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U.S.S. HELIOS:
Major Kepler waits in the Helios’ comms room. Fingers drum against the console. His eyes are fixed ahead on the shape of the bright, burning star as they push away from orbit, the Hephaestus station growing ever distant. Helios’ engines whir, a steady hum emitting from the power shuddering through the system. His crew – formerly three, now four subordinates – are together at the navigation console to plot the ship’s course direction towards Earth. They had asked him for any specific instructions. He had told them he had an important call to make, and that he trusted them to not get the entire crew killed.
A low beep signals the incoming connection, and Kepler wastes no time in accepting the call. “Sir,” he greets, upbeat. Part of him wants to relax at the successful communication. Part of him is even tenser for knowing the conversation he is about to have.
“Warren,” the voice returns, and Cutter sounds warmer than usual. “Just checking in with my favourite deep space search and rescue mission.”
“I wasn’t aware there were too many of those occurring, sir,” Kepler responds, maintaining his light-hearted tone.
He’s rewarded with a chuckle. “You’d be right. You’re also my least favourite. There aren’t many – well, any – to choose from.” There’s a momentary pause. “I trust all went as planned?”
“Largely, yes,” Kepler confirms. “The Helios has departed from the Hephaestus. The space station is still in a good condition. Minor repairs would be needed to the central controls before it can comfortably sustain human life again for any extended period of time, but the station is not about to fall out of orbit without supervision.”
“Good. All good.” Cutter’s voice is sharp. He’s aware that there were unexpected outcomes to this mission. Kepler never knows how he knows, but he knows.
Still, he continues. “Elias Selberg was recovered safely. Numerous copies of all his research have been collected from the station, and he is currently underway with transferring copies of the copies into the Helios’ data banks.”
“This sounds nothing short of excellent, Warren.”
Kepler sighs, quietly. “There was one complication.” He swallows. “Dr Selberg was not the only person alive on the station when we arrived. The schedule was delayed for Selberg to deal with, uh…” He brings the name up on the terminal. “Captain Isabel Lovelace. Commander of the mission. We gave Selberg the time to deal with the Captain himself, as he promised us he could, but…”
“But?” Cutter’s voice sounds as peppery as it was before.
“Captain Lovelace was able to overpower him. She escaped the Hephaestus in some sort of hand-made vessel.”
Another long pause stretches between them, filled only by the crackle of static. When Cutter replies, it is with one icy syllable. “And?”
“And she was promptly incinerated as she missed the margin to avoid the star. She was burned alive by Wolf 359 a number of hours ago.” Kepler straightens up. “In short, sir, she won’t be a problem.”
He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding as Cutter replies, “I’m glad to hear that, Warren. I was concerned about this mission. But you – you’re going to be the reason I can sleep easily tonight.”
“Happy to be of assistance, sir.” Kepler’s eyes return to the view of the fast-shrinking star they leave behind, and the speck of a space station orbiting it.
U.S.S. URANIA:
Colonel Kepler waits at the comms panel. Jacobi floats by his side. The room is bathed in a smothering silence; Kepler could not bring himself to find the words he wants to say. He’s lived through, seen, and done terrible things – nobody could deny that – but something about this mission in particular has nevertheless left its mark.
And Jacobi, a professional, but ruled far more by his emotions than he would ever let himself believe, has barely spoken a word to him since they regained control of the Hephaestus.
The Urania is too quiet. He thinks of the journey up there, of time that passed with Jacobi and Maxwell flicking untethered objects at each other, or challenging each other to races down the various winding corridors, or strapping a shuffled deck of cards to the console and asking, Colonel, have you ever played strip poker?
The Urania had been something of a home to them in more than just function for the months they’d spent travelling to the Hephaestus, and further through the year they spent at the station itself. It was a vibrant place with a crew of three. It is empty, desolate, cold, with a crew of two.
Eventually, when he summons the words he doesn’t want, he tells Jacobi, “Mr Cutter should contact us any minute now. Let me do the talking.”
“Does he know the Hephaestus crew’s dead?” Jacobi asks, and Kepler shakes his head once to convey an answer. “Does he know Lovelace wasn’t human?” This one gains a nod. “Does he know Maxwell’s dead?”
Kepler pauses. After a brief moment, he shakes his head. “Which is why I need to be the one talking.”
“Right,” Jacobi agrees. “If I did it, he might notice some members of the SI5 actually still care about their friends dying.”
A slow exhale. “Jacobi, now is not the time.”
“But you didn’t, did you?” Clearly, Jacobi had been waiting a long time to ask. There was never an opportunity to reconvene after Maxwell’s death. This question has been burning his tongue for weeks.
Kepler meets Jacobi’s gaze steadily. After a moment, Jacobi looks away. “I didn’t care,” Kepler responds honestly. Jacobi lets out a shaky breath. “I didn’t have the chance to care, Jacobi, nor the interest in doing so. We were in the middle of a fight and it was a fight I intended on winning.” He swallows; his throat clicks. Jacobi has drifted to face away from him when he glances back, and, for a moment, he takes the time to decide whether the gesture was purposeful or not.
“But,” he continues, heavier, “that doesn’t mean I won’t care. Dr Maxwell was a friend of mine. I cared about her as a colleague, as a crew member, and as a person. If you’d like to believe otherwise – and there are plenty of reasons why you would, Mr Jacobi – then go ahead.”
Jacobi doesn’t respond, but a moment later, he is turning back to face Kepler again.
“You miss her,” Kepler tells him, and Jacobi clearly doesn’t have the energy to try and deny it. “You are entitled to. But if you would be so professional as to keep your grief confined to moments where you are able to grieve…”
He trails off. Jacobi is meeting his gaze again with such sadness, such anger, such hurt in his eyes, that the words dissolve on Kepler’s lips momentarily.
“Permission to grieve, sir?” Jacobi asks, and there is the barest hint of the mischievous man Kepler knew before they went to the Hephaestus together and their hearts were ripped out. Even this slight flash of his old self is buried under the layers of what clearly are already Jacobi’s ways to grieve, his sullenness and his emptiness and his coldness.
The pulse beacon relay connects, and Kepler knows he has an incoming message from Cutter. “Permission granted,” he says, and gives Jacobi time to leave before he answers the call.
U.S.S. DIONE:
The ship is in tatters. The station is barely functional. About an hour ago, after their AI went offline, Jacobi took up the role of hazard control, picking up a fire extinguisher and patching up as many systems as he can. “Sir,” he said, “you gotta request backup.” Kepler refused. The Dione is in a bad state, Mr Jacobi, but I’ve seen worse.
“No, sir, this is – the engine is down. And by down, I mean, there’s a gaping hole where there should be one. We’re out of our depth.”
And so, because Jacobi is, in fact, the technological expert on this mission, Kepler agreed. He didn’t have to agree. He shouldn’t have agreed. Why did he agree?
Now, a matter of minutes later, his fingertips grip the edge of the comms console, pressing dents into the metal, head hanging as he hears the tone to signal that the call has finished. A pause hangs in the air, quiet, interrupted only by the crackling glitches echoing eerily through the intercom.
Kepler brings his fist down on the panel with all his strength. The metal bends under his knuckles.
Now, he has to decide what way is the best way to tell Jacobi the two of them are going to die.
He stares that question in the face as Jacobi pushes the door open, gasping, face streaked with soot. One of his eyebrows is singed. Briefly amused, Kepler wonders if his subordinate has ever looked so prepared to do his job.
But Jacobi’s eyes are wide, and his hands are pressed against the closing door as though he wants to barricade something out. The Dione’s comms room is miraculously untouched for a ship that’s falling apart under their fingers in a mess of fire and smoke. “Did you make contact?” Jacobi asks, and Kepler nods. “And?”
Kepler watches him for a long moment, eyebrows drawing together as he gazes. “Do you know what I found out?” he asks, tone amiable. A flash of annoyance crosses over Jacobi’s face – now is not the time for you to use that voice – but he schools it and waits. “This… was supposed to be the last mission the Hephaestus saw.”
“Great,” Jacobi says, but there’s no meaning behind the word. “Are we getting out of here?”
“No, Jacobi.”
Both men have nothing to say to that. Not for a few solid seconds. Not until Jacobi interrupts the quiet, saying, “What.”
“This,” Kepler continues, “was the last mission the Hephaestus would see. Goddard Futuristics has no use for the station anymore. Let it fall into the star, I believe were Mr Cutter’s instructions.”
Realisation is beginning to dawn on Jacobi’s face. “But the Dione wasn’t supposed to –”
“Yes, it was.” Kepler checks the clock. “Both the ship and the station were tampered with. And both are rigged to explode in a handful of minutes.”
“What?”
Voice as calm, as neutral as ever, Kepler responds, “You and I knew too much to go home.” He pushes off from the console, meeting Jacobi by the door.
“So we find the explosives,” Jacobi says, as though there were no question in it. “Deactivate them. That’s my job, that’s what I do, I can –”
A hand comes down on Jacobi’s shoulder, and it silences him. “If we hadn’t found them by now,” Kepler tells him, “we have no chance of doing so before they detonate.” Jacobi stares up at him, and he meets the gaze unflinchingly, face unreadable when describing even his own death.
“Did you know?” Jacobi asks, and the ship creaks as yet another system crashes.
“Of course not,” Kepler replies. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually know everything about everyone at any given time. Much less so with Cutter.”
Jacobi is still staring. “But you’re not…”
“What?” Kepler asks. “Angry?”
“Well.” His subordinate is clearly struggling with the concept – with many concepts – right now. “Yeah, I guess. You just got – they just abandoned us.”
A faint smile curves at Kepler’s lips. “You say that like Goddard Futuristics has never done anything of the sort.”
“Not to us. Not to you.”
The hand still resting on Jacobi’s shoulder gives a brief squeeze. “You’re right. I hadn’t expected myself to be so… expendable.” Kepler hesitates. “I wouldn’t have allowed you to come with me if I had.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Jacobi replies monotonously, but he glances away from Kepler, clearly far less composed than he’d like Kepler to think he is.
“Terminated,” Kepler murmurs, voice barely audible above the cacophonous trembling of the ship, “like rats at the end of an experiment. Hardly the way I expected to go.”
“Maybe you should’ve,” Jacobi replies. “Like you said, this is Goddard Futuristics we’re talking about.” Something about Kepler’s eerie calm has calmed Jacobi, like approaching a startled animal with hands raised. Kepler doesn’t let go of Jacobi’s shoulder, but he does offer a brief chuckle.
A boom echoes from the bottom corner of the ship, and Jacobi is gripping Kepler in return, now, the two of them shuddering with the ship’s structure as they cling on. A second explosion follows a number of seconds after.
“Really?” Jacobi yells over the series of alarms that blare the moment the ship explodes. “They’re setting them off one by one?”
There were so many things Kepler wanted to take the time to say.
He wasted his chance.
“Mr Jacobi,” he shouts in return, arm wrapped tightly around his subordinate’s waist, awaiting the detonation that would kill them any moment now, “this is Goddard Futuristics we’re talking abou—”
He wasted his chance.