“We’re moving you onto the planning and analysis team for now,” Finch added.
“In all fairness, Dr. Finch, I’m usually the one who executes the protocols, not the one who makes them up,” Helen said. It wasn’t quite a protest. She wasn’t sure she had the energy left for a full-blown protest. Helen gripped the edge of the desk, letting it bite into her palms. The quick stab of discomfort lifted some of the weight from her eyelids.
“Time to expand your skill set, then,” Ivester said. Helen heard the ping from her Insight. She fished the tablet out of her pocket for a look; the edges of the screen framed anew in orange and blue fairy lights. Her access was restored. Not fired yet.
“You’re back on the system, Operator Vectorovich,” Finch said. “You’ll be getting access to the mission reports over the next hour or so. Please review them before tomorrow’s meeting. We’ll need you to accept the terms of the new NDA before you can leave the room, of course.”
Helen’s Insight flickered and a new list appeared, each entry marked with the skull and crossbones icon that in IT-speak meant classified. A new set of terms and conditions floated at the top, commensurate with her temporary position and paygrade.
Helen settled herself into it to read the documents before she signed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Helen had spent time in dozens of recovery rooms over the course of her career as an operator. This room was doctor’s-office small with a couple of useful things like comfortable chairs and a table. The upper half of the walls were coated in non-reflective black to better showcase any information that needed to be projected. Dr. Hofstaeder gave Helen the courtesy of knocking. It gave Helen just enough time to sign off a call with Keller before Doc entered.
“Was that Keller?” the older, hatchet-faced woman asked without really listening for the answer. She called up Helen’s medical files, using her Insight to throw them onto the wall for Helen to see. “I swear that man treats you operators like children. It’s not my goal to keep you out of the coffins, but if I don’t bring the hammer down, you all will end up in the ground for real.” Hofstaeder settled into the room’s other chair with a snort as she accessed the medical servers.
Helen chose diplomatic silence. Trying to justify the lengths that operators would go to stay on rotation was pointless. It was like trying to explain why swallows did barrel rolls or dogs chased cars. The words just never managed to live up to the observed reality.
“Well,” the doctor focused on something on the Insight screen in her palm, the light from her screen painting blue lines against warm brown skin, “you’ve managed to both piss off and impress our CTO within the space of a few hours. I’m not sure if you’re bucking for promotion or trying to get fired.”
Quick motions of her fingertips sent information Helen couldn’t see out to the edges of the doctor’s Insight tablet. She charged ahead, not waiting for Helen’s response. “That was a panic attack you experienced right after returning to your own body, yes? Rather than trusting us and waiting to finish out the exit procedures, you hacked your own coffin and escaped. Well, nearly escaped.” Satisfied with the arrangement of information, Hofstaeder sat back in her chair. She finally turned her attention to her patient, rather than her patient’s data. “Classic near-trauma test results, but you still managed to act, which is suggestive.”
“Suggestive of what?” Helen asked suspiciously. As much as she wanted to relax and trust Hofstaeder to fix things, Doc held the final say on her being declared mission-ready.
“Of a course of treatment. There’s a reason here to take you out of circulation for the near future. I am sure you will object. Either way, you will need a course of treatment to help manage the fallout; PTSD is easy to end up with in your line of work. I’m going to tweak that prescription and see what the minimum dose might be. The question now is—”
“How quickly can we get this fixed so I can get back into rotation?” Helen finished the sentence the way she wanted it finished.
The interface between operator and waldo meant mental health was just as important as physical health, if not more. Per every company policy, this was maintained through scheduled downtime, forced breaks that every operator complained insincerely about even as they enjoyed walks on the beach and time with family or friends.
Being taken out of rotation post-mission was different. It meant you were an expensive risk. It told the other OPs that you’d screwed up, that you were a potential liability. For a senior operator like Helen, it meant the younger OPs were going to start campaigning for her spot in the rotation. In a competitive workplace like Flight Ops, it meant keeping her job was about to get harder.
Helen knew she had not screwed this up.
She needed to get back out there before the sharks started circling. The feeling of urgency crept in, pressuring Helen to go, to run to the Mortuary and get back out there. To go do something, to find something. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, willing herself to be still.
“Hmmph.” Hofstaeder’s gaze changed focus, looking from the medical display towards her patient. “This isn’t your first time being pulled off the line. You had an incident three years ago while you were still working for Animus, before you came to Far Reaches. Heroic action, if I recall, supporting a live mining team on Ferguson’s Asteroid?”
Helen winced. “I drive a waldo, Dr. Hofstaeder, I was never in any actual danger.”
“The catastrophic biofeedback from your waldo caused you to crack your own ribs. Only one member of the mining team was lost. Animus was known for using shitty tech. There’s no way you didn’t know what you were risking.” Hofstaeder’s gaze returned to the information on her Insight. “I presume that’s why you took a lateral move to Far Reaches rather than jump for Distant Sun’s more lucrative offer?”
The line of questioning was getting uncomfortable. The Ferguson’s Asteroid Incident had been a huge boost to her career, but it had followed her, haunting her like a ghost. Helen stood her ground. She’d answered questions like these more than once. She knew the answers that would shut people up.
“Distant Sun uses the same discount tech as Animus,” Helen replied shortly and carefully. As an OP, your profile followed you. It was yet another one of the thousand “cover your ass” tactics that went along with the stresses of being an operator. The saving grace, if there was one, was that only medical personnel had access.
“So you knew exactly what you were doing.” Doc cut through the bullshit. “My concern, you see, Operator Vectorovich, is that now we have two incidents on your record. I am concerned that your post-mission . . . shall we call it an anxiety attack, until we have a formal diagnosis? That this was a result of not only the most recent issue, but it has touched on some unresolved issues from the first? You are getting a stacking effect, as it were, which means we may have not seen the end of your erratic behavior.”
“I completed all the required therapies at Animus at the time. I passed my quarterly evaluation less than a month ago.” Helen wasn’t sure where this was going, but she felt like she was being set up for something.
If Far Reaches used this “anxiety attack” as an excuse to keep her out of the coffin, her time as an operator could be over.
“Yes, that is interesting.” Hofstaeder closed the Insight, the screen going dark before she slid it into the pocket of her coat. “The question, at this moment, Ms. Vectorovich, is what is it that you want?”
“I beg your pardon?” Helen had expected condescension, a lecture on trusting Hofstaeder’s skill and experience. She hadn’t expected this.
“You have an opportunity here,” Hofstaeder sniffed. “Ivester has asked that you be placed on the analysis team until you complete your therapy. He wants to keep you involved, one way or the other, and Keller is backing his play. With so few operators on this project, I am being pressured to get you back into a coffin right away and damn the consequences.”
Hofstaeder leaned back in her chair, hands folded primly on her lap, and continued. “My concern, however, is with the health and well-being of my patients. Something even the Almighty Ivester treads lightly around. We have just gone down in the annals as the first, and I certainly hope the last, company to ever lose a NAV on a live mission. With your history, a case could be made to take you out of rotation entirely, move you over to project planning and analysis on a full-time basis.”
Helen was taken aback. She was used to arm’s-length professionalism from Hofstaeder, not frank honesty. It took a moment to wrap her head around what it meant. “You’re . . . you’re offering me an exemption?”
The exemption was the mental health clause in her contract, in everybody’s contracts. It gave you an out if you cracked, if you disassociated while on a mission and lost track of where the human ended and the waldo began. It was in deadly earnest—a bad psych evaluation was the number one reason an operator got locked out of running a waldo for any reputable firm. It was close to the worst of all possible endings, as far as Helen was concerned.
Hofstaeder smiled, showing the bare minimum of teeth between lips painted a shade too orange. “A bit simplistic, but yes. Look, I know Ivester. If you do not set a limit on what he can take, he will ask for everything you have and then be surprised when you can’t keep up. Once I give my sign-off, he will have you back in that coffin and talking to that waldo again just as quickly as the computers can be re-calibrated.” Hofstaeder sighed. “But I also know operators. And I know that, as soon as I give the all-clear, you will jump right back in with a smile and without so much as a second thought. So, I am compelled to ask you, Helena Vectorovich, what, exactly, is it that you want?”
Helen resisted the urge to retort at her full name being laid out, like she was a rookie caught using mission-time for daydreaming. The pause in the conversation was made longer by Hofstaeder’s unblinking gaze. It was a strange question, coming from someone Helen had always regarded an opponent rather than an ally. Helen took her time, trying to give a real answer to what seemed like a real question.
“I want to get back out there.” Helen cast about in her own head, trying to find the root of that urgency. “I want . . . I need to figure out what went wrong; why Ted’s the one in ICU and not me. The NAV chair is supposed to be the safe spot, the risks are supposed to fall to the operator. It doesn’t make sense.”
Hofstaeder sighed. “Yes, but you can do that from the relative safety of an analyst’s chair. Why go back? I mean, why actually waldo back out there? What’s calling you back?”
Helen considered, for just a moment, telling Hofstaeder about the tiny alien mites, the thousands upon thousands of empty husks worn by thousands of tiny enemies. Then she made the connection. She was in here because of what she’d said on mission. She’d told Ivester over the line and then Keller when she returned that something had “eaten the Golfball.”
No wonder they’re keeping you under wraps. Until those images are brought in, until someone can confirm what you saw out there, you need to keep it to yourself. The offer of an exemption was on the table, but for now it was voluntary. One slip-up on Helen’s part and it might not stay that way.
Helen backpedaled inside her own head, sought a simpler answer. She’d misread Hofstaeder’s intent, trusted a touch too much. She could go over the conversation later with Ted and figure out what she’d missed. For now she had to course-correct, get the conversation back on the rails.
“Look, Doc. We tripped something out at Otlyan23. I don’t know what it was, but if I can get back into the coffin, walk back through the scene, I know I’m going to be able to figure it out. There are cameras not working, holes in the coverage, missing pieces, but I was there. I saw everything firsthand, know every step we took from our first connection to my dumping out. I’m the best one for that job.”
“Even though it might kill another NAV?”
That thought set Helen back a bit. Doc was talking about the unthinkable. Whatever had happened to Ted, that had to be a one-in-a-million convergence, an accident. Right?
But if Doc was right, another living NAV might face the same risks if they moved too quickly.
“An AI NAV is always possible,” Helen began, already working up the scenario on the fly. “I’ve worked with them before, no one else needs to . . .” She trailed off as Hofstaeder’s words finally made sense.
Wait.
KILL another NAV?
The chattering, whispering memories started to creep back in. Helen cast her mind back to the waldo, to the conversation with Ivester after Ted had been pulled offline. Ivester had said the same at first. Keller had said otherwise when she’d climbed out of the coffin. Ivester had said something different to the mission team. They had kept her out of the loop and it had taken her too long to put it together. The news blew right through the last of the emotional stabilizers Hofstaeder had given her in the coffin and left her soul unprotected.
“Y-you . . . just said kill,” Helen stammered.
Hofstaeder blanched, held up a hand to forestall her. “What I meant was—”
“Ivester said the same thing . . . now you. You haven’t told anyone yet.”
Helen was only barely listening. The world tilted a bit and she felt the crawling on her skin again, nibbling and scurrying. She was back in the waldo listening to Ted’s ruined voice over the comms. She kept trying to fast forward to the moment when Ivester signed on, to hear what he’d said. The urge to take action, to get back to the coffins and get back out to the Golfball, to get back out and fix this was becoming unbearable.
Deep breaths.
Helen fought back, deliberately turning her attention back to Hofstaeder, back to the lie that Ted was alive and safely ensconced in the ICU at City General.
“Helen?”
“I’m fine, Doc.” Helen sat a little straighter, forced herself to smile against the despair and look Hofstaeder in the eye. “Truth, please.”
Hofstaeder met her gaze solidly. Helen knew she wasn’t fooling anybody. She was far from fine, but the doc allowed her the illusion for the moment. The consideration mattered, made it a little easier for Helen to hold it together.
“Theodore passed away at two a.m. this morning. His family elected to take him off of life support in accordance with their beliefs. I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you . . .” Helen kept her voice steady with an effort of will, forcing the sound in her memories back down. “. . . tell me? Why didn’t you tell anybody?”
Hofstaeder shook her head slowly. “Moving parts. At first it was because we didn’t want to panic the rest of the Line Drive team, especially since we first hoped Ted might be able to recover. While that was going on, we were trying to get as much information as we could. You had to be debriefed while the incident was still fresh in your memory. After you disentangled, the Feed was useless.” She folded and refolded her long, thin fingers together. “Simply put, too many things moving too fast. I know that sounds cold. We got Ted off the Feed as soon as he started seizing and got him to the ICU in record time. Unfortunately, the damage to his nervous system had already been done.”
Helen took one deep breath.
Then a second.
Intellectually, she knew that honesty was better. She would need to get her head around the brand new hole in her world. Helen could count her close friends on the fingers of one hand. Ted had been her NAV at Animus and they’d made the jump to Far Reaches together. Never lovers, more like twins, they’d been crèche-mates as kids and found each other again at Animus. They were better as a team; they filled in for each other’s flaws. It’s not right. It’s not FAIR.
In the back of her mind, however, accompanied by chatters and deep-space cold, was a resentment that she couldn’t hold on to the lie a little bit longer.
“When are you going to inform the rest of the Line Drive te
am?” Helen asked quietly, trying to keep the surge of emotions in check.
“That’s really not my call, but I know it’s going to be soon.” Hofstaeder’s concern was evident, but Helen didn’t trust it, now knowing what they’d kept from her.
She suddenly felt very tired and very alone.
“I’ll authorize the therapies you need to get back into the coffin,” the older woman continued, “but be warned. I’m keeping you out until I’m sure you’re ready.”
“Can I be alone for a bit, please?” Helen was losing the battle and she knew it, she closed her eyes, tried to find something to hold on to.
Hofstaeder took a breath, as if about to deliver some kind of useless platitude, then changed her mind. “Of course. You can stay in here as long as you need to.”
Need to. Not want to.
What Helen really wanted was to get out. To go somewhere, even back to the fifteen-by-fifteen box of concrete and glass she called home and just . . . not be part of the world, a part of the mission any longer.
But none of that would give her any answers.
Helen managed to hold it together until Hofstaeder closed the door behind her. Then the tears started to fall.
CHAPTER SIX
There were only a half dozen remote operation companies in Launch City, a fact that made it nigh-impossible to silo all the personnel. Documents were signed and discretion was expected. The indiscreet were offloaded to other, less sensitive areas of the industry. The family of OPs and NAVs was small enough that a death like Ted’s touched them all.
Far Reaches had closed out Wade’s, buying out the entire multi-level restaurant for the night. It provided a sort of air gap between those paying their respects and those looking to feed a media machine that was already predicting Far Reaches’ demise. The downstairs room was quiet and dimly lit, the path to the stairs outlined by small, flickering lights. Helen had come dressed in her only good suit and fancy shoes. Climbing the stairs in the dimness took some care.
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