ Kerrick tapped her fingertips on the tabletop, her nails clicking with an uneven staccato. ″I didn't want you to be blindsided just in case that's the case, but Straub thinks that Markov will go ahead with the dive at the very least.″
Tybalt rubbed her forehead. She became aware of the headache mounting behind her eyes and decided that she was going to have to get some rest before the dive. After speaking to Markov of course. She didn't like the idea of getting in the captain's way, considering the often tenuous relationship between military and science division, but scrubbing the mission? Was he serious, or just testing the water to see if what he said to Straub would eventually make it back to her? Because if Markov knew about Straub and Kerrick, then maybe he was determining if what was said in bed traveled to the science lead's ears as well.
″I don't think we can worry about that right now,″ Tybalt said. She heard the weariness in her voice and that worried her. The crewmen might be able to get away without sleep or food before the dive, but she wouldn't be able to. ″Listen, I've been going over this data for the last eight hours. I'm fried. When was your last sleep cycle?″
″I just woke up.″
″Excellent. I need you to go over this – ″ She pushed the datapads towards her colleague. ″ – specifically magnetic field ratio and chromospheric wind climax. I'm a little concerned about the stereoscopic function of our sensors at the new depth, and what, if anything, would overload them. If I'm correct, we're going to be receiving a massive feed at that magnitude, and I wa
nt us to be able to download as much data as quickly as we possibly can.″
Kerrick looked over the datapads, then back up at Tybalt. ″This is all data on the artifact,″ she said.
″Sorry.″ Tybalt reached over, pressed a few directories, and brought up the info she'd mentioned. ″There you are. I've been doing some research into the composition of the object, but right now we need to concentrate on our primary directive and reception of new data on the chromosphere when we dive. Assuming we dive.″
Kerrick nodded, bit her lip, and said, ″Doctor, I wanted to say, that should we have the ability to investigate the artifact – ″
″That's a pretty big if right now, Kerrick.″
″I know. It's all up in the air, but the archaeological significance of the object can't be ignored. Even now.″ Kerrick looked down, then back up at Tybalt. ″I realize that the chromospheric information is primary. Your work on the material of the object here already is comprehensive, even at a glance. I fully believe that, if we are able to, we should retrieve the object for examination and return to Earth. This could be as important as the ruins on the dark side of the Moon.″
Tybalt considered this. She didn't have time to consider it, if Markov had been anywhere close to serious about scrubbing, but she considered it. It was her job as a scientist to explore the variables. What were the ramifications of discovering an object floating in an area of space that had been visited over a dozen times before, yet it never once noticed or detected previously? An object that, clearly, had been in place for quite some time? Tybalt imagined the lecturing from her USDSE superiors, the government talking heads that wanted public data to transmit results and keep funding coming in. Even these days in modern society focused on new sciences and exploration and expansion funding was tough. Funding was always tough. So she considered what could potentially be if the artifact, not just a rare find but an impossible find, were left behind.