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  “Delusional, am I?” cut in Barbara. “He wasn’t subtle about it. Said he’d love to see me at his naturist restaurant when we get back.”

  “So what? Mom and Dad run that place together. And they’ve been happily together for over thirty years, thanks! You’re talking nonsense.”

  “Do you find it so hard to believe? You propositioned me yourself not long after, if memory serves.”

  “Oho!” Annie was smirking. “I hope this ain’t gonna do irreparable damage to your ego, Babs, but I made practically every woman on board the same offer.”

  “Don’t call me ‘Babs.’”

  “You see, I understand the need to relieve sexual tension and keep on top of those pesky hormones, so I made my world-class skills in that department available to the whole crew. Even the dullest and the drabbest. Sometimes you just need a human touch; a steady diet of synthetic lovin’ just ain’t enough for most people.”

  “For most people, no,” chipped in Preciado. “Exceptions exist.”

  She didn’t look at Flora when she said it, but her meaning was clear. The technician reddened slightly, unsure whether to be angered or embarrassed. There had been a definite note of hostility in Preciado’s voice. Contempt, even. Since when, wondered Flora, are my bedroom habits anyone else’s business?

  Silence reigned. At least Preciado’s little dig seemed to have killed the brewing argument between Annie and Barbara.

  Annie’s Army of Awesome: Okay, how about I throw everything at Natalia’s empire while you take out Barbara? Then everyone’s happy.

  Floritania: Tempting, but I don’t think it solves anything in the long run.

  Annie’s Army of Awesome: You’re too darned responsible.

  Floritania: Don’t let her get to you, Annie. Best behaviour, remember?

  Annie’s Army of Awesome: You’re the boss, Boss. Lunch later?

  Floritania: Sounds good.

  The exchange with Annie made Flora feel slightly better. Her mood was further improved when the bribes she’d sent to the government of Lagothrix VIII paid off, causing them to switch allegiance from Iris to her. She might actually have a shot at winning this time …

  The Rivers Empire: I have a Hermes Class mining team. You have a moon with deep-lying deposits of cranulite orbiting Gliridae II. Let me mine there and we can split the products 50/50.

  Floritania: Try again.

  The Rivers Empire: 60/40 in your favour.

  Floritania: Agreed.

  Flora watched the solitary mining ship cross the border into her space. She could easily overwhelm the ship and claim all the cranulite for herself, of course, but that wasn’t her style.

  Rivers spoke aloud. “To get back to the original topic of conversation: the captain, much as we all admire her, is plainly rushing through this mission, increasing the quantity of systems visited at the expense of the quality of work done there. For those of you who don’t favour a petition, what alternatives do you offer?”

  “You’ve tried talking to her, I presume?” asked Iris.

  “Of course. I broached the subject a few months ago.”

  “Maybe someone else needs to give it a go,” suggested Annie. “Someone who knows how to mount a charm offensive. How about you, Natalia?”

  Preciado laughed. “Definitely not. I’ve not the talent of persuasion. Anything like that, I’d let Sergio handle.”

  “Sergio?”

  “My husband.”

  Flora looked up. “Oh, you’re married?”

  A frown. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “No reason, I just -”

  “You act shocked. Why?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say shocked, just a little surprised not to have heard about him before …”

  Preciado glared fixedly across the table at the confused technician. Flora dropped her gaze. She had no idea what the problem was.

  A message appeared on her screen. It didn’t clarify matters.

  Celta Vigo: I don’t find this funny.

  Floritania: ??

  Celta Vigo: Just watch what you say.

  Flora stared at the message in confusion. She’d been genuinely surprised not to have known that Preciado had a husband after three years on the same ship as her, though it was true that the two of them didn’t tend to interact too much. Quite why the biologist should take such umbrage was beyond her.

  Upset and puzzled, Flora took her mind off the game for a few crucial moments. Abruptly, she noticed a warning light on her screen. The mining ship that Rivers had sent into Floritanian territory had veered off course and arrived in Flora’s home system. There was no time to react; the ship fired a stellar bomb into the sun, inducing it to go nova.

  Flora’s home planet was vaporized. Game over.

  “Sorry,” said Rivers, with no great sincerity. “You’ve got to pay attention.”

  “So I have.” Flora rose with a sigh. “Well, if you’re going to lose, it might as well be spectacular.”

  ‘No need to leave, Boss. You can watch for a bit; act as my cheerleader.”

  “Thanks, Annie, but I fancy a change of scene. Since my mind’s been found wanting, I’m going to put my body to the test.”

  VI

  … A blade of grass is commonplace on Earth; it would be a miracle on Mars. Our descendants on Mars will know the value of a patch of green. And if a blade of grass is priceless, what is the value of a human being? …

  – Carl Sagan, Little Blue Dot

  The low gravity training room was Flora’s favourite place on the whole ship. Situated above the gym, it was unique among the Bona Dea’s rooms: the rest were all on the same level, this alone could be said to be on the 2nd story.

  The artificial gravity plating aboard ship put out a gravitomagnetic field of an Earth-perfect 1 g at source. This held more or less steady up to a height of two meters, but deteriorated rapidly after that. By the time one reached the floor of the low gravity room, five meters up, it was already barely a half g; a further five to the ceiling and its effects were gone entirely.

  The wide room boasted dozens of steel bars, running from surface to surface: an ideal environment for honing one’s agility ahead of missions on small planets or moons, as well as EVA assignments. The low gravity ensured that any slips were unlikely to cause serious injury.

  Flora had finished her workout; sweat-soaked Lycra bore testimony to her exertions. Happily, the physical exercise had largely erased the negative emotions from the game. Now she hung upside down in her favourite spot, right up in the top corner of aft and starboard.

  The room had one other occupant: over in the opposite corner, Bala Abayomi put her toned body through its paces with a flawless gymnastic display, flipping and twisting from bar to bar.

  The average cat would seem flat-footed by comparison, Flora mused with a mixture of jealousy and admiration.

  The two women hadn’t spoken to each other; things had been awkward between them since Bala had locked her in the cell. Hopefully they could put it behind them soon. She wanted to get back into her regular routine.

  Of course, seeing Charlie had been a part of that routine. Flora hadn’t done so since her time in the cell – she’d decided to give Dr. Little’s self-help book a try, and was more than half way through Cutting the strings: a hetero woman’s guide to breaking the spell of Scarabelli syndrome and reclaiming control of your life.

  She couldn’t fault the book, which radiated common sense. Replete with stories of successful recoveries and well-thought-out arguments against the concept of artificial consciousness, stuffed with exercises to rid the sufferer of her delusions and deliver her back into the collective arms of human masculinity.

  The tactic employed by Hunter – doubtless suggested by Little – was among these. Resetting the robot’s personality to its factory settings, thus wiping out the illusion of personal growth with a few simple commands, was an effective method to force the Scarabelli sufferer to confront the true nature of her “lover.”

 
All very reasonable, though Flora noted that doing so without consulting her first wasn’t recommended in the book. The captain might try to show empathy, but in truth didn’t have much patience for the kind of weakness she perceived her head technician to be showing; she wanted Flora to snap out of it as soon as possible. But could she … and did she really want to, in her heart?

  Flora was so caught up in mulling over her situation that she didn’t register a new arrival in the room until the woman was within a few meters of her.

  It was Daniella Winters, ship’s journalist, on board to write an unbiased account of their adventures. Her career, reporting on the slow spread of humanity into space, spanned two decades, and had earned her a reputation as a harsh but ultimately fair critic. After she had dismissed Hunter’s proposed mission as an ill-judged vanity project, the captain had taken the bold – or foolish, perhaps – step of inviting her to come along and judge for herself.

  She was a round-faced and rather round-bodied woman; as a guest, she wasn’t required to pass the same physical exams as the rest of the crew. Her innocuous appearance, Flora had learned, belied a keen mind.

  The journalist moved through the bars with surprising agility, her dark hair forming a cloud behind her in the low gravity.

  Flora gave an upside down nod of greeting. “Daniella.”

  “Flora.”

  “I don’t remember seeing you up here before. Is there anything you need?”

  “All hands, this is the first officer,” cut in the intercom. Their wristbands simultaneously relayed the same message. “We will be executing a KSD leap in 30 seconds.”

  Metal covers creaked into place over the two small windows in the ceiling. The same would be happening all over the Bona Dea: observing the process as two distant areas of space were temporarily knitted together and a ship propelled through had proven to be damaging for the human psyche.

  “I’ve a request actually,” said Daniella. “I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of me helping out you guys in Engineering a bit.”

  “Wow.”

  “KSD leap in 3 … 2 … 1 … mark.” There was a slight sensation of compression and expansion, the illusion of one’s molecules rushing towards a central point and then rebounding to their original positions.

  “Leap completed.” The windows opened again, the conversation resumed.

  “Yeah, I’ve been doing some shifts in the garden, but I’ve still got more time on my hands than I know what to do with; don’t get me wrong, my writing’s going well, but it doesn’t really fill the days, you know? And you guys are often saying that you’re overworked. I’ve checked with the Captain: she said to ask you.”

  “Right.” Out of politeness, Flora paused for a few seconds and acted as though she was thinking about it. “To be honest – and this is no reflection on you, you understand – I don’t think it’s practical. All the work we do – on the engines, the KSD, the air system … even the plumbing – has a highly technical aspect. Even if we had the spare time to teach you, it might take five years to get you up to the required level. Sorry. You might try Sandra? Scientists often have lab assistants.”

  “Okay, maybe I will. Just hope they’ve got a white coat in my size.” She smiled. “Thanks anyway. And thanks for pretending that it was a tricky decision.”

  “Pretending?”

  “You didn’t bite your little finger. Dead giveaway. You always do that when you’re seriously thinking. Usually the left one.”

  “Great. My mind seems to be an open book to everyone but myself.”

  Daniella laughed. “Then what say we even the score? You can read my mind. Or my latest journal entry. Next best thing.” She extracted a handpad from her belt, proffered it to Flora.

  “This is going to go in the book you’re writing?”

  “Right. Tell me what you think – every writer needs feedback from time to time.”

  Flora had often wondered which sort of story would be made available for public consumption when they got home. She manoeuvred herself right-side up, got into something like a sitting position, and began to read:

  Journal entry #314, Saturday 5th January, Year 4

  How strong is a dream? How much pressure can it take before the cracks begin to show?

  Miriam Hunter propelled us into into the heavens with heady talk of shaping the future of humanity. We were the twenty-one women whose names would be engraved forever in the firmament, new feminist icons to join the pantheon of greats. No-one was immune to her rhetoric; she poured a vision of stars into our open hearts.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Flora. “Erm … this is pretty flowery language.”

  Daniella looked slightly embarrassed. “A little over the top? I know. But that’s the current fashion, or at least, it was when we left. I might need to rewrite things a bit when we get home; six years is a long time in journalism. Anyway, it’s only the first couple of paragraphs that have that vibe.”

  Flora resumed reading:

  Lately, though, the crew has become divided. There are some, certainly, who remain utterly committed to Hunter and her cause. This is hardly surprising: I have long agreed with our captain that women’s opportunities in space have been restricted, fettered by the old men of GSEC. There are many aboard who would have never escaped our solar system if not for this mission.

  But resentment will always appear, given long enough. We are at a difficult stage of our sojourn, psychologically: three long years down, three long years to go. It’s only human to become tired of the same walls, the same faces.

  And some of Hunter’s decisions haven’t helped matters. There have been grumblings, especially from the science department, over the short time given to the study of new worlds. We’ve been getting into a routine the past few months: leap into a new system, conduct the briefest of surveys of the planets and moons we find, leap out again.

  Occasionally we might go in for a closer look, but the captain has no qualms about abandoning planets which don’t meet her standards. Both Sandra Rivers and Kiaya Ferguson expressed their annoyance to me over the recent decision to call off the close range study of a dwarf planet of the C Upsilon Tuya system [insert link to planetary data] after a cursory glance; the captain felt that it was too similar to the Jovian moon Europa to merit further study.

  It has become increasingly obvious that Hunter isn’t satisfied with the simple cataloguing and studying of new worlds, instead striving for something truly groundbreaking. Quite what that something is, I’m not sure that even she knows, but she is surely growing frustrated as we move past the halfway point of our mission, and the clock continues to tick.

  Admittedly, she has shown no outward signs of emotional turbulence. In our most recent interview [insert link to Hunter interview B12] she answered my questions with the elephants that I have come to expect from her.

  Abruptly, Flora laughed, and laughed hard. She almost fell from her perch.

  Daniella looked startled, then annoyed. “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

  Gasping for air, Flora indicated the cause of her mirth.

  The journalist frowned. “What? ‘Elephants?’ Ah, man, lousy voice recognition software. Would you believe I paid $10,000 for this piece of junk? It should say “eloquence” … hang on, I’ll correct it. But it’s not that funny!”

  Tears were streaming down Flora’s face. “Sorry! I’m sorry. I just had this lovely image of Hunter behind her desk, flanked by Babar and Dumbo. As you say, not that funny. But I’ve not done much laughing lately.”

  “Glad I could help, I guess …”

  Flora read the rest of the piece:

  Other crew members are less adept at hiding stress. Disturbingly, there was a scuffle between Annabelle Grace and Barbara Young which left the latter bloodied and the former in the jail cell for the day. While Grace seems determined to cast herself in the role of troublemaker (her antics have been a recurring theme throughout this journal), she certainly seems to have crossed the line this time.
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  Perhaps more alarmingly, head Technician Flora Cartwright was also briefly confined to the cell. She has never struck me as particularly volatile, so this is a major surprise. From what I gather, she was not involved in the same incident as Grace, but specific details of her offence are yet to emerge. I will continue to investigate.

  “Well,” said Flora drily, “I’m flattered to have got a mention. Is that the true reason for this conversation? Your continuing investigation?”

  “Oh, the request to work with you guys was genuine. But I’ve been in the business long enough to have learned the value of killing two birds with one stone.”

  “Fair enough. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to give you a ‘No comment’ this time. But I dare say it’ll come out soon enough. It’s a small ship.”

  “Yup, very small. But it’s surprising how much can happen in 400,000 meters cubed.” She paused, running a pale hand through her flowing hair. “That’s not a bad line actually. I may make that the subtitle to my book …”

  Flora looked at the journalist with a thoughtful smile. She was fairly sure, based on Preciado’s comment earlier, that the reason for her confinement was known to pretty much everyone on board by now. Daniella was probably feigning ignorance, hoping to softly coax out the inside story of Charlie and Scarabelli syndrome. It wouldn’t work today, though. Time to change the subject.

  “Does it worry you? That Hunter might not find the ‘something special’ that she’s after … that our mission – and your book – might turn out to be a damp squib?”

  Daniella shook her head “No danger of that. Sorry to seem cynical, but I wouldn’t have come on board if I’d thought I might be wasting six years of my life on a non-story. If Hunter finds God’s home planet then great. But even if she doesn’t I’ll have a unique tale to tell: there’s never been an expedition quite like this one before. I’ll just shift the focus more onto the characters; trust me, it’ll sell.”