“Alright, Lib, see you then.”
“David,” she growled. “Again with that nickname. Cut the shit.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
With the solar panels repaired and put back in place we made adjustments to get on course. It took two days longer than expected, but oddly, the Captain wasn’t worried. Not that he needed to be. Nav turned the ship at an oblique angle to our trajectory, and fired the ion thrusters at full with an additional thirty-minute burn from the emergency boosters. With a little coordination from the sequestered photon focusers and our Saturn based reactor beam, we were able to push the engines past design specifications.
Within a few hours we were tracking our new trajectory, patiently awaiting updated info from our sensor network to confirm our path as well as our enemy’s. This detour had only cost a few minutes when it was all said and done, though, a lot of precious fuel had been expended in the process. That was the physical cost aside from César’s life.
We were fast approaching the midpoint of our journey where the ship would turn around, pointing our main thrust ahead of us for the final approach a couple months from now. When traveling at speeds upwards of one hundred sixty kilometers per second, it takes a painfully long time to slow. If we failed to complete this maneuver we’d go hurtling past Mars to end up God knows where, maybe even as far as Jupiter. We could skim right past the red world and head for the enemy colonies on Europa. That sure would make things easy. Bomb the enemy and get it over with. Too bad it would cost the lives of everyone at home to see such a simple end to our conflict.
I floated around the engine room, watching the lights and panels flicker with a constant torrent of information. All I could do was think of César. His red handled combo torch was safely secured against the wall where he’d last left it. A tiny satchel of tools he’d brought from home were strapped beside it. Curiosity overcame my sense of privacy, and I glanced inside.
As expected, there were a set of aluminum spanners, multi headed screwdrivers, a tensiometer, collapsible torque wrench, and the like. The one exception was a collection of notes tucked into the interior pocket. I pulled one out to take a look. It was a white piece of lined paper folded in quarters; on the outside, a heart was penned in red beside the name Janie. I inspected it for a while and frowned. It wasn’t the same handwriting from the pill baggie. This was somehow bubblier, more feminine, lines thinner and tapering off at the ends. I returned the note to its place inside the bag with reverence, a memorial to César. I was going to catch whatever bastard had done this.
After recovering his corpse, Doc had done a full tox screen. César was positive for opiates, though what variety I didn’t know. The investigation was closed, deemed a regrettable accident the result of drug abuse. The Captain said a few choice words before the crew pertaining to César’s eternal soul and place among the cold wells of Mars, and his body was put into storage. Despite the fact that we believed our souls remained tethered to the body until it was made part of the whole, I knew it was just another empty vessel, a husk.
César’s soul was long gone.
“Into the cold well,” I mumbled to myself as the bag was zipped shut.
My watch went off: THE TARGET IS CLOSE. KEEP AN EYE OUT. ASK QUESTIONS DURING THE SHOW.
The Captain’s messages had become progressively vague, almost cryptic.
Another night of gripping TV rolled around and everyone gathered up. I bugged Kelly with even vaguer questions than I was given, to which he looked confused. Talked to Henry and Devins from agriculture and got nowhere. Rosaleigh was there too, busily chatting it up with the Smith, occasionally resting her hand on Smith’s leg. When Lank Hair passed through the section about mid-way through Demonio Primerio, Rosaleigh Head and Smith became startled, moving immediately to fresh seating arrangements across the room from one another. Curious.
After the show was over, Dour Face found Rosaleigh out in the hall, harassing her over something I could not hear. She laughed at him, not with him, and he got mad, real mad. He put a hand on her arm trying to calm her, but she slapped it away. I thought for a second I might need to butt in and say something, but he threw his hands up and stormed off, smelling of wounded pride. Rosaleigh rolled her eyes at me and vanished inside her quarters.
My shift ended and I snuck back to my digs. Several crewmembers were sound asleep and the lights were already low. Perfect.
I took a drink of water, slipped on some VR goggles and laid back in my bunk, sheets piled on top of me in a mountain of linens.
While inside the simulation, I would be vulnerable. I prayed that no one would murder me as I closed my eyes. César wasn’t here to watch my back.
Random colors flickered past my vision for an instant, resolving into a series of green shapes. I was now inside the virtual interface of our information network, a series of screens with nothing but hierarchical icons and text. Using direct brain impulse, instead of fingers, I keyed up the channel Liberty had given me. A password dialog appeared. Was there a new security protocol? Or was this…
“Another one of Lib’s games,” I mumbled, the sub-vocalization not leaving my consciousness. “Hmm. What could it be? What could it be?”
I began to try various passwords, hoping there was no lockout on attempts. “Lib? Nope, not that. Shocker. Too short anyways. Umm, Crystal Caves? Nope. Skimmer? Skimm—eh—er crash? Damn, I could have sworn that was the one. Jangle jangle wigwam? Ehh. That girl from math class maybe? Kelly Fry Sack Attack? Marlo Barlo? Wait.”
This wasn’t working. I needed to change my approach.
“Let’s try some late 20th Century pop culture. If she was paying attention in film class, then I know she was listening during our music discussions. Rock—you—like—a hurricane? Nope. We’re halfway there? Okay, maybe try it without the apostrophe. Damn, should have known that was crap. Movies then. 42? Life, the universe. No… Klaatu—this is bullshit! What the hell was she on about? I swear, that girl can never keep things simple. Can’t just invite a guy over to hang out with you, gotta run him through a bunch of games and call him—”
I cut myself off as a thought bobbed on the surface of my liquefied grey matter. There it was. I keyed a five-letter word into the dialog and was rewarded with sweet victory. The channel unlocked, transporting me into a white room where Liberty sat waiting, legs crossed in a leather arm chair, looking both smug and prim, fingers steepled before her nose. It was her best skill, appearing tough but coldly confident—composed like an evil genius. I half expected her to state in a voice much like her father’s, “This is the construct”, while extending an arm in invitation.
“Ah ha!” She fumbled with her knees while trying to smooth out her virtual clothes, a distressed green t-shirt and pair of fitted jeans strategically ripped down the front. “I see you figured it out.”
I scowled at her. “The password? Mmhm. Come on, Davie? Seriously? You made the password Davie? You know damn well I hate that nickname. Makes me sound like a girl.”
“Well you know what?” She raised a finger and pointed at me. “I hate Lib, so take that, butt face.”
“Butt face?” I crossed my arms. “Whoa. What are we, teenagers again?”
She buried her face in the side of the chair, but I could see her suppressed chuckles by the jerking of her shoulders. “Feels like it sometimes.”
I used a simple thought to summon a chair I once saw in a magazine. It was made of bright green microfiber, not stiff brown leather like hers. I collapsed into it, feeling every thread as if it were real. I would have to get me one of these when we made it back home, or something equally as comfy.