12

Throw and Catch

I tower over the solar system like a god, looming titanic over the plane of the ecliptic. Dramatic background music swells, ebbs, and returns again in a crescendo of triumph, as my merest gesture advances time itself at a blistering rate, then freezes it with another twitch of my fingers.

Damn. Forty-nine days. Too long. I roll time back again.

The solar system is suspended in the air of the bridge, in miniature, an invitation to hubris. I adjust the view, zoom in on Neptune. Perhaps if I insert into the gravity slingshot maneuver at a slightly Hey higher velocity…

Hmm… no, that just throws us out at a different Hey Marcus angle, and we'd have to burn the fusion drive to Hey Earth to Marcus correct, which gives away our position and heading…

An empty pill case bounces off my shoulder. My neural lace keeps the map in the same place relative to my eyes, so as I turn around, the image of the sun intersects Miranda's head, and the solar system, with all of human civilization, appears to revolve around her.

“What?”

“Will you turn that awful noise off?”

“What awful noise?”

She gestures at the bridge around her, waving her hands through the virtual orrery, unable to locate the speakers. Preposterous. Flatlanders have no fucking taste at all.

“Am I to assume you are referring to 'Giants Orbiting,' performed by the great Babatunde Nwakka? To one of the single greatest accomplishments of the human race to date?”

“I hate tuvo music!” She's half-shouting to be heard over it.

“Well, I don't. And if you don't appreciate it, you're just objectively wrong.”

“Can't you listen to it on your neural lace?”

“Yeah. I could. But I like air acoustics. And it helps me concentrate.”

“On what? You're not doing anything.”

Oh, right, she can't see my display. I gesture and the solar system jumps to a compromise position as my implants share it with her. Reluctantly, I turn down the music a bit as “Giants Orbiting” finishes and segues into “Adam Kadmon.”

“I'm charting our course.”

“Does this mean you've fixed the drive?”

“That comes next. No point getting the drive running without a plan. I need a way to accelerate us towards Sedna while hiding our drive burn from anyone who happens to be watching that particular piece of sky. Then we just coast to our intercept point, and enter orbit at the end. Throw-and-catch.”

“I know. You told me three days ago. I have a very good memory, you know.”

“Well, gods forbid you should have to spend five seconds hearing something you already know.”

Her face crinkles in a frown. “Whatever. Can we get away with a little acceleration, or do we actually need to be in zero gravity the whole way?”

I peer at her a moment before it hits me. “Oh, right. Your little… problem. Nah, amusing as it would be to watch you pop pills to keep from barfing the whole way, long periods of weightlessness ain't good for anybody. We can't run the drive, but we don't need to. We'll spin the Cat.”

Her eyes go wide. With that much eye, the effect is startling. “What? But… you don't—I mean, the ship doesn't—have a ring. You can't—”

“Oh, can't I now? Wanna see? Unlock the controls for me and I'll show you.”

Her eyes narrow again, and a wall comes down behind them.

“Oh, come off it, Princess. I'm not going to pull a fast one. We have a deal now, kayno? I haven't beaten the access codes out of you or dragged you off to the hold and locked you in a shipping container, have I? So lighten up. Or maybe you prefer floating there drugged up and still looking slightly green?”

“Okay, but if you try anything suspicious-looking, I'll shut down the whole console. Besides, I don't see how—”

“That's because you've lived your whole life in custom-built habitats with staff to take care of all the messy details for ya. Watch and learn, little one.”

I pull myself back into the pilot's seat, fasten one of the straps to stop myself from drifting, and pull the console with its throttle and stick out, locking it in position in front of me, set a few switches. I nudge the stick… and nothing happens.

“Hey.” I glance back.

“Just a moment,” she says, staring at something I can't see—still busy with her implant interface. “There.”

“Okay,” I say, “hang onto something. You won't need to strap in, but we're gonna drift a bit.”

She grabs one of the straps hanging off my chair, and I fire attitude thrusters in short, gentle bursts. The loose webbing on the seats rises a bit and then stands out horizontally behind me, followed by Miranda herself, slowly turning to hang backwards off the chair.

“Whooaah.”

“Sit tight. Be back to normal in a minute.” I ramp up the speed, and slowly the floor becomes… down. There's a faint scrape of feet on metal and a heartfelt sigh, as Miranda alights on the floor behind me.

“Oh. That is a lot better,” she says, sounding less cranky. “But how?”

“Belter trick. You saw the Cat from the outside, right? Or pictures? Long thin cylinder in back, divided into decks, like… uh, pine-apple rings, around the drive tunnel. Then a short fat one up front, that's the cargo hold. Whole thing looks like a mushroom, yeah?”

“Yes. And?”

“Okay, so most of the mass is in the cargo hold. Makes it real maneuverable. Easy to change the heading by kicking the tail out. But it also means it's real easy to spin the whole crew cylinder around the cargo hold. So, like a ring, but no rim and just one spoke.”

“So we're… what, just tumbling end over end right now?”

“Exactly. Go to the observation deck, and you'll see stars spinning past. Should be—lessee, exactly point two gees down there. Little less up here.”

“So there's going to be different level of gravity on each deck? That's inconvenient. Why didn't the designer just put in a ring or a pivot system?”

“Hehhehe. Designer? You're lookin' at him, Princess. Dad and I just welded some shit together and put in what we needed. Used to run on hydrox thrust before we retrofitted in the fusion drive. The whole spinning thing was something we worked out so we didn't have to be weightless for months while we were flying, or working a rock.”

I shoot her a grin over my shoulder. She looks disturbed, if a little less queasy.

“So, I'm flying to the outer solar system in a do-it-yourself project?”

“Hey, you picked the ship, kiddo. Shoulda done your research if you didn't want to fly in a Frankenstein.”

“Monster.”

Huh? Is she calling me a… no. Didn't sound like an accusation. “What?”

“You mean Frankstein's monster. Frankenstein was the name of the doctor.”

“Whatever. Point is, Belters improvise. We make stuff work. We ain't got luxury space yachts and we don't need 'em.”

I'm grinning now, pleased with myself, but when I climb out of the chair and turn to face her, she's not looking happy. She's making that fish-mouth expression of disapproval again. Oh, for fuck's sake.

“What is it now?”

“Don't you ever get tired of it?”

“Huh? Tired of what? Improvisation? Adaptability? Not being rich and useless?”

“No, your whole Belter facade. Talking about 'we,' and 'your people' all the time. The haircut. The tattoos. The tuvo music. Belter this, Belter that. Going on about how oppressed you all are. Mr. Working Class Hero.”

She waves a hand in my direction, taking in the whole of me as Exhibit A.

“You're not a Belter… you grew up on Venus. You're barely over six feet tall. Like it or not, that makes you a Flatlander like me. And as for being working class, your father was a CEO, for heaven's sake.”

“Princess, my dad had a pair of secondhand hulls and a work crew of like twenty-five dudes. Your family owns Arachne, Europa, half of Mars, the biggest shipbuilding company in existence, a big chunk of the Starlight Coalition, and who knows what else. We're not the same.”

She does that thing she always does, cocking her head to one side like a kitten.

“Of course we're not. I'm educated, intelligent, and attractive, and I don't smell like engine grease. That's not my point. What I'm asking is why you pretend to be one of them. They're losers.”

“Princess, those losers are the reason you have air to breathe, water to drink, and steel to build your fancy habitats out of.”

“And what do they get for it? Not much. Why do you keep on with all this 'Belter pride' stuff? It doesn't make sense.”

“They—we—do something meaningful. Hard work that matters. You could maybe use a little bit of that in your life.”

“And you could use a reality check. Life is a game with winners and losers. And here you are, trying to put on this… this loser aesthetic. It's tacky, and it doesn't do a thing for you.”

“I don't care! These people are my friends, not fashion accessories! Would you just throw your family away if they were inconvenient for you?”

She cocks her head to the other side and pauses. “My family, ” she says, in a frosty tone, “has never been anything but inconvenient.”

Something unreadable crosses her face.

“You know what? Never mind. If you want to act trashy, go ahead. But turn your stupid music down,” she says, and stalks off towards the access ladder.

“You're welcome for the gravity!” I yell after her, but I don't know if she hears me before she drops down the shaft. She certainly doesn't answer.

I turn the tuvo back up.

“I am,” I declare, with a suitable pause for dramatic effect, “a genius.”

“Does this mean you fixed the drive?” Miranda asks.

She's running on the treadmill in the observation deck, pulled down onto it by a low-g bungie belt she's wearing over an emerald green workout outfit. Which looks like it would shrink to the size of an implant battery if it weren't occupied by Miranda. It doesn't leave much to the imagination, which isn't really necessary, because after months at space between this trip and the last, my imagination is energetic, ready to work, and not in need of help.

I wrench my eyes away. Does she do stuff like this on purpose? To taunt me?

Sweat drips off her and descends in slow motion. There's an overwhelming smell of vanilla and something like tropical flowers.

I unlock an Olympic-standard bar from the retention clamps on the gear rack, set it on the bench press station, start loading plates on it. Tungsten plates, the heavy ones, made special for low gravity.

“No. I have the new feed lines fabricated, but I still need to install them. What I mean is that I figured out how I'm going to get us to Sedna without being noticed.”

The whine of the treadmill cycles down. Miranda paces it as it comes to a stop, and turns to regard me with fading raccoon-ringed eyes, fumbling to unfasten the bungee cords.

“What, just like that? No more arguing? No complaints about how the plan is insane?”

“Different plan. Still insane. But your plan thought it was King Elvis of Fairyland. Mine just talks to trees. Anyway, we signed a contract. Word and hand on it. So I've worked out a way to give us a fighting chance.”

She doesn't answer, just turns away from me, grabs a hanging towel, starts sponging off her face and neck, bending over slightly. I just watch the view for a moment.

“Well?” she says.

“Well what?”

“Aren't you going to tell me this plan of yours?”

“Didn't know you were interested.”

She turns back, and I busy myself tightening down the bar clamps, then lie down on the bench and start building my position—back arched, legs tense and driving laterally, shoulder blades squeezed together.

Miranda sighs, sounding a bit theatrical. “Just tell me.”

I tighten my grip and press up, exhaling hard.

“We change course and… “

One.

“… head for Neptune….”

Two.

“… pulling one grav for about…”

Three.

“… six and half days accelerating…”

Four.

“… and four and a half decelerating….”

Five.

I rack the bar again, panting.

“…. make us look like… we're entering Neptune orbit… but the numbers are slightly off. Then we enter swing around Neptune, but accelerating hard instead of braking.”

I slide out from beneath the bar and sit up.

“So instead of entering a closed orbit, we slingshot right out, with the drive shut down. Now we're pointed at a Sedna intercept, and we just… coast our way there. No drive signature. Nothing to give us away. Just a tiny speck in an endless sky. Clear so far?”

She purses her lips. “Mostly.”

“That's the easy part. The hard part is getting out. Once we're done finding your Snark, and analyzing it or looting it, or whatever you plan to do, we're going to need to fire up the fusion drive, practically on the doorstep of that Starlight research facility. There's no way they miss that. But if we catch them napping, then we get enough of a head start, maybe get away clean. Maybe.”

“Just tell me how long.”

“About two weeks in one g acceleration, then a little less than four coasting along with spin gravity, with some short bursts of hard acceleration in between. That's all you really need to know.”

“Six weeks??”

“Yeah, about six in total. Why are you giving me that look?”

“My plan got us there in twenty-five days, dead.”

“Your plan got us there in twenty-five days and dead. I told you that.”

“Yes, yes, I understand, but six weeks? Really?”

“We're going to the edge of civilization, Princess. It's gonna take a tick or three. So, like it or not, and I'm under no illusion that you do you, we're stuck here together 'til then. After that we try not to get killed. And if we manage that, we need another three weeks and change to come back. Space is big, see?”

“Yes, I know, but that's too long. Can't we shave anything off?”

“This is the shaved-off version. It's only sixteen days slower and, yes, before you ask, that is the actual best I can do. So I know you don't like it here, but you're going to have to just deal, okay?”

“It's not about having about having to wait, it's… “

She stops, makes an exasperated noise, tries again.

“Look, sixteen extra days is sixteen days in which someone else could spot those neutrino emissions and trace the source of the signal. We've got to get there before—”

“That's the best I can do. The best anyone could do. I don't know anyone who could pull off a better piece of navigation.”

She's biting gently at one corner of her lower lip, and doesn't look happy.

“If it makes you feel better, I don't think it'll make a difference. Thing's been there for thousands of years, right?”

She drapes the towel over her shoulders, and sits down heavily on the bench I just vacated, leaving a film of sweat. I'm expecting a glare, but all she looks is… doubtful.

“We don't know that.”

“Okay, we can't prove that, but I don't think it flew in last Tuesday. That signal data the construct found it in was at least a couple years old, right? Look, there's no sense fussing about it. It's not under our control. Anyway, you need to give me access to the computer so I can lay the course in.”

“Nothing doing. You walk me through it, I'll punch it into the autopilot.”

I shoot her a significant look, but she just meets it with lemur-eyed innocence.

“Princess, we have a contract now. So how about you just let me do my fucking job?”

Great. Me and my mouth. Now she's just going to snap back at me, and we're going to get in another pointless argument. We just keep going around in circles like this, but I can't help it. Her arrogance, her sheer level of entitlement, just makes my blood boil every time.

But she doesn't snap back. She doesn't say anything. She just looks… tired.

Then she stands up, drops the towel on the floor without bothering to wipe the film of her sweat from my bench press station, and reaches up towards me…

Here comes the accusing finger in my face. Here comes the rant about… something. Here comes another—

She lays her hand flat on my chest. Gently.

What the…?

“Because I can't trust you,” she says, softly. “You almost murdered me in that airlock, and I don't know what you would have done if killing me wouldn't have stranded you here in space. You said it yourself. Mutually Assured Destruction. It's the only thing that's keeping us from screwing each other at the first opportunity that we get.

“So, no, I can't let you at the computer system. I don't know what you might do. You'll just have to talk me through inputting your course, then check my work before we actually fire the engines. Okay, ah, 'stet'?”

Bugger. She's got a point. I know she can trust me, but how could I prove that to… No. Wait. She can't trust me, can she?

Because I'm lying to her.

I signed her contract and laid out this course, and it's plausible, it's believable, it looks like a diligent effort. But it's all a lie. A slingshot maneuver around Neptune could easily put us on the course to Sedna. But if I decelerate enough, it could also swing us clear around, point us at the inner system. And what's really important about Neptune is that it will take us eleven days to get there.

Eleven days for me to prepare. Eleven days to carry out Leela's plan.

“Marcus?”

She's looking up at me with those giant eyes. Expectant. What does she want me to say?

“Yeah, stet.” I grumble.

She takes her hand away, turns to go, leaving the towel heaped on the floor, like she's forgotten there aren't any servants around here to pick up after her. I can't help but watch her walk away.

“You should have just asked, you know,” I call after her.

Halfway up the ladder, she turns her head to look at me. Black hair cascades sideways, rippling in slow motion.

“What?”

“Asked me if I wanted to come. Told me the whole story and asked.”

“But you think the plan is suicide,” she says. “You keep saying so.”

“Your plan was suicide. Mine's just Russian roulette. And… you were right. I do need the money. I'd have complained a lot, but, in the end, I'd have gone for it.”

“That's… I mean, okay, you can say that, but… even if it's true, how could I possibly have known? What if you'd turned me in? Sold the information to Starlight? I couldn't have stopped that from happening. So how could I possibly have trusted you?”

You can't, Princess. You can't trust me. Because I'm going to betray you. I'm going to do the one thing Belters never do. I'm going to break a sworn contact. The moment I have control of the Cat, back to Mars you go, furious but alive. And out of my life forever.

Something is clawing at the back of my brain.

Shut up, Dad. Leave me alone. You're dead, okay?

And I have to live.

Miranda is still staring at me, like she expected an answer, but then she just shakes her head.

“No,” she sighs. “This is what we're stuck with. Let's get that course laid in. Meet me on the bridge in twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“I need a shower,” she says, and climbs the ladder again. My eyes track her pert little butt until it vanishes out of sight. Damn. This is just getting worse and worse. I need her out of here before I do something stupid.

Maybe I'll finish the rest of my sets. Distract myself.

The bench still smells like vanilla. Who the hell wears perfume to work out?

I push the goggles back on my forehead and turn off the TIG torch, check the bead. Even all the way around.

“There,” I say, “should hold. Fuel feed rate might have some minor instability, but I think the computer can compensate. Just three more to do, and I can flush the lines, run diagnostics, and get us on our way.”

I grab the next section of pipe, wrestle it into position.

“On our way to where, Marcus?” asks Leela, from somewhere behind me. I imagine her back off the platform scaffold, floating in the midst of the hold, but whether she's really there is kinda one of those tree-falls-in-the-forest questions that's really just quibbling about the definitions of words. Her avatar is only rendered if I turn and look in that direction.

It works for conversing, though. That's enough for me.

“You're still not going through with this, right?” she asks, “I mean, I looked at the recordings again, and you were arguing for it pretty hard.”

“Yeah, I… ah, kinda got carried away talking to her,” I say, lowering my voice. She's walked in on me talking to Leela once.

“You don't have to whisper,” Leela says. “She's in her cabin.”

“Dad's cabin.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean. Her heart rate's jumped up kinda high, but that's happened several times and she hasn't come out. Think she likes scary movies, or something. Go on.”

I pull my goggles down again, and bend to my work. Welding occupies the hands and eyes, leaves the mind free. I focus on the tiny, bright world in front of my eyes, moving a white-hot bead of metal slowly around the gap.

“It was the equal share thing. Guess I got that from my dad. He talked about ownership a lot, about his plans for us. Said the reason most people spend their whole lives making someone else rich is that they sell their time. Get paid for the hours they spend on the job.”

I back off, let the bead cool a bit, start on the other side.

“See, if you're running a business, and you make some money, you can reinvest it. Buy more equipment, hire more people. Scale up. But if you're selling your time, no matter how much money you earn, you can't buy more time to sell. It doesn't scale.”

I survey the finished weld, nod, look at the other end of the feed line. There's a little bit of a gap. Gonna have to clamp it in place a bit better before I start.

“That's why he started Warnoc Engineering. Put all his savings into it. Left his job on Venus to move to the belt. Mom was out of the picture by that time, so I lived with my aunt and uncle until I was ready to join him.”

There. That should hold the joint. I fire up the torch again.

“Worked okay, until we—until I—had the idea to lease a fusion drive for the White Cat.”

I finish the pipe, inspect it, pick up the last one.

“And you know how that worked out. SpaceX fuc—ah, cheated—us, and here I am. So, no, I'm not gonna stick my hand back in the same exhaust port twice.”

I apply the torch again.

“She's not really involved with SpaceX, you know.”

“What?”

“Doc—uh, I mean, Miranda. She's not running the company. That's one of her uncles. And she has a couple cousins on the board of directors. But she just does medical research.”

Done with that end of the pipe. One more…

“No, I didn't mean just them specifically. I meant, like, the super-rich. The people on top. They're always the same. History's kinda like that. Always the poor people getting fu… exploited, and the rich ones getting ahead. We left Earth, and it didn't change, we got rid of governments, and it still didn't change. Just a different set of ass…inine people pulling the strings, I suppose. Just human nature.”

Finished. I shut off the torch, start removing work clamps.

“Well, if I ever have kids, I don't aim for them to be seven foot six, living in a tin can, and only seeing trees in virtual reality.”

Done breaking down. I finish stowing my tools in the gear bag I brought from the machine shop. Time to head back.

“Dunno quite where you fit into all this. Dunno what an AI wants or needs, really. Guess you might not, either, seeing as you only found out a couple of days ago that you—well, you know. But if you figure it out, lemme know.”

I sling the gear bag over my shoulder, wrestle the welding rig into the strap. Would be awkward to carry all this if I weren't too close to the center of mass for spin gravity to work.

“Anyway, I gotta go purge the lines back to the fuel tanks, then start diagnostics running. Should be able to fire up the drives in twelve hours if everything goes well. Get us pointed at Neptune. You want anything, say the word.”

“Ah, Marcus… we don't have to stop talking just because you're leaving the room. I sort of don't really have a location, you know.”

“Uh, yeah, kiddo, I know. That was my polite way of saying I wanna be by myself for a while.”

“Oh! Sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“Relax, you're fine. I just wanna think, that's all. She still in her, ah…”

“Yeah, there's no cameras in there, but she hasn't come out.”

Leela's avatar vanishes with a nod and smile as I push off the platform, trailing gear, headed for the base of the spindle, and the airlock door.

Not that I actually get any alone time, of course. I've stashed the gear on the workshop level, and I'm sliding down the ladder —easiest way to descend in microgravity—when a dainty, manicured hand reaches around the cabin level hatchway and grabs my shirt collar. I'm tempted to just let go of the ladder and let Miranda try to hold me up, but up here I probably only weigh about twelve kilos and she just might be able to do it. I plant both feet on the ladder instead.

“Is there something,” I ask, turning to face her in the doorway, “that you philosophically object to about the concept of 'excuse me,' or just 'hello'?”

“Did you think I wouldn't find out?” she asks, not removing her hand from my shirt.

Ice floods my arteries. What has she…?

No, wait. I know this trick. I'm supposed to assume she knows everything and confess. I reach up and pinch her hand between my fingers, gently peel it off. It's soft to the touch, faintly cool, and I can never get used to just how small she is.

“Find out what?”

She—shivers?—for a moment, and pulls her hand back, sharply, like I'm some tourist hustler on the Europan docks who's just called her “pretty lady” and tried to read her palm. Hey, you grabbed me first, Princess.

“Oh, come on,” she says, exasperated. “I just saw you. You never took the cameras down.”

Oh, shit. The cameras. Of course I didn't. They're Leela's eyes. They—

They're her eyes, too.

Damn. I'm an idiot. Okay, brazen it out. Admit nothing. Find out what she knows.

“You saw me repairing the engine?” I shoot her a flat look. “That was kinda the whole plan, Miranda. I still have some work to do testing and spinning up the drive, but—”

“Oh, come on, Marcus, don't play dumb. That was half a conversation, and we're light hours away from anyone else you could talk to in real time. How long has it been awake?”

She's rubbing her hand where I touched it, like she's trying to rub off boy cooties or greasy peasant dirt.

“It?” I ask, sounding kinda stupid even in my own ears, but Leela has appeared behind her and is making throat-cutting gestures with the blade of one hand, and I'm not understanding what the hell it is she wants me to do—shut up? I'm not the one talking.

“Yes, it,” Miranda says. “The construct? Hello?”

Fuck it.

“She.”

“What?”

“She, not it. She's been awake the whole time. And she prefers the name 'Leela.'”

“What? Marcus, don't tell her—”

“I don't care what it—”

“—that I'm here! She'll—”

“—wants to call itself. Why didn't you tell me that—”

“—never leave me alone! Tell her I—”

“—she was awake. Tell her that—”

“—don't want to talk to—”

I slam the side of the access tunnel with an open hand. It rings like a giant bell.

“Will you both just shut the hell up?”

Silence. Two sets of bright-colored eyes blink at me in shock.

“Look, Leela, you don't have to talk to her if you don't want. But you need to stop being afraid of her. Princess, Leela isn't on your payroll, so if you want something from her, you're going to have to start treating her like a person instead of something you own.”

“Well, technically, the hardware belongs to—”

“That doesn't make her your doll.”

Something like a wince crosses her face, briefly, then vanishes, replaced by a scornfully curled lip. “You and your very selective scruples,” she sneers, “Do you have any idea how much work and how many millions of—”

“Princess, I'm not talking about scruples,” I say, ignoring Leela's exaggerated gagging-herself-with-two-fingers gesture, “I'm talking about incentives. Just because Daddy spent a lot of money doesn't give her any good reason to obey you. Even expensive constructs want to live their own lives.”

Miranda opens her mouth. Then shuts it again. Then opens it. But nothing comes out.

“You just think…” she begins, in a funny, hoarse sort of whisper, and then stops again. “You just think you have all the answers…you…”

I'm staring, waiting for her to make sense.

“It's different than that!” she snaps, almost yelling, and before I can gather my wits to ask her what is supposed to be different than what, she's turning on one heel, fleeing, and I'm talking to her retreating back.

“Princess?”

“Leave me alone!”

Dad's cabin hatch slams behind her. Leela and I are just left staring at each other. In silence.

“Well,” I finally say, “that was weird. Any idea what she was on about?”

“No. Do you think she heard…?” Leela asks, and then trails off. Her meaning is clear enough. We've discussed our little conspiracy all over the ship, without a second thought. Stupid.

I shake my head. “We'd know. She'd…”

I stop. She'd have thrown a tantrum the instant she found out. We got lucky. But I can't say that out loud, now, can I? Instead, I wave my finger at the air, pointing around us. Cameras.

“Yeah,” says Leela. “I'll try to cut off her access.”

Whatever Miranda's deal was, there's no evidence of it of three hours later, when I slide down the ladder and into the observation deck. I have no idea what I've walked in on, but she's wearing something in between workout clothes and a… I dunno, a costume of some sort?

“Okay,” I say, “drive pre-checks are running now. That'll take some time. Then we can burn for Neptune and be back on course for Sedna, so once that happens, we'll have a lot of prep to do to get ready. The first thing you're gonna have to do is start working out.”

“I work out. You've seen me work out.”

Miranda postures up, preening, and then gives a small bounce into the air, twirling like a ballerina. In the one-fifth gravity of the observation deck, she manages to complete two full rotations before touching down again, her flouncy blue skirt and jet-black hair swirling out in showy arcs, her form picture perfect. She's even got the steepled arms right.

Against the starfield background of the windows behind and beneath her, she really makes the whole effect work. Rogue scraps of electricity scamper up and down my spine.

“Do I look like someone who doesn't work out?” she asks, pointed.

“You look like an incredibly vain girl with parents rich enough to rig the genetic lottery for her, and then pay for ballet lessons. I don't mean working out the way you do it. I mean lifting weights.”

I wave my hand toward the bench press station, the squat rack, the lat machine.

“I'm not vain, I just know what I look like. You should try that, too. Wear tighter shirts. Anyway, I prefer cardio.”

“I don't care what you prefer. We're going to spend almost a month in low g. Why are you making that face?”

“I don't want to get all… you know. Bulky.”

“What, are you planning to accidentally take a bunch of steroids for years? Doesn't happen by accident. Didn't you learn about this in med school?”

“I studied neurology, not glorified sports coaching,” she lilts, bouncing again with something like restless energy, pointing a toe. “Weightlifting is for big sweaty guys.”

“Okay, fine. By the power vested in me as representative of the Big Sweaty Guys' Union, Local Thirty-Nine, I hereby give you permission to pick up heavy objects and put them down. We'll start you with weights that are right for your size. I can't have you losing muscle mass and bone density. And we also need to start your vacuum ops training.”

“And what all,” she asks with another bounce that I'm trying very hard not to find distracting, “does that involve?”

“First, you're going to learn how to wear a spacesuit. How it works, how to put it on, how to do your safety checks, and so on. Maybe they taught you something when they sold you the thing, but I dunno what, so we're going over it all from scratch.

“Then, you can start to learn basic EVA operations, emergency procedures, tether management, comms protocol. Lotsa stuff. After that, it's a brief walk out on the hull, to see if you've got all that down, then you start learning thrust packs and how to maneuver. Followed by a tethered spacewalk. Oh, and you're going to need a haircut.”

Miranda freezes, midway through another dancer's pose, and slowly descends to the deck with a thump and a stumble. Her lips just stay parted slightly, as if to speak, but nothing comes out. She's giving me a look.

“What?”

“No.”

She says it conversationally, as if I've just asked her whether she's changed her mind about tuvo music, or if she's eaten yet.

“Wait, what do you mean, 'no'?”

She plants her hands on her hips, all traces of bouncy showoff dance moves utterly banished. “I mean,” she says, “No. That's not happening. Just in case you weren't joking. Are you joking? You better be joking.”

“I'm not joking. You can't wear a vacsuit with hair like that.”

“I'll just tuck it inside,” she replies, airily.

“No, you won't. That's not how vacsuits work. They don't seal all the way around you. Your skin doesn't actually need air at all, so the suit doesn't hold in any. It's just some radiation shielding on top of a cooling system, and a layer that just squeezes you enough to match your blood pressure. The only part that actually seals is around your head.”

“So?”

“So you can't run your hair through the neck of the suit. It'll break the seal.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, that's why Belter haircuts are so short. C'mon, have a seat on that bench there. I'll make it quick.” I pull the velcro of the thigh pocket on my coverall, fish out the clippers.

“Oh, no you won't.” She backs away from me, shaking her head, palms up as if to ward me off. I take a step forward after her.

“Oh, come on. Didn't you understand a word I said? This isn't optional.”

“Marcus Warnoc, you do not understand the first thing about girls if you think I'm going to let you cut off all my hair.” She takes another step back, and I chase her. Again.

“C'mon, be reasonable. Belter girls do this all the time.”

She darts around the treadmill, puts it between us. I walk around it to the left, but she dances back the opposite way, like we're Earth kids chasing each other around a tree. I don't know what the hell I'm even going to do if I catch her. Pin her down and shave her head, or something?

“I'm not a Belter girl—”

“I can see that,” I say, faking one way and then darting around the other.

“—and I will murder you in your sleep if you touch my hair,” she says, dodging my grabbing hand. I try the other way, and she scurries backwards again.

Wait. She's actually grinning. Like it's a game. Like she's having fun. And did she just… giggle? Yes. Yes, she did.

I stop, planting both hands on the treadmill's aluminum handrail. Maybe I can just heave it out of the way? Nah. It's bolted down. Gonna have to dive across it or talk her into cooperating.

“Wait a second, here. This is your big project we're going after. Your Snark. The Builder's colony ship, you said. Most important archaeological… find… thing… since… well, ever. And now you're worried about your hair?”

“Well, you wouldn't understand, you're not a girl, and you're ugly anyway. Just… ah… hold on a minute, okay?”

My next lunge stops dead. “Ugly?”

She seizes the moment, breaks past me and makes a beeline for the access ladder. Looks like she's starting to learn how to run in low gravity without tipping over.

“Ugly?”

But I'm speaking only to a fleeting glimpse of her shapely little legs vanishing up into the next deck.

“Spoiled rotten brat,” I grumble.

“Big dumb ape!” she shoots back, from above, with what I could swear is another laugh. And then she's gone.

Minutes tick by. Should I go after her? Weird little moments of levity aside, we do have to get this done. But I don't move. I ponder the ghost of my reflection in the diamond laminate bay window. I'm not waiting for her. I'm not.

Just thinking.

How am I going to get this privileged, pampered girl ready for vacuum work? We may not be actually going to Sedna—gods help us if we were—but I do have to get her outside the ship, or Leela's plan won't work.

And that needs to happen before we get to Neptune.

How am I going to get her to cut her damn hair?

You know, I don't think my reflection is… ugly. Big ape, yeah, okay. Got me there. But… ugly? The Belter girls never complained. Never really commented on anything but all the muscles, and my Flatlander height. Maybe she was joking. Or she's just spent most of her life around genetwists and surgically enhanced oligarchs. Ridiculously elevated standards. Yeah, that's probably it.

“Ta-da!”

Well, she sounds pleased with herself. Might as well turn around and see what this fresh madness is all about.

Oh.

She's changed into a simple Belter-style shipboard coverall, she's got some kind of case under her arm, and she's—

Holy crap. She's cut her hair herself. No, wait, she hasn't, it's all piled on top of her head, like she's wearing a circlet of intricate braids. There's not a loose strand below her neck or shoulders.

“How?”

“What, you've never heard of an updo? You really should learn the first thing about girls before you start making crazy demands, you know.”

“It was almost down to your butt! And now it's—”

“Yes, that's why we call it an updo. Specifically, it's a Dutch braid crown. I just started with some backcombing, did two Dutch braids, then teased them out to build volume—”

“Wait, don't tell me. I understand absolutely nothing about this, and I'm happy that way.”

“Now you know how I feel when you talk about gravity slingshot maneuvers. Anyway, will this do? It should be able to fit into a helmet, right?”

“Self-tensioning hood. We don't use rigid helmets anymore. But, yeah, that might actually just work. We'll test the hell out of it in the airlock before I let you even think about opening the outer door. Vacuum exposure on the face is no joke.”

“From a little strand of hair?” she asks, incredulous.

“It can be almost anything. You need to take this seriously. Ask me how I know.”

She crinkles her perfectly-sculpted eyebrows at me, and then they pop up again as her gaze shifts right, just a fraction.

“Oh. Your eye?” Her voice is funny, and for a moment I almost think it sounds sympathetic. Yeah, sure. Likely story.

“Yeah my fucking eye. So we are going to put you in an industrial strength hairnet, triple check all the hood seals, then seal test three times at half an atmo. Each and every single time you step through that lock. You willing to put up with all that? No complaining?”

“If it'll stop you chasing me around with clippers, you barbarian. I like my hair.”

“Yeah, I can see that, ” I reply, pocketing the device in question, and holding my hands up, fingers spread to show their complete innocence of clippers, shears, razors, or other implements of hair destruction.

I like her hair, too. But I will not admit that. Death first.

“Is that your suit there in the case?” I ask.

She nods.

“Okay, I'll unpack it and give it a once over, you strip. Then we'll teach you how to put it on properly.”

”Strip?”

“Yeah, it's gotta go up against your skin.”

“And you think you're going to watch?”

I wonder what happened to Little Miss Don't-I-Look-Like-I-Work-Out-a-Lot. Flatlander modesty. Figures. Comes from not living packed together in economy-built spacecraft.

“Look,” I say, “how else am I supposed to teach you how to get into the thing? You're going to need help putting it on at first. You are wearing underwear, right?”

“Of course I am! But… couldn't we… oh, hell… can't you just turn your back?”

“What, and then help you into it with my eyes shut?” I say, and sigh. At least she's not being nasty, even if the playful stuff is kinda weird. If she's going to have mood swings, I might as well keep this particular one going if I can.

“Look, Princess, I know this isn't comfortable. I know you're used to a lot more privacy and space. I know everything about this trip sucks compared to what you're probably used to… the food, the cabins, the furniture, whatever. But this whole thing was your idea, and this is what it's going to take. Stet?”

Her gaze, her look of consternation, is—earnest.

“I know,” she says, “I'm not stupid. I get it. Stuff like this is what your life is like. Wearing space suits. Drilling rocks in vacuum. Having to cut off your hair. No gravity. No privacy. But that's normal for you. You're used to it. I'm not. “

No, Princess, being poor sucks for everyone. For some of us, it just isn't a choice.

“I know I have to get this over with, but… just give me a little space, okay? I… don't like being looked at.”

She doesn't like being “looked at.” She was preening and showing off not five minutes ago.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

This is going to be a very long trip.

I unclip the voltmeter from the main terminals on the drive spindle and stash it in my gear bag, then fly down to the scaffold platform, hand over hand. I loop a length of nylon strap around a vertical post, tie it into my rigger's belt. Startup could be rough. Can't be too cautious.

“Okay, I'm braced for acceleration. You can go ahead and enable the drive program now.”

“Are you sure about this?” Miranda's voice sounds different over the neural lace linkup… purer, more resonant. The pickup is coming off her auditory nerve, so I'm hearing it with all the bone conduction, the way it sounds to her. I usually don't like to jack across with strangers. Too intimate, feels like being in each other's heads. Of course, Miranda isn't exactly a stranger, is she?

And I have to admit her voice is—no, don't finish that thought.

“What do you mean, am I sure about this? I'm here, aren't I?”

“That's the point. You're right next to the drive. If something goes wrong…”

“It's a nuclear fusion reactor, Princess. They don't go wrong 'a little bit.' If everything's not squared away, it'll either fail gracefully and shut itself down, or it'll smear us both across a hundred cubic kilometers of sky. Nothing in between.”

“Oh. Okay. Ah… just out of curiosity… what are the odds on option two?”

“Relax. I don't think it's possible. I didn't mess with the field emitters or cooling system, just the fuel feeds. Trip shutdown's the worst we could possibly expect. You can go ahead and enable the program.”

“Okay. It's counting down. Thirty seconds to spinup. I'm seeing diagnostic log messages but no red indicators.”

“Okay, let me know if you get any alarms,” I say, sitting back to watch the spindle. In a few moments, the movement begins, so gradually that I'm not sure if it's there at first, but faster, and then, finally, full speed, accompanied by the familiar deep, throbbing, chest vibrating hum, loud at first, then smoothing out and fading.

“I have what looks like good spinup up here. Any trip alerts?”

“I'm getting a, ah, feed rate warning on lines three and four. The computer says it's putting them on reserve, but it's not shutting down. Can it run on just the others?”

“Yeah, there's some redundancy. I'll check back on them when we cut the drive for your first spacewalk. How many seconds until the—”

The scaffold platform smacks me in the ass. It's almost impossible to go smoothly from weightless to one gravity unless you're strapped in, but this is unusually clumsy for me. I'm off my game, or distracted, or something.

The drive looks to be ticking over smoothly, though. Steady rotation, even, soft hum, no warning lights.

“Well, there it goes. Okay, Princess, looks like we're good down here. Check the nav plotter, are we on course?”

“Yes. It says, ah… five days, twenty-two hours and some minutes until our turnaround point.”

“Great. That's a wrap, then. Told you I could get us going. And you're welcome.”

Her sigh of—I don't know, exasperation, maybe—sounds strange inside my head. “I wasn't going to thank you for fixing a problem you caused in the first place,” she says.

“Would that be before or after you blackmailed me and hijacked my ship?”

There's a click as she closes the channel. We may be working together now, but our list of grievances against each other has faded less than the bruises on her face and neck, or the ones on my back and sides. Eleven days until we reach Neptune. This is gonna suck.

At least we've stopped trying to kill each other. Maybe. For now.

I sit cross-legged on the platform for a moment, shaking out my shoulders, massaging my neck and face. Things tend to get puffy and stiff in zero-g. Okay, better climb down carefully. I haven't been in full gravity for a while, and it's not unheard of to get confused adapting to a new gravity level, to drop things, or let go of ladders and expect to hang in the air.

That would be the most embarrassing broken leg ever. At least there's a doctor on board.

I just hope I never need her help