by Dom Testa
“Soap operas.”
“That’s it. Well, I know this is like a real-life soap opera, but when you’re in the middle of the drama it’s no fun. And since when were you programmed to use phrases like ‘kissy-face’? Please don’t say that again; coming from you it’s just too weird.”
“So what do you want to talk about? Open up to Brother Roc. It stays right here with us.”
Gap thought about it. Despite the fact that his mind was racing out of control, he was at a complete loss as to where to begin. It all seemed so … irrational. Embarrassment washed over him, and suddenly he regretted broaching the subject at all.
“Oh, never mind,” he said.
“Chicken,” Roc said. “Listen, you lie there and contemplate the ceiling tiles, and I’ll tell you what I deduce from our history together. It’s not the possibility of losing the election that bothers you, and it’s not even the fact that you could possibly lose to someone you had a relationship with. It’s this little corner of your mind that whispers to you that you’re somehow not worthy. Forget whether the crew believes in you or not; your first priority is to believe in yourself. I haven’t seen these doubts in yourself until recently, but I’ll bet they’ve always been there. You just covered them up with a big, toothy smile and a bucket full of charm.”
“That’s a fancy way of saying I’m insecure,” Gap said. “I suppose that makes me unfit to lead.”
“I don’t want to say you sound stupid when you talk like that, but I’m going to anyway,” Roc said. “You sound stupid. You must think that everyone else on this ship is blessed with total and complete confidence in themselves, and that no one else has self-doubts. That would be a gross miscalculation. There’s not a human being walking these curved corridors who doesn’t hear the same whispers you do, just in different flavors. One person has self-doubts about their intelligence, another about their looks, another about their artistic talents, another about their leadership. Are you getting the picture here?”
“I’m getting a verbal spanking, that’s what I’m getting.”
“You better be glad I don’t have those arms after all, because instead of a hug right now I’d be thumping you on the head.”
Gap couldn’t help but smile. “Did Roy have a violent streak in him, too?”
“Roy had more common sense than just about anyone I know, and he was also just about the smartest computer engineer in history. But I spent thousands of hours talking with him while he fine-tuned my programming, and I could rattle off a handful of his insecurities, too. Here’s what made him different from most humans, though: he acknowledged those insecurities, and actually worked at them, rather than use them as an excuse.”
Shifting onto one side, Gap propped his head up with one hand. He thought about Roy Orzini, the diminutive man who befriended many of Galahad’s crew members during their training. Gap and Roy had verbally sparred, and it was only natural for Roc to pick up where Roy left off. If Roy had carried around self-doubts, they certainly never showed.
Well, Gap thought, I guess we all wear masks of some sort, don’t we?
“I always thought he might be a bit touchy about his height,” he said.
“And there you would be wrong again,” the computer said. “You might have felt that way if you were his size, but Roy never gave that a bit of worry. In his eyes, physical appearance was the least important of any human attribute. In fact, he felt that it gave him an advantage of sorts, because people often underestimated him purely by sizing him up. I think he felt sorry for people who believed their looks or body type were their most important characteristics. And yet he understood that the vast majority of people live in a very shallow pool. He chose to play in the mental end of the pool, where size didn’t matter at all. And, I think you’ll agree, the man did quite well for himself.”
There was no question about that. Gap felt ashamed for automatically assuming that Roy was burdened by a physical trait that, in reality, meant nothing. Perhaps, he thought, we’d all be much better off if we drifted closer to that mental end of the pool.
“Still wanna talk about Hannah?” Roc said with a touch of humor in his voice.
“No,” Gap said. “Maybe another time.”
He pushed himself to his feet and stretched. His muscles ached, but not from overuse. In fact, just the opposite, he decided. A good night’s sleep would be helpful, along with a good workout to burn off some stress. On top of that, it had been much too long since he’d visited the Airboard track, his favorite diversion. All of that would have to wait, however, until he prepared some notes for the first election forum.
Before he could sit down to compose his thoughts, Roc spoke up again.
“Don’t get comfortable. Another shield failure in Engineering.”
Gap stopped and immediately twisted around, looking for his shoes. “How long this time?”
“Three seconds, then one and a half.”
“Two failures?”
“That’s correct. Fifteen seconds apart.”
Without stopping to put them on, Gap snatched up his shoes and darted for the door. “Let them know I’m on my way,” he called out to the computer.
13
Her notes were well organized, with each crisp point intended to highlight a fundamental difference between Gap’s leadership style and hers. She had read them aloud, over and over again, for almost two hours, working on her delivery, her tempo, even her smile. And yet, as the clock on her vidscreen clicked over to 10:00 p.m., Hannah felt compelled to delete everything and start over again.
There were no errors in the presentation, and her points were valid; some might even be shared by a few of the crew members who would be judging the candidates’ performance in less than twenty-four hours. But there was nothing that would make the crew sit up straight and question the ship’s status quo. There was little substance in the presentation, and Hannah knew that in order to shake up the system she would have to offer an alternative that was compelling, that inspired voters to take action. As of now, the knockout punch was missing.
She knew what that punch required: information that would shed light on the potentially deadly radiation problem. At the moment, that was the only issue with the weight to shift the balance of power. Despite her best efforts, the answer eluded her. And that, more than the frustration over a lackluster presentation to the crew, put her on edge. Puzzles were meant to be solved.
On a whim she saved her notes, closed the program, and pulled up the event log from Engineering. In a flash she saw that two additional failures of the radiation shield had occurred in the last hour. An adrenaline rush overtook her, and she stood up and stared at the screen, scanning each line of the notations. For a moment she considered running down to Engineering to immerse herself in what was likely a hectic scene. It was easily the best way to get the information she needed, rather than waiting for a log posting which might take an hour or better.
Two things kept her from moving. One, there was a full complement of Engineering staffers who would be hard at work. She would only be in the way. But more importantly, Gap was sure to be there. Merit’s warnings echoed through her mind, telling her to keep her investigation under cover. Gap would know in an instant that she was desperately trying to scoop him on the crisis.
Hannah forced herself to sit back down and monitor the readings. With any luck she’d have full details before midnight and could once again delve into the mystery with all new data. In the meantime, she had to make the most of what was available—which wasn’t much.
She was growing tired and frustrated, and, to top it off, her bruised leg still ached. She looked at it, gingerly probing with a finger, frowning, and silently scolding herself again for her clumsy behavior.
In front of Gap, no less.
She stared at the bruise. The ugly discoloration was like an accusing eye, staring back at her, an almost circular patch, dark purple and yellow, with reddish-black tendrils splintering away in several directions. A nasty
reminder, she realized, of a meeting that never should have taken place. Evidence of a decision that might turn out to be the worst she’d ever made. Evidence …
Wait a minute, she though. That’s it. Evidence.
A new idea began to vie for her attention. Vague to begin with, it slowly took shape and gathered momentum. By eleven o’clock she had scratched out a series of notes and questions, plugging in holes here, beginning completely new threads there.
By midnight it consumed her. And with it came a new feeling of confidence.
* * *
Frustration tore through Gap as he walked out of Engineering. Following the two malfunctions of the radiation shield the night before, he’d spent almost three hours with his staff, going over the data again and again. The only good news—if it could be considered as such—was that the latest glitches essentially confirmed that the problem was not in their equipment. Both the original radiation shield and its replacement counterpart had gone down, which could only mean that the cause came from outside the ship. That freed the crew from any more diagnostic checks.
Gap had stumbled back to his room well after midnight, then turned around and reported back to his post around 7:00 a.m. Now, after almost five hours of investigation and experimentation, he felt exhausted.
And hungry. It dawned on him that he’d not eaten since a quick dinner the night before; it helped explain not only the weariness that weighed on him, but also his mood, which was decidedly foul. When he’d snapped at Julya for no reason, he knew it was time to walk away and eat something. No doubt his blood sugar level had cratered, dragging his attitude with it.
But there was another factor involved. Just before falling into bed the night before, he’d sent a quick e-mail to the other Council members, updating them on the latest development. He’d also requested a quick response with their department reports, in lieu of a Council meeting. There were responses from Channy and Lita when he awoke, but nothing from Bon. And now, as he left Engineering, the report was still missing.
That, as much as the baffling radiation problem, merely added to the frustration he carried. In fact, his irritation with Bon had officially reached the breaking point. Stepping into the lift, he decided to put his grumbling stomach on hold for a bit longer and do something about it.
The doors opened and he stepped into the humid air of the domes. It was lunchtime on Galahad, so activity at the Farms was subdued. Three crew members waved as Gap trudged down the path, but they were the only people he saw.
Bon would certainly not be anywhere near the Dining Hall, not during the height of the lunch rush. He would likely be found either in his office or in the fields, working alone on a project while his team members were taking their noon break. Although he bristled at Bon’s contentious manner, Gap could never fault his work ethic.
The office was empty. For a split second Gap considered scouring Bon’s desk drawers in search of the translator, but discarded the idea. That was not how he wanted to lead. He turned and walked out, then stood with his hands on his hips, scanning the fields as far as he could see. Bon was somewhere out there, but a search could take an hour or more. And Gap was convinced that if he called out as he walked, Bon wouldn’t answer, even if he heard.
His stomach growled again, but Gap’s irritation overrode his hunger. He set off down the path in a random direction.
After fifteen minutes he chanced upon two other crew members making their way towards the lift, but other than that the dome seemed deserted. He wandered off the path from time to time, pushed thick vegetation aside, then made his way back to the path. Soon he began a routine of stopping every hundred feet or so and listening. If there was a benefit to searching while the majority of the crew was on break, it was that any sound would carry.
The tactic paid off. He just happened to look down at one point and discovered a faint trail that splintered off the main path. Gap knelt down and noticed shoe impressions in the soft soil. Intrigued, he struck out down the trail, and a minute later heard the muffled sounds.
He held his breath, which was coming in gasps, in order to pinpoint the direction. When it came again, he was sure that it was a voice, crying out in pain, drifting through the lush fields. Scrambling ahead, he pushed aside an overhang of thick leaves and saw Bon.
He was kneeling in a small clearing, his head back, his eyes closed, and a look of intense pain etched across his face. Even from a distance of fifteen feet, it was obvious that he was shaking uncontrollably. With a downward glance, Gap saw the telltale dull red glow of the translator seeping from between Bon’s fingers.
Although his first instinct was to rush into the clearing, Gap held himself back. It was Bon’s voice that had led him here in the first place; now he wanted to hear what was being exchanged with the Cassini. What was so personal that Bon couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell the Council? Gap crept a few feet closer and got down on one knee.
He watched a shudder ripple across Bon, shaking him, forcing his head back even farther. But to Gap it seemed that Bon was fighting whatever forces racked him, stubbornly pushing back against the might of the alien power. It occurred to Gap that, of all the crew members who could have been genetically wired to accommodate the Cassini’s peculiar form of communication, perhaps they were lucky that it was Bon. The surly Swede was not one to get pushed around, and that was exactly the kind of representative that the crew of Galahad needed.
A small cry broke from Bon’s mouth, followed by another spasm. Gap could only imagine what kind of agony he was feeling. What was so important to Bon that he would put himself through this?
“No…” Bon said through clenched teeth. “No…” His head turned violently to one side, and Gap saw that he was dripping with sweat. His breathing seemed an exercise in torture, and for a second Gap thought that he might collapse. But again he appeared to fight the forces that swept through him. His eyes flickered open briefly, emitting a ghostly orange glow, and his voice seemed to struggle through layers of mud.
“Where…”
Gap strained to hear, but the rest was unintelligible. He had the feeling that Bon would be able to detect his presence if he got too close, but he had to know what was being communicated. Slipping quietly to his right, he shifted to within six feet, directly behind Bon, and leaned in.
“Where … is … she?”
Gap stifled a gasp. Bon had furiously defended his right to a freelance session with the Cassini, and it was all about finding Triana? Why, Gap wondered, wouldn’t he want to discuss that with the Council? Why would a search for the Council Leader be something Bon deemed so inappropriate that he wouldn’t want to enlist their support? What made this personal?
Could it have something to do with the complicated relationship that Bon and Triana shared? Of all the ship’s crew members, Gap alone had firsthand knowledge of that relationship, slim as the evidence might be. He had carried a visual reminder—an embrace—for months, and it still haunted him.
“How … do … I…” Bon never finished the sentence. He cried out again, as if the Cassini were lashing out, punishing him for daring to challenge their control. Before Gap could react, Bon crumpled forward onto the soil. He struck the ground face-first, his hands at his sides. His grip on the translator relaxed, and it rolled a foot away, the glow fading from its vents.
Still on his knees, Gap covered the distance between them in a flash. He turned Bon’s face to the side and did his best to wipe away the dirt. Blood began to pool in the Swede’s mouth, and his eyes had rolled up. Gap stood and looked back the way he had come, considering his options to get help. But he knew that the domes would likely still be deserted, with a bare-bones crew covering the break. It might take several minutes to backtrack and call for help, and even longer to get Lita or other medical personnel up here.
Gap knelt down and lifted one of Bon’s arms. He slowly rose to his feet, lifting the deadweight with him, until he had Bon in a standing position. Then, using his gymnastics training and his formidabl
e strength, he hefted Bon over his shoulder. In seconds he was hustling back along the path, hurrying to get to the lift and down to Sick House.
In the trampled soil of the clearing, artificial sunlight glinted off the spiked, metallic ball.
14
A small knot of crew members huddled together in the outer offices of Sick House, talking in hushed voices. Every few minutes one would peek into the hospital ward, curious about the proceedings, but they all knew to stay out until summoned.
After finishing the most difficult part of the procedure, Lita stepped back and addressed Manu. “Can you get started on the cast? I’m going to update his friends so they can get out of here for now. I’ll be right back to help.”
She stepped out into the office and looked around at the five faces that stared back at her, all draped with concern. She greeted them with a smile.
“Yes,” she said, “it’s definitely broken. In two places, to be exact. I guess when Rico does it, he does it big.”
This brought a nervous chuckle from the group. One of the girls, Vonya, said to Lita, “But he’s okay, right?”
“Oh, sure. He’ll be a celebrity of sorts when he walks out of here with that cast. I guess you guys can be the first to sign it.”
Lita’s casual and confident tone seemed to reassure them. They exchanged relieved glances.
“By the way,” Lita said, “I’ll need to file a full report. So let me get this straight: Rico was at the Airboard track, but he wasn’t riding? Micah, you said something about the bleachers, is that right?”
“Uh, yeah. He was up in the stands with some of us, just watching and … well, heckling, I guess you could say. Rico’s the best Airboarder, you know? But he has more fun than anyone in the stands, too. Anyway, it was almost his turn, so he started to walk down the steps, and when he went to put his helmet on, I guess he misjudged one of the steps, and … well, here we are.”