Minerva, come back.
I shake my head in amazement. Two years of isolation in a far-flung spot of the solar system, improbable survivalin the face of starvation and deprivation, and does she send out a moody whining session, like I probably would? No, she’s giving instructions on how we can survive our own voyage long enough to save her. It’s just soMinerva. And her message was clear: we need to get theCoordinated Endeavorin perfect shape.
“Send the transmission along to Kodiak, if you haven’t already,” I call to OS as I dash to my feet. “I’m recording a message for you to send on repeat back to Minerva, and then I’m off to lubricate that fucking med bay door.”
_-* Tasks Remaining: 180 *-_
“Minerva,” I sing to myself as I work all afternoon. “Minnie! Minerva!”
It takes full-fledged hunger pangs for me to realize how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. I send a message to Kodiak as I pick out my dinner. “It’s Friday night, and my sister is alive. Come over. We’re celebrating. I won’t take no for an answer.”
But turns out I will take no for an answer, because Kodiak doesn’t show up. It doesn’t really faze me, though. While I eat—manicotti, of course—I watch Minerva’s new transmission on loop.
As I bed down that night, I whisper her name.
Minerva. Minerva is alive.
Alive!
I’ll get this ship into the best condition it’s ever been in.
_-* Tasks Remaining: 135 *-_
I invite Kodiak to join me for a meal every day or so, but he never responds. He doesn’t even acknowledge the Minerva transmission.
Weeks go by without a word from him. I see him every once in a while, through the windows at the top of his half of the ship, but that’s the extent of it. Sometimes items will be checked off my to-do list before I’ve had a chance to work on them, so I know roughly what he’s been up to. But for the most part, I’m on my own.
The solar storm is back to raging, keeping our link with Earth down. I knew that once we were this far away from home, communication would become hit or miss. I’m prepared to manage on my own for as long as need be. OS promises that there’s no solar noise preventing transmissions from Minerva’s direction, but with her talk about her last battery, I’m not holding my breath that she’ll be able to send one.
But she’s alive!
That fact makes me work tirelessly. The five spare Rovers have dozens of problems each, from wiring to firmware. We must have hit an electrical field at some point, because it should take decades for any one machine to accumulate this much wrongness.
At the end of the workday, I slump down to my polycarb-pouch meal, exhausted. It would be nice to have a body beside mine. I like my private time as much as anyone else, but alone is no way to spend a life.
“Kodiak Celius,” I whisper to myself. I wrap my arms around my torso, tap my own shoulders, pretend my fingers are his. “Kodiak Celius.” He’s almost an abstraction at this point. But the message from Minerva has reminded me what it’s like to have someone near, someone who cares about you. I’d like Kodiak to make me know that I exist. Kissing him would be a way to do that.
The next morning I do my circuit of the windows, and spy him at his treadmill. To prevent himself from sweating in his suits, I guess, he works out in his shapeless Dimokratía briefs.
I glimpse him, and then force my gaze away to give him privacy. Still, that doesn’t stop me from playing through that flash image of him in my mind. I travel over a top-down view of legs and arms and hips, of the swirl at the top of his head where his thick hair starts. I wonder howit would feel under my fingers, glossy and strong. He’s wrapped a rubber belt around his hips and banded it to the treadmill to increase the resistance on his body. Even though we have Earth gravity on our ships and don’t need to worry about muscle and ligament loss as much as spacefarers in zero g do, he’s tethered himself. I guess he likes to strain, shoulders and arms fighting the pull.
Movement in my peripheral vision brings me glancing again. Exhausted, Kodiak slows the machine to a stop and unwraps the resistance bands from around his waist. He steps off, using a rag to wipe down his neck and chest. I look away again, but can’t resist returning my eyes before he’s done. When I do, he’s looking up across the revolving stars. Right at me. He is a glowburst of colors, the browns and pinks of human against white hull and black void.
I give a small wave. It’s a feeble and weird movement, but feeble and weird are the best a human body can manage around here.
Kodiak doesn’t move out of view. He doesn’t make an angry gesture. He just keeps toweling himself off.
Eventually he cocks his head, like he’s struggling to hear something. He steps to one side and taps away at his console. It’s the same design as mine—even with the cold war, tech between Earth’s remaining two countries has a porous boundary. I’ve settled in to watching him when he suddenly looks across at me again, wags one finger in the air. Notsure what he means by that.
His voice patches through. I find myself cringing at the sound of it, expecting coldness. But instead he looks worried, hands on his hips. He stares straight up at me and speaks. “Your sister’s transmission has me working double time.”
“Me too.”
“I’m onto the external tasks, which means I’ve got to go on a spacewalk,” he says. “I need you to suit up too, in case anything goes wrong.”
“What tasks?”
No answer. Why should I expect more?
