Читать книгу Noumenon Infinity - Marina Lostetter J. - Страница 13

The path from outside observer to Head of the “Littlest Convoy” (a nickname used both as an endearment and slight these days), felt longer than it had been, but by most measures was still shorter than it had the right to be.

All of the other mission leaders were gray by now, having devoted nearly the whole of their life’s work to this. Many were retired, and all but a couple had watched their ships disappear into the night.

Vanhi was still fresh, though. Not young by most standards, but nowhere near the end of her professional endeavors. For others, the P.U.M.s had been the entire book, but for her, the convoy was just a chapter, and an opening one at that. She’d taken up the reins as an outsider, not building from the ground up, but reassembling, reusing. It gave her a perspective the other heads didn’t have; she could be more objective, in a sense, as the convoy was not the only legacy she intended to forge for herself. It wasn’t even fully her idea—she wanted it, definitely, but she didn’t quite have the same level of emotional investment in her mission as others did in theirs. It was a job—an amazing job, but still a job, not a piece of herself. She knew there were plenty of colleagues that resented her position, and that made tomorrow’s “unveiling” all the more important.

The trip to the Moon had been a day’s jaunt—graviton-based systems were far quicker and more efficient than rockets—and she’d spent the evening in solitude, pouring over her speech notes while others wined and dined in the base’s mess hall.

Maranas Moon Base served as one of twenty in a network of staging grounds for the ships’ construction workers. Once the bases had served their function for the missions, they would be converted into colony habitats. The ships themselves were built and housed in construction yards set at two Lagrange points between the Earth and the Moon. On her ride out, Vanhi had caught a sharp zing of sunlight bouncing off something in the distance, and was sure she was looking at Twelve’s three ships. It was the same gleam that denoted a space station streaking across the sky on Arizona summer nights.

When she was sure the festivities had died down, and that all reasonable people had gone to bed, Vanhi left the base’s library. The room they’d allotted her was small and cramped—normally her favorite kind of working environment, but not this evening. She’d paced for most of the night, back and forth in front of the pressure-sealed shelves (the base’s collection of first edition books was one of its boasting points for intellectual tourists), repeating the key points of her speech over and over.

The base, though fifteen years old, still retained a strange, fresh-plastic scent. There was a sterile newness about it all, and an alien strangeness. It prickled her nerves.

The heels of her tennis shoes did not clop-clop-clop through the domed halls like pumps would have, which was a saving grace with her head already pounding. She needed some water, and at least four hours in snooze-town, and a big-ass breakfast before the press conference tomorrow.

C heard her mumbling about food. “There is a breakfast on tomorrow’s itinerary, though there is no indication of whether or not it will qualify as ‘big-ass.’”

Vanhi snickered as she slid her key card through the reader at an airlock door before proceeding into the next hall. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be happy to know idli is on the menu. I’ve noticed that, when it’s available, you choose to consume it as a first meal seventy-eight percent of the time.”

“Are they serving it with sambar?”

“No. Coconut chutney.”

“Monsters.”

She traversed the majority of the hall before the airlock she’d come through hissed open once more. Figuring it was none of her business, Vanhi didn’t turn to see who else was keeping late hours.

Their shoes made a sharp tit-tat on the cement floor.

The noise was irritating—like a mouse scratching or a sink dripping—but she was only a few more hall lengths from her door, almost within sight of the narrow cot that took up most of her room. She was so ready for her head to hit the pillow.

But then the tit-tat of the stranger’s shoes picked up their pace. Vanhi’s heart rate jumped in response, matching the rhythm.

You’re on the freaking Moon, she reminded herself. This isn’t some dimly lit parking garage that anybody can slither into.

But she knew that stride, the focus of those steps. Every woman who’d ever been alone in an alleyway with a figure close behind knew those heavy, quick footfalls meant danger.

Her room lay one more hall away. Not far at all. She slipped her card through the next airlock reader, scurrying by, hoping the door would shut and the seal would take before her follower could slide in after.

No luck.

Almost there, almost there.

The footfalls trailing her came faster, fell heavier.

She picked up the pace in turn, heart thumping like timpani in her ears.

“Stop,” slurred a high-pitched voice behind her.

Vanhi did not stop. Her quick steps evolved into a jog.

Coming to her door, she took a breath, but did not look up. Sometimes not making eye contact was the key. Just get inside and everything will be fine.

She pressed her thumb to the ID pad, trying to keep calm. Trying to look calm.

“Unable to process, please try again,” chirped the lock.

She scraped her thumb down the textured paint of the hall wall, hoping.

“Unable to process, please try again.”

“Son of a—”

“You.”

It didn’t matter that Vanhi was prepared for the fingers digging into her arm. Didn’t matter that she knew she’d be spun—that immediately after she’d be pushed against the wall or yanked down the hall. Her gut still roiled at the audacity, sank like a stone because of the intrusion, burned like a coal knowing that no matter how prepared she was for an attack, she was never really prepared.

Her heart hammered in her ribs, and she drew in a sharp breath. A hot, quick flash of panic flared through her extremities as she tensed.

Her shoulder blades cracked solidly against the metal door as a woman trapped her against the frame. Vanhi could have fought back, could have struggled, but she wanted to de-escalate. Her blood thrummed in her body, flushed her cheeks, flooded her muscles. She bit back the immediate swell of rage, the urge to kick and punch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” the woman gritted out centimeters from Vanhi’s face, Australian accent heavy. Sour whiskey fumes rolled off her in waves. “But I have to know why. Why me? Why did you and Kaufman ruin my career, out of all the … What did I ever do to you?”

“I don’t know who you—” Vanhi stammered to a halt, realizing that wasn’t true. “Doctor Chappell?”

She was the xenobiologist in charge of the original Convoy Twelve mission. The one who’d falsified data.

A surge of anger roared through Vanhi’s arms. She shoved Dr. Chappell away, fuming. The larger woman stumbled into the far wall. “You’re not involved in the missions anymore, how did you get in here?”

The answer dangled from Chappell’s neck: a construction badge. Either she’d gotten a job as a ship builder, or she’d stolen the creds off some poor worker.

“Did you seriously come all the way from Earth to get in my face? You ruined your own damn career,” she said darkly.

C beeped from her purse. “Should I call security?”

“Absolutely,” Vanhi spat, turning to the door once more.

Dr. Chappell wailed, sliding heavily down the wall until she slumped in a pile of akimbo limbs. “It should be me giving that speech tomorrow. Me.”

“Yeah?” Vanhi kept her tone haughty, but she was rattled. She couldn’t keep her hand steady as she tried the lock again. “Maybe you shouldn’t have cooked your books, then.”

Thump.

Something large, but not weighty, struck Vanhi in the small of her back. For a moment, she froze, assessing the damage—but she wasn’t hurt. Holoflex-sheets now littered the hall. The manila folder they’d come in lay at Vanhi’s feet.

“How many times are you going to spew that shit line?” Chappell shouted. “You fucking liar!”

“That is not appropriate workplace language,” C chided.

Of course I get the confrontation with the psycho lady. Of course. Not Kaufman, oh, no. Because he’s the big important dude. Who wouldn’t choose to pick their fight with the little Indian woman instead?

His assigned rooms were just a hall over. Not far. Not far at all.

Vanhi’s door finally opened. She didn’t go inside.

“You know what?” she said, turning around.

Mascara ran down Dr. Chappell’s face.

“Screw you. Screw Kaufman. Screw everyone. I haven’t done a damn thing to you. So, screw off back to Earth.” She bent to swipe a sheet off the floor. “What even is this?” she demanded, creasing it in her fist. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

“They’re the original results of my study—not your doctored bullshit, which I have for comparison.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dr. Chappell gathered her legs under her, pushing herself upright, swaying like a rag doll from the waist up. Here on the base, the air was thin, the pressure low—it probably hadn’t taken more than a single shot of whatever she was drinking to get her in this state. “You and that figjam got ahold of my work—stole my work—and you’re going to stand there and deny it?”

A little seed—one that had long ago been buried in Vanhi’s gut—sprouted. Its little spring-green tendrils pushed up, up, budding leaves with labels on them: doubt and recognition.

“I don’t know where Kaufman found your original work, but he had a duty to expose you. You put all of us to shame.”

Chappell’s indignant “Ha!” echoed in the narrow hall. She shook her head, eyes rolling back to gaze forlornly at the ceiling. “You won’t even admit it to my face. Why did I think you would?”

The pressurized hiss of a heavy airtight door emanated from the far end of the hall, around the corner. Two men in gray camo approached—one wore a badge of the Mongolian Admiralty Enforcement, the other of the United States Coast Guard.

“English,” Vanhi said to them, preempting their request for the party’s common language.

“We received an automated call for aid,” said the Mongolian security guard.

Dr. Chappell rubbed her eyes, smearing away the streaks in her makeup. “Yeah, yeah. Throw me in the brig. Whatever, stickybeaks. This mongrel and her mongrel mentor keep ruining my life, what else is new?”

“You assaulted me,” Vanhi said.

“And I’ll face the damn consequences, unlike you.”

“Ma’am, we need you to submit to a sobriety test,” said the U.S. guard.

“Like it’s a crime to get legless when your life is stolen from you?”

Both guards tried to steady her when she took a step up and forward, but she batted them off. “I’m coming with you. I’m leaving her alone. Don’t you put hands on me.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to not be belligerent with us.”

“Doctor,” Vanhi said, not sure why their form of address bugged her. She never corrected anyone when they called her ma’am or miss. “She’s a doctor.”

“Shut up,” Chappell said, turning her back on Vanhi. “Take me to the brig, or whatever you’ve got up here. I don’t want to look at her anymore.”

Vanhi crouched again, sweeping the stray sheets into the manila folder. “Don’t forget your file.”

“Keep it,” she said. “Maybe if you stare at them long enough you’ll develop a twinge of empathy.”

“We’ll need you to give a statement,” the U.S. guard said as Chappell was led away. “But I know you’re under a lot of pressure, Doctor Kapoor. If you want to do it sometime after your press conference tomorrow, that’s fine.”

Hand tensing around the folder, she realized she was shaking. “Yeah, okay.”

“Do you need anything? Would you like a guard outside?”

“Um, sure. Thank you.”

“All right. We’ll send someone. They can call you when they’re stationed.”

“Got it,” said C.

The guard looked skeptically at her purse, but said nothing.

“Thank you. Good. Thanks.”

“There’s nothing else you need?”

She waved him away. “Some sleep. That’s all, thank you.”

He nodded curtly, hurrying after his colleague.

When he was gone she slipped through the door and shut it swiftly, collapsing against it for half a beat. She dropped her purse and clutched the folder to her chest.

“I’m so stupid. Why did I think I’d never have to talk to anyone from the original mission?”

“You’re not stupid,” said C from the dark depths. “All evidence indicates you are very intelligent.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she huffed, breath shaky.

“I had an indication, but thought reassurance the best response.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate it. Sleep now.”

Vanhi had never expected to encounter Dr. Chappell or her team, but she’d known the woman was angry, even from afar. How could she not be? If Chappell had sacrificed her ethics to get a once-in-a-lifetime job, and not only had that opportunity been ripped away from her, but all others as well, there would be no measured response. She’d feel guilty, and furious, and lost.

But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Someone who would purposefully skew their data—waste hundreds of thousands of man-hours and billions of dollars on a lie—wouldn’t be mad like that. They wouldn’t be mad about the things Vanhi would be mad about. They’d be mad someone had the nerve to question them. They’d be angry they didn’t get their way.

They might get violent.

They might be the type to get drunk on a Moon base and go after the weak link in their exposure. They’d threaten. They’d deny.

But they wouldn’t, of all things, ask “Why?”

Inside her, the leafy sprout shot up, budding—the flower of realization threatening to unfurl.

She shuffled over to the composite desk, tripping over the edge of the bed and her half-unpacked suitcase to get there. She let the folder fall to the table with a plop, and it scattered open like a wilting rose. The holoflex-sheets were creased—rainbow colors bowing away from the damage to show where the plasma nanocircuits were, in effect, “bleeding”—and everything was out of order. A few paper sheets were tucked in the mix.

Most of the pages were dated or belonged to a dated set. She fanned them out, attempting to reconstitute their timeline.

On the right she set Dr. Chappell’s “original” data; on the left she laid out the “undoctored” versions.

She was no biologist, but the results seemed clear: on one hand she had evidence that at least two of the planets in TRAPPIST-One likely had multicellular life. On the other, she had what looked like a correction to the original study, with a variable not originally taken into account added into the mix. That wouldn’t make Dr. Chappell’s results fabricated so much as uncorrected. It looked like she’d submitted the first results and suppressed the second.

It wasn’t uncommon to create an experiment and get fantastic results only to realize you’d constructed your experiment wrong. That was part of the scientific process. You learn, you correct, you learn again.

Perhaps Chappell had wanted so badly for there to be life in this system that she’d convinced herself the second set of data had to be wrong. Maybe she’d gone so far as to fool herself.

The flower in Vanhi’s gut grew thorns and poked. Because …

This doesn’t feel right.

There were grad students who’d stood up for Dr. Chappell when she was exposed, but there had been others who insisted the data she’d issued to the consortium wasn’t complete. They’d sworn she’d tampered with the results.

Vanhi stared at the pages, eyes not fully focused, as though the longer her gaze hovered over the pages the more likely she was to learn the truth.

Something clicked in the back of her mind, and she jumped for her purse. “C, wake up.”

“Yes?”

“You know that backdoor connection to Jamal he insisted on installing?”

“Of course.”

“The one I told you never to use?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to use it now.”

“All right.” Thank the heavens for small favors. “What kind of information should I remit?”

“I’m going to upload some holoflex files. I probably shouldn’t have these, and he definitely shouldn’t have these, so make sure he knows they’re classified, but, like classified classified.”

“I’m not sure that’s a recognized—”

“Just do it. He’ll know what I mean. Ask him to dig in and look for the dates the files were created. The real dates. He’s going to have to go deep—there’s no way it’s in the typical metadata.” She rubbed her chin and mumbled, “He’s too smart for that.”

“Who is?”

Vanhi gritted her teeth. “Kaufman.”

The setup for the press conference took advantage of Earthrise in the conservatorium. Vanhi would give her speech and answer questions under the glass dome—its decahedron panes glittering in the full sunlight. With the Earth swelling slowly behind her in all its blue glory, her monologue would hit emotional beat after emotional beat, and at its climax, the Littlest Convoy’s three ships would clear the horizon. It would make for fantastic schoolroom viewing.

Because of the libration cycle, Earthrise was a slow event, nothing as dramatic as a sunrise or even moonrise, but it would have the desired effect on those who loved space.

Concealed beneath the stage in the conservatorium was the greenroom. Here Vanhi sat, chewing her thumbnail, arms crossed, legs crossed; a knot outside and inside. She hadn’t slept a wink.

As soon as the door opened and Kaufman entered from the anteroom, Vanhi was on her feet. “You lied to me.”

“About what?” he asked—not as though he were tired of her accusations, but as though she could be referring to a number of lies.

She held up one holoflex sheet, its corner dog-eared. “Doctor Chappell didn’t fabricate results, you did.”

C had gotten through to Jamal straightaway. The programmer treated a sudden ping from one of his surviving C series like the emergency it was. And he’d confirmed her worst fears.

The contradictory data in those files was first created a full month after Kaufman had fed her the story back in Dubai.

Kaufman took up a chair—the kind that passed for plush on a moon base, with hard armrests and a deep bucket seat—and shrugged. Shrugged! “I’d hoped you wouldn’t have to find out.”

“I can’t believe you. I can’t—why? Why would you do that?”

“Look at where you are, then ask me again.”

She wasn’t going to take that. She was done playing. Two strides brought her before him. She leaned down, grabbing the armrests, caging him in. “No. I never asked for this. This was never even a twinkle in my eye until you came to me. Why?”

His expression remained stoic, unimpressed. “You and I both know this mission needed to be born. It had to be. Had to.”

“No. That’s another lie.”

“You never would have agreed to do this unless you thought it had to be done. That’s the kind of person you are. You do what needs doing. You pursue a straight course to the answers. That’s why I picked you.”

“You bribed her former grad students to create the new files for you.”

“Yes.”

“And to vouch for them.”

“Yes. Bribed consortium aides to get ahold of the originals, too.”

She threw up her hands and paced away. Shit. Shit. It’s all going to shit. “So why TRAPPIST-One? Out of all the missions, why did you tank that one?” My sister’s favorite. Everyone’s favorite.

Our chance at finding extrasolar life.

He shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. “It was the last assigned, it was the least developed. It made the most sense in a spreadsheet. I wasn’t trying to be malicious, Vanhi. It’s a casualty of advancement. As soon as you tap into those new subdimensions I’m sure TRAPPIST-One will be the first place we visit. And it’ll be a snap—” He clicked his fingers. “There and back again.”

I can’t do this, Vanhi realized. I can’t go out there and make a grand speech and answer all those questions—unscripted questions. I can’t. I just—

“You have to tell them,” she said.

“Like hell I do.”

“It’s over for you, don’t you get that?”

He furrowed his brow and shook his head, taken aback. “Why? Because now you know?”

“Yes. Because now I know and I refuse to be a part of your scam. I’m not going to protect you.”

“Oh, really?” He pushed himself up, and Vanhi stumbled back.

She’d never seen him be violent before. He’d never killed an ant in her presence, let alone struck someone. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

“There’s a slight problem with your reasoning,” he said, voice a low grumble. “This is not my scam, it’s our scam. Between the two of us, which one would you say has benefited the most? Me? A now-retired dean who gets his gob on the news once and again? Or you? How much extra cash did the emirates throw your way once they realized you were going to be the mission head on one of the twelve biggest projects in history, hmm? I hear you set up a trust for your nieces and nephews, paid off your parents’ mortgage—”

“How do you know that?”

“These aren’t exactly state secrets.”

“You’re right, they’re private secrets, which makes your prying that much worse.”

“Please, spare me the morality play. Besides, my god, Vanhi, it’s not a scam. We deserve to be here. You deserve it. Do you remember when you—very rudely—accosted me over that small sum I paid to a consortium page? Would you like to know what I was paying him for? Rankings—insider information on the new proposal rankings. That file contained the initial results, and I received another once the final interviews were completed. I had intended to find someone to fix them for us, to ensure we’d be placed at the top, but in the end there was no need. Your proposal was ultimately ranked highest, all on its own. Because Earth needs this. You have to understand, sometimes people don’t know what’s good for them until they’re given a little push. You needed a push in Dubai. The Planet United Consortium needed one to prioritize subdimensional research. So, don’t think of it as a scam, think of it—”

Ah, yes, once more with the sudden cornering. Bastard. “Of course it’s a scam. What you did to get us here is fraud. I don’t mean that colloquially. It is real, honest to goodness, slap him in irons, the government can come at you for it, fraud.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“No!” She stomped her foot. She meant it to be a firm, powerful gesture, but was sure—under his condescending gaze—that she painted the perfect picture of a petulant child. “You destroyed Dr. Chappell’s career—the careers of everyone on her convoy. You aren’t going to get away with this. They’ve given me a mic and I’m going to tell everyone, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop me.”

“If you do, you’ll destroy the P.U.M.s. Not just our mission, all of them.”

Her gut clenched at the melodrama. The flower inside her grew vines—long, thick, tougher than spider-silk vines, and they were twining their way through her limbs and around her bones. She shook her head, baffled. How could he defend this? How could he fight her on this? What leverage could he possibly think he held that could destroy all of the Planet United Missions?

“Not even you are that egocentric. Master narcissist or not, you can’t undo decades of global, peaceful advancement.”

“I can’t, but you can. How did you sell this mission? Do you remember your pitch? Because I do. You told the consortium that these missions needed better PR, that they could fade into the night if the public isn’t constantly reinvigorated. How invigorated do you think they’re going to be when you announce that we—we—had to take drastic measures to get here? This is scandal on top of scandal, inviting that much more scrutiny. Why shouldn’t they halt the missions in their tracks, put everything on pause until they can be sure it’s not fraud all the way down?

“Because you know they’d have to launch a full-scale, public investigation for the sake of saving face. I know the value of a power play. I know how to get done what needs doing. But god help anyone in the public eye doing what needs doing. All the public cares about are feelings, about getting along—”

“They care about ethics, you moron. Without ethics, there can be no real business, no real trade, because those things rely on equal footing. When it’s not trade anymore, it’s coercion. It’s stepping on necks and breaking backs. It crushes ideas, it stops advancements, it does the very opposite of what we—you and I specifically—are trying to accomplish here. It means merits don’t matter because whoever can be the biggest sleazeball wins.”

“What a beautiful world you must live in, all rose-colored and—”

“Don’t patronize me!”

A light knock on the door made both of them spin. It opened a crack, revealing a base guard. “Is everything all right in here?”

She almost said no. She was a hair’s breadth away from demanding Kaufman be removed from her sight.

But she wasn’t done with him.

“Fine,” they both barked.

Blanching, the guard closed the door.

“You’re going to upset the public. And they wouldn’t be wrong to be angry.”

“They should be angry,” she said.

“But does that give them the right to destroy what almost every nation in the world has contributed to? They don’t have to destroy it consciously, mind you. Their lack of attention, their turning away, will do more to dismantle everything than attacking a convoy ship to take it apart at the rivets.

“And let’s be clear, Vanhi. If you go out there and explain what happened, you will not be clear of blame. Your career will go down the drain for sure, and they might flat-out cancel this convoy as well, which means that many more hours will have been wasted, that much more money. The consortium may not find it in their hearts—or pocketbooks—to reassign a new mission. People will further question why we’re doing this. Doing any of it. People will feel cheated, angry. You know what happens when people get angry? Bye-bye peace. This world peace we’ve been able to hold on to since you were a child. You don’t know any different, but I do. You don’t remember the constant wars and skirmishes. You don’t remember drafts and widespread domestic terrorism. You’re not afraid of it because you never experienced it.”

“The world is not going to fall into chaos because of one—”

“It might,” he insisted. “There has to be a first domino somewhere. This could be that domino, and you are the finger. All you need to do is flick over this first indiscretion and watch the others reveal themselves. Watch them spiral.”

“But it’s your finger! You’re not putting this on me. I will not feel guilty for what you did.”

“Good, and you shouldn’t. But if you go through with your self-righteous reveal, that you will have to live with. Your choice. Let one injustice stand for the betterment of all humanity. Or topple over that domino and see how much ruin falls in its wake.”

Their eyes locked. Vanhi stared at him, fury constricting her lungs and her throat. How dare he put her here? This was a false choice. An illusion of choice. How dare he? How … how?

Another knock at the door.

“What?” Vanhi called.

The guard peeked in again. “Doctor Kapoor, Kaufman. It’s time.”

Swallowing dryly, fighting to control the rage contorting her expression, she adjusted her glasses and smoothed her jacket, trying to reset. Trying to remain calm. “I don’t want you up there with me,” she said to Kaufman, averting her gaze. “I don’t want you on the stage, I don’t want you in the audience, and I expect you to resign all further involvement in this project.”

“What do you plan to say?” he demanded.

She ignored the question. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes. But what are you going to say?” It wasn’t pleading—there wasn’t a hint of desperation. He simply wanted to know, to feel in control.

Without another word, she followed the guard out, slamming the greenroom door behind her.

As she took the stage and positioned herself behind the podium, ignoring the bright blue planet behind her, his question echoed in her mind, but in her own voice instead of his. What are you going to say?

What am I going to say?

The lighting in the conservatorium was nothing like the lighting in your typical auditorium. There were no harsh lights beating down on her in the midst of a darkened room—no glare to hide the audience’s faces. Every eager reporter’s eyes were clear as day, tracking her movements, softening at her smile.

You have to do it, she told herself. You have an ethical obligation. You owe Dr. Chappell her life back.

But …

And that was it, a little worming thought. But.

But what if he was right?

Worse yet, what if she had been right, back when she’d poured her heart out in front of the consortium chair? The missions lived and died by public opinion. They might not get canceled, but they would lose their life spark.

She couldn’t watch the current climate of scientific enthusiasm crumble because of one man’s arrogance. She didn’t want to see the light go out in a colleague’s eyes when she came into a room. She didn’t want little kids taking spaceship stickers off their walls. She didn’t want history books to have horrible footnotes describing how the first interstellar missions had been tainted by backstabbing and positioning.

… Didn’t want the media hounding her ma and papa.

With one admission, there was so much that could go wrong.

The vines entwined with her bones squeezed and pulled taut, powdering her resolve like so much chalk.

So, he wins, she said to herself. He wins, but only so that everyone else on the entire planet doesn’t lose.

The plant inside her—having done its job—wilted and died.

She hated him. She hated herself. She hated that she would never be free of this—helping him destroy what could have been the greatest scientific mission to date in order to advance what she personally thought was important.

She wanted to shrivel into dust and blow away in the wind, just like that plant.

Instead, she cleared her throat, widened her smile, and welcomed everyone to this joyous occasion.