“I definitely need Kodiak in on this,” I say, already heading toward the orange portal.
“Are you concerned about the polycarb quantities?” OS asks. “Don’t worry. We won’t run out. The printing material is formed from the hydrocarbons you emit into the toilet, after they’ve been purified and deodorized.”
The portal is closed. “Kodiak,” I say as I pound on it. “Kodiak, I need you!”
There’s no answer. I’m not even sure if he can hear my hammering through the thick material. I kick the orange portal, time and again. “Kodiak!”
Maybe he’s dead asleep.
I examine the panel clutched in my hand, its corner covered in dried blood, blood that came from an impact hard enough to damage ship-grade material. A fatal impact?
I cup my hands against the door. “Kodiak, please. Did you... bleed in my half of the ship?”
Now I’ve given my suspicions away to OS. I wait for Rover to race in, to jolt me or hammer me or stick a syringe in me, I don’t know.
But OS is quiet. The ship is quiet, except for the womblike hum of its engines.
I hear thudding from the other side of the orange portal, and stagger to my feet as it opens. Kodiak stands at the other side, in his sleeping shorts and tank top, hair sticking up in five different directions. It would be adorable if it weren’t for the fury in his eyes. “Why are you disturbing me? I told you not to disturb me unless it was an emergency.”
Then he sees my expression, and the fury drains.
_-* Tasks Remaining: 71 *-_
Kodiak’s lab is spare and gray. We hunch over a worktable while he rotates the damaged panel in his hands. Today hesmells like motor oil. It’s sort of exotic-erotic; my Cusk life has always kept me far from engines. “Blunt force damage,” he says. “And yes, I think you’re right, this is blood. Look how deep it is in the silver grooves, right where the panel was torn. It dried out a long time ago, and is black in the places most exposed to the air. And see this, here!”
Kodiak’s excitement is unsettling. He’s pointed to a chunk of something that is not blood, but is from a body. A piece of dried flesh. Hair attached, same walnut color as mine. “Have you tested this sample?” he asks.
“I don’t have that kind of equipment. Wait. Doyouhave that kind of equipment?”
Kodiak nods. “Dimokratía installed it for diagnosing what might have happened to Minerva. It’s not too sophisticated, but I could get some information.”
“What good would that do us?”
“That’s how we determine for sure that the blood doesn’t come from you or me,” Kodiak says.
“I’d remember hitting something that hard,” I scoff, rubbing my head. No dents.
“I’d also think that you’d remember taking off into space, and yet you have no recollection of that, either.”
I cross my arms. “How dare you!” I’m not sure if I’m playing the aristocrat offended by a plucky peasant, or if Iamthe aristocrat offended by a plucky peasant.
Kodiak continues to examine the panel. His moves aresurprisingly delicate, like he’s easing a precious painting out of its frame. “I can’t picture the panel’s position in the engine room passageway,” Kodiak says. “Could a spacefarer in zero g get up enough speed to really bang their head on it? Is that possible?”
“First of all, who the hell is this hypothetical spacefarer? Second, probably not. I can show you now if you want to see.”
“I know how observant you are,” Kodiak says. “I trust your description.”
Is he referring to me watching him? “I don’t need your compliments,” I huff. I immediately regret the tone. I’m scrambling to get back my power, in the stupidest and shallowest ways.
“We’ll need a sample of your blood,” Kodiak says.
“I’m A-positive,” I say.
“I should have figured you’d be A-plus, Ambrose Cusk,” Kodiak says dryly. “But I can test for more than just the type.”
He draws a syringe out of a drawer, wraps an elastic around my arm, and delicately inserts the needle. We watch my blood rise in the clear cylinder. He removes the needle, and I treat the puncture with peroxide and a bandage.
“We don’t want a space infection,” Kodiak says.
