Undazzled

by Chance Maree

  “I am aware of that, Pilot Reed,” Gunner replied. He was pleased by the crone's look of surprise, but the look quickly disappeared—Reed was one of the older pilots, too savvy to be flattered that he knew her name. The crone is mushy and ugly, and she knows it.

  Reed opened the door just enough to squeeze her thick body inside. The door swooshed shut and the secret ritual of switching pilots began. Gunner scoffed. The two women were probably gabbing, waiting for him to leave. He relaxed his stance. Gunner would wait.

  At last the pocket door zipped open and a red-faced Pilot Pots stormed out. Pots seemed to have psyched herself up for a fight.

  Gunner tried to smile, but his face felt as though an old wound had split open. Of all the pilots, Pots was the most undisciplined and obstinate. On the other hand, she was the best looking. Her figure was neat and trim, naturally athletic. She had brown eyes large as a deer’s, a small nose, and pouty lips. Unlike the other women who had all cut their hair short to deal with the regulation 20-second showers, Pots kept her hair in a long, thick braid. If she weren't so damned arrogant, Gunner might have considered her attractive.

  “Anderson, I'd like a word with you.” Gunner's voice was calm, meditative.

  “Most people call me Pots, but you can call me Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson.”

  My condolences to Mr. Anderson. “You will be interested in a communication I just received from Earth.”

  “I couldn't care less.”

  “They approved a new policy regarding the evacuation.”

  “Listen, kono aitsu!” Pots was on her toes, shaking her finger near Gunner's face. “If they try to put pilots under your command, all of us crones will run to the nearest escape pod and eject the hell out of here!”

  Gunner smiled, finding that it hurt less this time. The Taoist warrior seeks to cut through the empty core without touching the bone.

  “Don't plan your suicide mission too soon, Pilot. The report stated that they've reconsidered evacuating selected individuals from some of the prisons. As you know, convicts are at the bottom of the totem pole. They're one step below comatose and hospice patients.” That last line was a bit of a stretch.

  If Pots had noticed Gunner's blunder, her face didn't show it. Public knowledge was that convicts would not be released until the final rounds of evacuation, a decision that had been largely uncontested.

  The pilot remained motionless, frozen, focused and connecting dots. Realization of what the policy meant must have struck home; Pots averted her eyes.

  “They see it as a reasonable way to appease humanitarians. Headquarters insisted that only able bodied men and women would be considered—people who might yet benefit society.”

  “Get to the point, Gunner.” Pots's words were tough, but her voice had a fragile quiver.

  Reach for the empty core. “With all the mayhem and looting, the prisons are overflowing. No one has enough time to consider every application.” Gunner scratched his chin. It didn't itch, but the action hid his enjoyment.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Gunner's eyes narrowed. He shouldn't have to drive the point all the way home.

  “I've been asked to submit the names of any of the crew's family members who might benefit from the policy change. Such a convict might be allowed immigration to Ostara.”

  Poor Pots looked confused. Not so bright after all.

  “However, certain convicts may be allowed to immigrate only if they have relatives who are willing to vouch for them.”

  From the look on Pots's face, the light had switched on, and Gunner's meaning had dawned. She must realize that she'd need Gunner's cooperation if she ever wanted to see her drug-dealing convict of a brother again. The crone looked up, her eyes squinting. Gunner kept his mouth impassive, but he allowed Pots to read his face. She'd have to earn any favor from the commander.

  “Okay, Gunner. So you can bring my brother to Ostara. What do you want from me?”

  “You will call me Commander Dovmont, or sir, to start.”

  Pots cleared her throat.

  “And, from this point forward, I expect your full cooperation and support.”

  “Kitanai-wane,” Pots grumbled.

  “If you want your brother out of prison, you will respect my command. Publicly and privately. Do we have an agreement?”

  Pots looked away, blinking, and then nodded.

  Gunner's face remained impassive. “Oh, and you can continue with the Itou brothers' famous curses, if you wish. They make me laugh. On the inside.”

  Once Pots mumbled, “Yes, sir,” Gunner doubted the crone's obstinacy would be a problem in the future.

  After they parted, Gunner wondered whether he would in fact request that Pots's brother join the colony on Ostara. Once a drug dealer, always a drug dealer. Gunner doubted he'd have to break his word. Pots is angry and undisciplined—she'll eventually fail to keep her side of the bargain.

  About this, the Commander felt neither guilt nor remorse. He had concluded long ago: The true warrior is unconcerned with the trappings of morality. One man's right is always another man's wrong.

  CHAPTER 3

  Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Pots reeled as she walked away from Gunner. Her Batten-Downs felt suddenly very heavy. Once out of the commander's sight, Pots steadied herself against the gray ABS corridor wall. Breathing under the commander's thumb was going to be difficult.

  In lieu of a tranquilizer, Pots headed for the gym. The single belt treadmill in the cramped dark space was low tech and exhausted Pots quicker than her standard PR routine. Endorphins flooded her bloodstream and beads of sweat drifted like bubbles from her brow.

  Barbara Percy strolled into the gym and watched from the doorway. At the end of her time allotment, Pots stumbled a few steps off the treadmill, floated upward, and nearly lost connection with the floor.

  Barbara handed Pots a towel. “Come on. You promised me a drink.”

  “Give me a minute,” Pots panted.

  “Ugh. Go shower. I'll be in the mess.” Barbara, naturally blonde and model-slender, was only 32 and could normally eat, drink, and skip workouts without consequence. Here on Alpha Horizon, she compensated for zero gravity by eating two Zina bars per day. While on the ship, Barbara kept her hair in a short, nondescript bob, but her glaringly blue eyes and broad smile were as attention grabbing as royal jewels. Pots admired Barbara, an enigma who appeared prodigy-bright, both gregarious and private, and at once, naughty and wholesome. Barbara was the ship's government representative. She flatly denied being a corporate spy, but the rumors persisted.

  Pots entered the dining compartment, which served as a mess hall during standard meal cycles and a social room, whenever the lights were dimmed. She pulled a Zina bar from a food bin. A man in his twenties with espresso black hair, hard-to-miss biceps, and classic tube baby-perfect profile was filling the beverage dispenser. “What will you have?” The corner of his lips flirted a smile.

  “I'll take two beers. Icy cold.”

  The man handed Pots two warm bottled waters. “These are on the house. Anything you need, beautiful, just ask for Josh. ”

  “Thanks, Josh.” Pots winked and touched his hand as she took the bottles—all the while thinking that she was old enough to be the man's mother.

  Sitting alone on a nearby bench, Barbara arched an eyebrow. “Naughty, naughty crone.”

  Pots fastened herself into the seat beside Barbara and handed her a bottle of water. “Everyone seems pretty upbeat today.”

  “Oh?” Barbara glanced at Pots from the corner of her eye.

  Pots swung her legs across the bench for a better view of the room. “The news about the early launch of Beta-2-Nun is rather exciting.”

  “Cut to the chase, Pots. A bottle of warm water doesn't buy as much information as it used to.”

  “They weren't supposed to launch Beta-2-Nun until we reached Ostara.”

  “The science team approved the launch, if that's what you're worried about
. They calculated that Alpha Horizon's tunnel will be finished by the time Beta-2-Nun reaches the turnoff point to Gaia.”

  “Why such a large cargo?”

  “We were first, so they wanted to be bigger?”

  Pots shook her head. “Try again.”

  “I'm not in the loop on that one,” Barbara admitted.

  “But if you were to guess…”

  “The migration strategy caused a lot of discussion, as you can imagine. Some of the council favored caution, others wanted to charge ahead. But the charge-ahead crowd couldn't agree. One group wanted each planet to have the same ethnic ratios as we have on Earth.”

  “That's a reasonable approach.”

  “Right—it worked so well on Earth, didn't it?” Barbara slumped in her seat. “Another group wanted all their citizens on a single planet. They called it ‘all our eggs in one basket’—a planetary dominance approach. And then there was a small group of wealthy members who thought the order and distribution should be determined for each nation proportional to the resources they could bring to the project. That was coined the 'buy your ticket' option.” Barbara finished her water. “I think one of those groups won the argument. Either that, or Earth is going bust faster than anyone expected.”

  Pots's com buzzed, signaling an important message had been sent. “Excuse me one sec.” She touched the side of her cheek to turn on the audio. The commander had sent a request to all pilots, asking that Alpha Horizon be encouraged to tunnel a direct path to Ostara—without detours, deviations, or slackening of pace. Gunner suggested the pilots coordinate their efforts towards arriving at Ostara ahead of schedule.

  The Commander's dispatch was followed by a flurry of comments from the pilots. The first was from Maggie McDonald, a 52-year-old earth mother with flaming red hair: “Who yanked your chain, Gunner? Get your head out of your ass and leave the driving to us.”

  Next, Noor Abu-Adal, 48, timid and depressed, but the kindest of the crones said, “What say we throw Gunner overboard and see if Alphie will eat him?”

  Maria Lopez, the 49-year-old Hispanic Olympic champion added, “The old man is insane.”

  Fifty-year-old pilot Aketch Abraham, with coal black skin, a long neck, and a profile like an Egyptian queen piped in, “The commander is in need of serious medication.”

  Candice Brockman, who, at 60, was the eldest and wisest crone, said simply, “Commander, what you suggest would likely cause the death of everyone on this ship.”

  Only Mary Reed, who was currently in the pilot's chair, declined to comment.

  A new message from Gunner: “I understand the pilots have reservations about my request, but they are not taking into account that while we are safely away from Earth, the fate of billions of people rest on the timeliness of our landing. Should humanity wait while Alpha Horizon meanders her way to Ostara? Everyone has not yet spoken on the matter. What does Pilot Kahn-Anderson have to say?”

  Pots clicked off her com.

  “Problem?” Barbara looked friendly and concerned.

  Despite Pots's reservations about Barbara being a corporate spy and all, the pilot related the details of her recent conversation with Gunner. “What do you think I should do?”

  Barbara waited several moments before speaking. “I can reply according to my job description, or as your friend.”

  Pots sighed. “The commander is a bully. What I need is an accomplice.”

  “As a friend, then,” Barbara began, “Gunner's just doing his job. You have a chance to save your brother from death in prison. I say to hell with the worm. Kick her in the sides and drive her to straight to Ostara. Alpha Horizon is probably tougher than you think.”

  Pots frowned. “What would you have said as the government rep?”

  “Gunner is the commander of this mission. You should do what he says. And one more thing—he shouldn't have to bribe you to do your job.”

  Ouch. Pots took a sip of water.

  “Gotta go.” Barbara waved to someone across the room. “Casia just walked in. She and I have a date.”

  “Thanks,” Pots mumbled, watching Barbara's back as she wove through the crowded room. Pots clicked open her personal com and replied to the pilots' current discussion thread, “Commander Dovmont has a point. We could all push Alphie a little harder.”

  Outrage from the other pilots ensued, as was predictable. Pots closed her com. She stood and grabbed another bottle of water and headed for her favorite distraction.

  ⁂

  Pots found Jacob shooting holographic billiards at the crew rec-can. She stood at the door and watched as he leaned over the table, cue in hand. Jacob's almond-shaped eyes with their intriguing epicanthic fold studied the shot. His was an exotic mix of genes, the best of Asian, African, and American Indian features. But it was Jacob's coffee skin, taut over broad, muscled shoulders, rippling beneath his stark white undershirt that riveted Pots's attention. A handsome, modest brainiac. The English accent and medical degree don’t hurt, either.

  Pots fastened herself to a stool by the wall and feigned an interest in the game. When Jacob glanced in Pots's direction, she winked and raised the water bottle to her lips.

  Jacob focused on the pool cue, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He missed the shot. The crowd around him moaned.

  “If this cue stick were a laser scalpel, I'd have it nailed,” Jacob explained. Pots snickered.

  “Don't let him fool you,” a woman's voice purred from the doorway. “The doctor is the finest pool shark you'll find out in these here stars.”

  Heads turned. Celine Amore had entered the room. All male attention swiveled as the honey blonde siren sashayed toward Jacob. Singer, actress, heartthrob—how Celine had come aboard Alpha Horizon was the subject of many rumors.

  Pots frowned as Celine ran her hand from Jacob’s shoulder down to his hand. The celebrity pressed her body against Jacob, who readily relinquished the pool cue. With little effort and much cleavage, Celine leaned over the table and sunk a striped ball into the far corner pocket. Men cheered. Jacob grinned. Pots noticed that the doctor's cheeks were flushed.

  Celine took her time straightening, and in that moment, Pots herself felt mesmerized. How does she appear both childishly vulnerable and sexually aggressive all at the same time? The men clapped and cheered.

  Pots nearly toppled from her stool—a vision shuttered before her eyes: Celine's visage shimmered into that of a tiger. Pots reeled, feeling as though she had stumbled beneath a strobe light at a nightclub. The tiger head, with whiskers, tufted ears, and huge golden eyes was lost in another visual shimmer, and Celine smiled, human once again. Pots glanced at faces around the room and saw that others returned her look with stunned and troubled expressions. They saw it, too!

  Conversation in the room had ceased, but then resumed after a collective blink. Somehow, a tacit agreement had been reached and life would go on as though nothing had happened.

  Pots caught Jacob's eye and gave a brief nod toward the door. She exited and headed towards her bunk. I need to sleep. The muscles in her neck were tight. Maybe the hallucination was a symptom of some bizarre, outer space disease.

  The march down the corridors felt surreal, a tread along a nightmare. Pots averted her eyes from everyone she passed. A bizarre, outer space disease would disqualify her from piloting. Then what would I be? A childless old crone in a vibrant, new world, full of young and fertile people, that's who.

  Without an observatory or spectrometry instrumentation, Pots knew that her research days were over. Life without piloting the worm-mole would hurt, and life without astrophysics research would hurt more.

  Pots went to the head nearest her sleeping pod. She brushed her teeth, watching her face in the mirror. Yep, that's me. With a modicum of relief, she padded down into the sleeping section of the corridor. Her bunk was at the end of the row, sparkling clean as usual—Barbara always changed the bedding after her sleep shift.

  Pots climbed in the pod and closed the hatch. The inside wa
s as spacious as a camping tent, complete with surrounding padding and tie-downs. The temperature, too, was perfect. Pots stripped and wrapped herself in a silky sheet.

  Pots considered turning on her com. An avalanche of messages regarding Gunner's order and her response was sure to follow. Just then, a light tat, tat, ta-tat-tat, ta-tat echoed from outside the hatch. After turning off the light, Pots unlocked the lid and Jacob slipped in.

  Jacob pulled off his clothes as they exchanged kisses, entangled arms, intertwined limbs, and enjoyed the explorations savored by new lovers. Self-pity evaporated as Jacob enjoyed Pots's body, and she, unabashedly, savored his. Life is not over just yet...

  After their lovemaking slowed and Jacob's fingers idly stroked her hair, Pots touch-powered a reading light. The tiger-headed vision of Celine appeared ominously, like an after-flash.

  “Jacob,” Pots said.

  “Yes, oh loveliest pilot throughout the sun and stars?”

  That accent. So English. Or was it those eyes?

  “I'd like to come in for a checkup.”

  Jacob smiled, flashing synthetic teeth, straight and blazing white. He is handsome—beautiful, even... What was he saying?

  “I said you just had a complete physical and in my professional opinion, you're in perfect condition.”

  Pots blushed. Her insides warmed—and like a schoolgirl, she tingled from groin to toes. Still, Pots had hallucinated, which was never a good sign.

  “But my eyes…” she began.

  Jacob touched her chin, drawing it down so he could look into her eyes.

  “Golden hazel,” he whispered, before closing Pots's eyes with the gentle brush of his fingertips. He kissed one, and then the other.

  “My lips,” Pots said.

  “As sweet as nectar.”

  Jacob's lips touched hers, dispensing with all thoughts of kitty-cat heads.

  CHAPTER 4