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Chapter Text

Nobody moved to stop Eiffel— not even Lovelace.

”He answered,” Eiffel said through gritted teeth, working the door as quickly as he could. “He answered all the questions.”

”Just— just hurry! The flares—“

But Eiffel was at his wit’s end. This was— this was way above his paygrade. He just— he couldn’t—

The communications officer was quickly shoved aside by someone who did have an inkling as to how to fix this situation. Maxwell’s fingers were nimble and quick as she followed each cable to its proper connection. She was quick and efficient- but not fast enough—

“Maxwell—“ Jacobi’s voice was warning, and Maxwell knew there was a gun pointed at her back. 

She also knew that gun was shaking.

”If you’re going to shoot me, don’t stand there all day,” she said, as calmly as someone with a gun pointed at her could. “Othewise, pass me the pliers.”

She did not turn to see Eiffel offer them to her, and she did not thank him. 

“Kepler’s gonna—“

”Then throw me under the bus!” Maxwell said through gritted teeth, still working. “Tell him it was me and that I threatened you with a gun.” The icy venom of her words did not fall on deaf ears. “I am not letting Jacobi die—“

”Alana, I’m right here!” Jacobi cried out, just as the connection took and the outer hatch slid open. 

Maxwell turned to Eiffel, but he was already on the comms. 

“Jacobi! Decompression chamber! And leg it!”

What followed was an amalgam of creaking metal and thumping echoes and terror and gasping and held breaths. 

After the flares died down, there was only a sepulchral silence. And only the most terrified of them dared break it.

”Jacobi?” Maxwell asked with a wisp of a voice into the comm. “Are you there?”

A beat of quiet. Maxwell closed her eyes as the world fell away. 

Suddenly, panting. 

Maxwell’s eyes flew open. The comms were open. 

“Y-yeah,” Jacobi said from the decompression chamber. “I’m— I’m good.”

Chapter Text

Kepler is not happy. 

Well. There are many emotions that could replace ‘happy’ at any particular moment in time, and Kepler has gone through most of them throughout his lifetime. 

It’s just that, right now, he’s not quite sure what emotion he’s feeling, but he’s very sure it’s not ‘happy.’

”We can’t leave him there.” 

He sees Maxwell through the corner of his eye. Her lips are pressed together and she’s wearing that expression he hates— she’s scared, but she doesn’t want to show it. Her jaw is set, her frown is deep and she’s got her arms crossed over her chest. 

“That sounds dangerously close to questioning my orders, Dr Maxwell,” Kepler warns without turning to her.  He doesn’t want her to read his mind through his expression. 

“Sir, Jacobi—“

”—has gone through a thorough physical examination to prove he’s Mr Jacobi, whereas this thing hasn’t.”

Maxwell huffs, disbelieving. She opens her mouth, and Kepler knows she’s about to give him a good, reasonable argument, and he needs to stop it immediately. 

“Go run a check up on the pod. Make sure there was no lasting damage from the flare,” he says finally.

”Wh—“ 

“Now, Maxwell.” He turns to her with an ice-cold glare and sees her flinch, and pretends it’s just what he wants. 

Maxwell holds his gaze, mouth parted, as if expecting to be told its a bad joke. 

Oh, would that it were, Alana.

When he doesn’t take back the order, Maxwell leaves the room without saluting. 

__

”Do you ever think before you act?”

Minkowski’s voice is loud, domineering and angry, and it’s not just because of what he did in the pod.

(She’s not gonna forgive him. She’s never gonna forgive him. And she’s right.)

”Com—“

”There’s four of them now, Eiffel!” Minkowski roars. She should probably lower her voice, but he’s not gonna be the one to tell her that. “Of all the stupid—“

”Look, I’m sorry, okay? I know this complicates everything but—“

”But what?”

”He was gonna get torn by the solar flares!” Eiffel snaps back. “I’m not gonna carry that cricket on my shoulder!”

Minkowski laughs, disbelieving, and she’s about to say something they’re all going to regret. 

“You mean—“

”Enough.”

Minkowski’s hot rage is cut through by Lovelace’s icy tone, killing it instantly. 

The moment passes, and there are no regrets

(For now.)

The air is charged with conflict and fear and frustration and they all want to say something but nobody knows what. 

“We need to count our blessings,” Lovelace says, but her voice seems too light—too little—  for the manmade atmosphere that Hera is holding in place for them. “Looks like Kepler doesn’t like him either.”

”Could be a trap,” Hilbert points out. “That being said, I need to study this creature— this could be—“

”Hold your horses, Dr Frankenstein,” Lovelace says dryly. “Odds are, we’re not gonna get within a mile of him while Kelper’s around.”

”That is, assuming he doesn’t simply eject him out of the hatch,” Minkowski adds, thoughtful. 

“Why hasn’t he, though?” 

The crew starts, then turns to Eiffel. He’s got his lips pursed together, and looks— for the first time ever— thoughtful. 

“Why hasn’t he thrown that thing out of the hatch the second we arrived?”

Angry as she is, Minkowski considers the question. “Is he hoping to learn something from it?”

Hilbert shakes his head gravely, holding his chin between his right thumb and forefinger. 

“He does not let me get close. How would he—“

”What if he’s not sure?” Eiffel offers. When eyes land on him, he clears his throat. “What if— what if he’s not sure that’s not Jacobi?”

”Impossible. I studied Mr Jacobi meticulously—“

”Eiffel’s got a point,” Lovelace interrupts. “When he was outside—“ she swallows, and hopes nobody sees her— “the way he answered— it’s either a very good actor, or it really doesn’t know it’s not Jacobi.”

”…and Kepler wouldn’t risk killing the real Jacobi without being sure,” Minkowski finishes. 

Hilbert bites back a sigh, but at this point, correcting them is useless. 

They give Kepler too much credit. 

__

Yelling won’t do him any good, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give it the good ol’ college try.

”Maxwell!” He bellows. “Commander! Can anyone hear me?”

His voice bounces against the walls of the observation deck, but they don’t fall to the ground. 

(You need gravity for that).

His nails are digging into his palms and his neck is soaked with sweat. Hearbeat’s acting up and his blood pressure must be through the roof.

He’s not scared. 

He’s not.

There’s just… there’s another guy who looks like him and sounds like him andactslikehimandishim—

No.

Nonononono.

Kepler’s gonna figure it out in no time— that they’ve made a mistake. They’ve got the wrong Jacobi locked up— of course they do!

It’s just a matter of time. Any second. 

Any 

Second. 

Chapter Text

The real Jacobi paces up and down his room.

(Of course he’s the real thing— he knows he is)

He should’ve— he should’ve stopped them. From letting that thing on board— he should’ve stopped them, he knows he should’ve—

But when he locked eyes with hi—with it— suddenly being real felt that much less tangible. 

Suddenly it felt much less like an it.

No— no. It’s ridiculous. It’s an it. It’s not a ‘him’ and it certainly isn’t him. 

(The pronouns are starting to get wonky in his head).

Jacobi stops his pacing, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until there are bursts of color in his field of vision. He takes a deep breath. 

Then another. And another. 

Why did Alana hesitate?

That’s it. That’s what’s eating at him. 

Alana. His compass. She knows. She always knows. 

But this time she didn’t. And now she won’t meet his eyes. 

(She won’t meet it’s eyes either)

He runs his hands furiously up and down his face, upsetting his glasses, almost knocking them over, and there’s a sound that’s trying to claw its way out of his chest but he doesn’t really know what it is. 

Why didn’t Kepler flush it out as soon as they docked? That’s also bothering him. 

Kepler knows him— he’d know the real Jacobi anywhere. He knows Jacobi  and he trusts Jacobi and that’s why he’s his right hand man. 

But he didn’t send it off.

And Jacobi can’t fathom why.

He tucks the idea that his friends might not be sure he’s him very deep into his mind, somewhere he cannot see.

Maxwell is biting the nail of her right thumb

(All the other nine are already worn to the bed)

and looking out the window of the bridge. 

She loves questions but hates this one. She hates herself for even conjuring it, but there it is, in neon lights, flashing in front of her eyes. 

Is this Daniel?

No. Of course not. It’s obviously not— it can’t be. She knows it isn’t. It simply doesn’t make sense. 

She’s never had her feet on the ground, but math has always been her ally, and Math tells her that there’s just no way—

Well, her own nightmarish, know-it-all voice rings in her ears, not no way.

The odds of the real Daniel being the one locked up in the observation deck are—

That’s just the thing, isn’t it? There isn’t really an equation for this. 

The only reason they think Jacobi is Jacobi is because he got in first. So realistically—

Maxwell presses her fingers against her eyes, biting back frustration.

She’s killed with worse odds.  

(But it’s never been Daniel on the line before)

“Can’t sleep either?”

Maxwell nearly jumps out of her skin as she yelps, turning to the voice. 

“Sorry,” Eiffel says sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Maxwell takes a second to regroup, then shakes her head a little, clearing it. 

“Sorry, I was just, uh…“ she has no idea what she was doing. 

Eiffel stands next to her facing the window, not looking at her, and pretends to examine nothing. 

“Do you think we did the right thing?” He blurts out. 

(Maxwell doesn’t want to tell him she was wondering the same thing)

“It was the stupid thing,” she says instead. Eiffel nods, and they’re not looking at each other. 

The silence is stifling. 

“Why did you do it?” Maxwell asks, surprising herself. She finds herself turning her head to look at him, but he doesn’t meet her. Instead, he thinks for a moment. 

“He sounded scared,” is all he can come up with. 

Maxwell wants to nod, but she doesn’t. 

They don’t talk any more. 

Chapter Text

Minkowski can’t concentrate. Or maybe she’s concentrating too much. She’s not sure. 

She wants to be angry— she realy does. Angry is good. Angry, she can handle. 

She can’t handle doubt. 

“Your coffee’s gonna be cold by now.”

Minkowski nearly jumps out of her seat. She remembers she’s in the mess hall, and the cup in her hand spills over a bit on her hand.

(Lovelace is right. It’s gone cold.)

”Penny for your thoughts?” Lovelace asks, coming into the room and taking a seat across from Minkowski, who pretends she’s not relieved not to be alone with her thoughts anymore. 

“Nothing,” she replies tightly. “Just thinking about… uh…”

Lovelace snickers. “You’re terrible at hiding things, you know that?”

Minkowski’s shoulders relax the slightest bit at the tease. She thinks for a moment, fingering the edge of her cup. 

“I just… don’t know what to make of all of this,” Minkowski admits. She looks up at Lovelace and gestures vaguely around her. “This whole situation just… doesn’t seem right.”

”By which you mean Jacobi #2 or the Eiffel thing?” Lovelace casually leans on her forearms over the table and Minkowski internally curses at how easily she’s being read. 

“Both,” she says after a moment. “I mean, the Ann thing still… but now…” she drops her shoulders, tired. “I don’t know what to think.”

”Would you look at that,” Lovelace says with a hint of humor. “Renée Minkowski is discovering that people are complicated. That wasn’t in my Bingo card.”

The lieutenant glares, but Lovelace seems unbothered. The captain leans back into her chair, arms crossed over her chest. A shadow of hesitation crosses her face, and Minkowski frowns a bit, trying to figure it out. 

Neither speaks for a moment.

”I should’ve stopped Eiffel,” Lovelace says finally. Minkowski’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “I just— I blinked, I guess. So you can be mad at me too.”

“I don’t know that I’m mad about that,” the lieutenant confesses. “I’m not sure I wouldn’t have acted the same way.”

Lovelace snorts. “Are you serious?”

”I haven’t spoken to him,” Minkowski admits. “But the way everyone’s so rattled—“ she sighs. “I don’t know. You were there. Is he really that convincing?”

”What does that have to do with the price of butter in China?”

”I don’t know. Maybe it felt too close to murder?” Minkowski offers. Lovelace gives her a look, and she goes on. “While you were with Jacobi trying to pull Maxwell out of the burning lab— well, Eiffel was the one that stopped me from pulling the plug on her.”

”So?” 

“It just seems—“ Minkowski huffs, frustrated. “Maybe it’s not as simple as I’m making it out to be.”

”Oh no, it absolutely is,” Lovelace says. “We have a problem. No, scratch that— we had three problems. Now we’ve got four. And murdery at that.”

”Yes, but—“

”Minkowski, there’s an alien thing in our observation deck, and it seems to think it’s part of the SI-5. It literally cannot be any less beneficial for us.” Lovelace looks at her pointedly. “It’s a thing. And even if it weren’t— it’s Jacobi. We want that out of our hair ASAP.”

Minkowski considers a counterargument, but simply nods quietly. 

Lovelace is probably right. 

_

Hilbert gives Eiffel a check up in silence. He’s too busy to talk— he’s got important things to think about.

He needs to study this other Jacobi. There are no two ways about it. Even Kepler must see this— it simply—

“Ouch!” Eiffel yelps when Hilbert absently pricks him too hard, the sound breaking through his train  of thought. Hilbert’s frown deepens. 

“You must stay still,” he chastises, even though Eiffel didn’t move. 

Eiffel rubs his arm and mumbles an apology. Hilbert pours his blood on a glass slab and puts it under the microscope. Before he can look in, though, Eiffel clears his throat. 

“What do you think he is?” He asks. 

Hilbert considers not answering, but Eiffel stares at him expectantly, so he sighs. 

“I have not studied the specimen. I cannot—“

”You’ve studied the other Jacobi though, right?” Eiffel asks. Hilbert nods once. “He was— you know, he was him, right?”

Hilbert considers his answer. 

“He was undeniably human,” the doctor replies carefully. “However, without studying the counterpart, we do not know whether this… clone… will show the same results—“

”—and if he does?”

Hilbert is quiet. “I don’t know,” he admits. “So long as Colonel Kepler keeps me away, everything is simply conjecture.” He waves Eiffel off. “You can go. Your test results are normal.”

Eiffel hesitates, but hops off the examination table and makes for the door. Before he leaves, however, Hilbert hesitates. 

“It is never wrong to save a life, Officer Eiffel.”

__

Hera can’t make heads or tails out of this situation. 

She’s been monitoring the other Jacobi— the one in the observation deck— and she still doesn’t get it. 

His heart rate is definitely up and he’s flustered for long periods of time, and it matches the moments where he paces around the room and bites his nails and growls in frustration. 

These are all things that are also happening to the first Jacobi. 

They’re— they’re not similar. They’re the same. Their physical conditions, their reactions, their responses— they don’t vary from one another. 

And when Eiffel told her about how they both answered the questions…

She doesn’t think he’s making it up. 

Whoever he is

(he’s definitely a who)

is living this like a person— whatever he may be.

And Hera knows better than anyone what it’s like  to be a person who’s not a person. 

(Could she hurt him if she wanted to? Probably not)

Hera keeps her thoughts to herself though. Nobody wants to hear them, anyway. 

Chapter Text

The Jacobi who has been locked up

(by mistake, he thinks to himself)

is tired of looking out the window of the observation deck.

There’s nothing in the vast vacuum of space. That’s why it’s called the vast vacuum of space. 

By this point, he’s sang the Bottles of Beer song from 100 all the way to 1, and no one checked in on him. He banged on the door, but nobody came to see if it was fine. He yelled at the top of his lungs, but he was ignored. 

How can— how can they do this to him? They’re his friends— his goddamn family. But Maxwell and Kepler haven’t even bothered checking in. Are they that convinced that he’s not their friend?

The thought settles unpleasantly in his head. He wants to ignore it, but with every second it becomes brighter, like a neon light he can’t look away from that sers itself into his eyelids. 

“You’re gonna get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”

Jacobi takes a second to assess whether this could be a hallucination.

If it is, or isn’t, she deserves snark. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Jacobi said\\ys dryly, and Maxwell shifts, beginning to pick at her nails. 

“Kepler wouldn’t let me come within an arm’s length,” Maxwell says by way of explanation. She does have the good sense to look embarrassed, though. “I managed to bypass him to sneak in but…”

”He’s gonna notice any minute,” Jacobi finishes. “Yeah, sounds like him. Why did you come?”

Maxwell blinks, taken aback by the question. “Sorry?” She asks. “I came in to—“

”Don’t say ‘check in on me,’ cause we both know that’s bullshit.”

Maxwell’s lips close. The nailpicking intensifies as she looks down at her hands, and he knows she does this to avoid his gaze. 

“You’re really convinced I’m not me, aren’t you?” Jacobi asks with a puff of a sardonic laugh. “That’s why you haven’t shown your face around in three days.”

”I’m not convinced about anything,” Maxwell protests, but her voice is small, and Jacobi hates it. 

“Right,” he replies without thinking. “That’s why he walks while I rot.” The words float between them. “Give up the act, Maxwell, you guys already decided who’s who.” 

“Screw you,” Maxwell snaps. When Jacobi looks at her, she’s no longer fiddling with her nails, and she looks pissed, fists balled at either side of her. “You think this is easy on us?” She scoffs. “You don’t even offer any tangible proof, either! You want us to take on your word that you’re the ‘real’ thing, but you’re just as clueless as the rest of us, aren’t you?”

Jacobi looks at her, flabbergasted. “You want me to prove,” he says slowly. “That I’m me?” His voice begins to rise. “That I’m the same Daniel who risked blowing up this station to pull you out from that sauna?” He’s almost yelling. “That I would be the absolute last person to ever do this to you?”

Maxwell flinches. “Daniel—“

”We’re supposed to be family, Alana—“ the use of her name makes her flinch “—and all you’ve done is lock me up in solitary confinement cause I had the gall to go out to the hull when I was commanded to!”

Jacobi takes a step towards Maxwell, and she stays put, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. He takes another step, and she does stagger back a little. 

Jacobi snaps. 

“Now what?” He spits venomously. “Afraid that the thing you brought back hurts you?” His jaw hurts from pressing it so tight, but he ignores it. “Maybe Kepler’s right. Maybe you shouldn’t have come inside— who knows what I can do to you.”

He reads the genuine flash of fear that passes over Maxwell’s face, but she stands her ground, straightening. Her jaw is set, and he vaguely thinks  that he has never seen her like this. 

The fact that it’s him making her this scared makes it all worse. 

He tries taking a deep breath, runs his hand through his hair. 

“Look, Alana—“

”I don’t—“ she clears her throat. “I don’t think you’re going to hurt me,” she states, as firmly as she can. “If I did, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to come into this room.”

Jacobi can’t help it. He smiles. 

It is not a happy smile. 

“You’re definitely not stupid,” Jacobi says casually. “That’s why you’ve got your gun in your holster.”

Maxwell doesn’t try to excuse herself, and Jacobi is thankful for that. They’re both quiet for a moment, the low rumble of engines their sole companion. 

“You should probably go,” Jacobi says. Maxwell doesn’t move. 

“Prove you’re you.”

He sighs. “How am I supposed to do that?”

”I don’t know.” Maxwell’s voice is empty— miserable. “I want—“

”Hate to break this to you, but the entire universe doesn’t care what you want,” he replies flatly. “You know this better than anyone.”

Maxwell takes a step towards him, and grips him by the wrist, much to his surprise. 

“Say something,” she begs. “Something Daniel would say.”

Overcoming initial surprise, he tries to  shake her off, but her grip is firm.

”Alana, let go. We don’t know what—“

”I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Jacobi finally manages to break free from her grip, then holds her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. 

“We don’t know that,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“—I agree,” comes the voice from behind Maxwell, and both of them turn their heads to see Kepler standing at the door with his arms at either side. “Which is why you will immediately unhand Dr Maxwell, Mr Jacobi.”

Jacobi pays no mind to the gun Kepler holds casually in his right hand

(but only because he tries very hard).

”Sir,” Maxwell says, trying to make her voice sound firm. “Mr Jacobi—“

”You and I,” Kepler says, smoothly dangerous, “will have a very serious conversation about this. But first, come here. Now.”

He’s using his Commander voice— he never uses his Commander voice— and Jacobi is suddenly apprehensive. Suddenly he doesn’t want Maxwell to go away. 

“Sir, I—“ Maxwell begins.

”Now, Doctor.”

All of a sudden, everything in Jacobi’s ears is the thrashing of his blood against his veins, and the taste in his mouth is iron and every muscle in his body is  rigid and he has never been more scared than he is now because he knows Kepler intends to hurt him. 

(Him who is him is he or isn’t he a who or a what but why why why)

“Alana—“ Jacobi croaks, just as Maxwell is about to move towards Kepler. She turns to him, confused, but his hand closes around her wrist, staying her. Maxwell staggers, unsure. 

“Maxwell, that’s a direct order,” Kepler says. 

Jacobi knows Maxwell can’t tell, but he can hear the way the words are churned out from between his gritted teeth, rather than spoken clearly. 

He feels Maxwell twist towards him, can almost hear her telling him to let go. 

Instead of that happening, however, Jacobi does something stupid. 

In the second it takes Maxwell to turn her head, Jacobi has already slid his hand across her waist and taken ahold of the butt of her gun, then pulls it out in one swift, fluid motion. 

He doesn’t know what he expected to accomplish with this little stunt. He supposes upper functions have been shut down with the flare up of panic, or he would’ve realized this was a magnanimously stupid idea. 

That, at least, is the final thought he has before the bullet hits him right between the eyes.  

Chapter Text

Alana Maxwell is not a person who screams. She learned the hard way not to be. 

So even as her best friend´s blood splashes on her cheek, all she can let out is a soft, almost mute whimper. 

She doesn’t hear the thump of it collapsing to the ground— doesn’t hear anything, for a while. In fact she’s pretty sure her senses shut down, because when she comes to, the first thing she sees is the horrible green of a military uniform that’s far too close. Next, she feels rough cloth against her skin, and a clumsy embrace that’s keeping her from collapsing over non-functioning legs. Scent comes next— sweet, but not a good sweet. 

Finally, hearing returns to her, along with her breath.

”-axwell!” The embrace tightens. “Maxwell, snap out of it.”

Every word she has ever known has fallen out of her head— all of them but one.

”Daniel—“ she muttered, then began turning her head. Before she makes it a quarter of the way, a hand on the back of her skull secures her firmly, and all she can see is Kepler’s mouth and neck and chest.

”Alana, that wasn’t Daniel,” the Colonel says. 

He was, though, Maxwell wants to reply. She was just talking to him. 

Kepler’s hands grip her arms and he forces her to look at him, but she can’t focus. 

“That thing wasn’t Daniel Jacobi.” Kepler’s voice is firm, and she wants to believe it— it would make everything bad go away, if she does. “He was going to hurt you. Daniel would never.”

Maxwell’s chest is on fire, and she realizes she hasn’t been breathing. When she inhales, she has the very distinct sensation that she’s not really doing it, just playacting. 

Playacting—- yes. 

Yes, she can do that. She’s the best at that. 

She stumbles out of Kepler’s arms, which weren’t warm— his stupid uniform makes sure of that— and stands on wobbly legs, pointedly giving the thing her back. She half-staggers, and Kepler is ready to catch her, but she stops him and stands straight. 

Breathe. Breathe. 

“That wasn’t Daniel.” These aren’t her words, they belong to a character in a play where she’s an actor. “He was going to hurt me.” 

The speech is mechanical to her own ears. She’s just echoing Kepler, but it doesn’t matter. 

Maxwell looks up at Kepler, who almost looks concerned, but that must be a trick of the light. 

“Thank you, sir.”

Kepler’s eyes do not leave her, even as he addresses someone else. 

“Hera,” Kepler speaks clearly. “Until I say otherwise, this room is off limits to the crew. Is that clear?”

There is a moment of silence, and Maxwell thinks Hera didn’t hear him, though she knows it’s impossible. 

Right now, nothing seems impossible. 

“Yes, sir,” comes the reply, and in the back of Maxwell’s mind, which is the only part still active, she vaguely thinks that Hera doesn’t sound like herself. 

“Also, I will address the crew on the matter. You are to keep quiet about this situation. Do you understand?”

Another moment of silence. 

“Yes, sir.”

Kepler’s harsh tone towards Hera seems laughably dissident with the gentle way he puts his hand behind Maxwell’s back, steadying her enough for her to realize she was wobbling in the first place. 

“Alana.” 

She barely hears him, like he’s behind a wall. But his hand is steady on her back, and she draws strength from it— she draws firmness from it. She breathes one, two, three times, then snaps out of it because she has no other choice. 

“—the real Daniel,” she says finally, her eyes focusing as she turns to Kepler. “I wanna see the real Daniel.”

”Maxwell, you need a moment to—“

”No,” she snaps

(she’s never had the guts to snap at Kepler before)

”I want to see Daniel now.” She licks her lips. “I wanna see he’s okay.”

Kepler stares for a moment, weighing his options. Maxwell thinks he’s about to dismiss her— to call her out on insubordination— but instead he sighs. 

“Let’s go.” His tone brooks no argument.

Maxwell can’t handle asking if they’re just going to leave the thing that looks like Daniel there. 

She wouldn’t like the answer, anyway. 

Eiffel presses his back against the metal wall of the hall perpendicular to the way Maxwell and Kepler take. His jaw is clenched so hard, he thinks his teeth might shatter. 

Kepler just killed Jacobi. 

He killed his own subordinate. 

It’s not like Eiffel thought he was bluffing when he threatened to kill Minkowski— he knows he wasn’t. He would’ve shot Minkowski in a heartbeat if she had killed Maxwell. 

But Jacobi was supposed to be on his side. They’re supposed to be a team.

Whatever that thing is—was— supposed to be, it has Jacobi’s face. 

And Kepler put a bullet between his eyes without flinching. 

He needs— he needs to tell Minkowski

(if she even talks to him anymore)

she’ll know what to do. 

Chapter Text

Kepler fucked up. He knows so. 

Actually, if we’re being truthful, he’s fucked up twice. 

His first mistake was receiving that thing onboard and not shooting it the second it set foot in the Urania. 

The second was letting his emotions getting the better of him and shooting it after three days. 

Whether or not the first decision was stupid is irrelevant. He made his choice and stuck with it— consistency, if nothing else. Taking back something like that only invites chaos, and that is one thing he cannot have in his ship. 

But now— well, now he’s gone ahead and done it. Might as well have said he fucked up the first time, for all it matters.

But that thing was going to hurt Alana, and that’s one thing he would certainly not allow— not even if it cost him some of his credibility. 

“Sir?”

Kepler starts, zoning back in. Maxwell stands a foot from him, her frown mildly creased in curiosity. 

Safe.

”He didn’t hurt you, did he?” He asks in a low voice. Maxwell’s shoulders release a bit of tension and her expression softens a bit. 

“No, he didn’t get to.” She licks her lips, looking down at her nails. “I don’t think he would have.”

Kepler tenses. “We don’t know that. He—“

”It was Daniel,” Maxwell declares, then meets Kepler’s gaze. “You know it was Daniel— even if it wasn’t Daniel-daniel. It was…” she shakes her head. “I don’t know. It was him, okay? And he’d never hurt me.”

”He pulled a gun on you, Alana.”

Maxwell flinches at the use of her name. 

“Yes, but would he have shot me?” She asks, trying to find answers buried deep inside his brain. 

“That’s not a risk I was willing to take.”  

There’s a moment of quiet as she mulls over the question he doesn’t want her to ask.

”What now?”

Kepler is silent for a moment. 

“You wanted to see Daniel, right? Make sure he’s alright.” He gestures at the hall where Jacobi’s room is. 

“Are you?”

Kepler starts. “Sorry?”

“You don’t have to play tough with me, sir,” Maxwell says evenly as she tries to find flaws in his carefully constructed mask. “You just shot someone you care about.”

”It wasn’t him,” he says curtly, and somehow it sounds a lot less firm than he intends it to.

”But—“

”Maxwell, drop it.”

Maxwell shuts her jaw, then nods. 

“Yes, sir.” She clears her throat, then turns towards Jacobi’s room, and hesitates. “Thank you for saving me.”

He’s got no voice to respond, even as she leaves. 

When she’s gone, Kepler takes a moment to weed out of his head the burrowing sense of guilt that’s taken ahold of his mind. 

That was not Jacobi. 

He repeats this phrase as a mantra as he turns on his heel and returns to the observation deck to retrieve the body.

The doorhatch opens behind Minkowski, but she doesn’t turn. 

“Hey, did you look into those readings I told you about?” Her eyes are focused on the controllers as she tries to callibrate one of the levers. “I think that—“

”I need to talk to you.”

Minkowski starts, back straightening as she looks over her shoulder. 

“Oh. I thought you were Lovelace…” she says, and it’s clear that the correct word is hoped.

”Commander, it’s important,” Eiffel presses, taking a step forward. Minkowski doesn’t flinch, but her expression must’ve contorted in some way— Eiffel tries to not look hurt. “Look, let’s… let’s shelf the Eiffel-stake-burning for now— I need to tell you something important.”

Minkowski raises her hands, palms facing forward. “Look, Eiffel—“

”Commander, please,” he begs, and Minkowski’s mouth clamps shut. “I know you have an endless supply of reasons to be angry at me right now but I need—“

”Just say it, Eiffel,” Minkowski urges. Her tone is less sharp than she intended, and Eiffel’s jaw drops an inch. “Well?”

He recovers promptly, and runs a hand through his hair. “H-he shot him.”

Minkowski blinks. 

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that.”

”Kepler,” he says curtly, gesturing vaguely in the general direction of the Urania

(missing it entirely, at that).

“He shot the guy we brought back— the one from the podventure.”

”What? What the hell do you mean?” Minkowski demands. 

She can’t tell why this shakes her up so badly but oh, it does.

”I mean—“ Eiffel sighs, exasperated. “I was gonna go— I don’t know what I was gonna do, frankly— anyway when I came by the Observation deck— I saw Kepler shoot him. Square between the eyes.” He looks disgusted. “He— he didn’t even flinch—“

”Eiffel, focus!” Minkowski snaps. “Why did he shoot him? He’d refused to earlier, so why now?”

Eiffel hesitates for a beat. 

“Doug, I swear to god, if you’re hiding something else—“

”I think he was protecting Maxwell,” he confesses finally, tone clipped. Minkowski stares at him, mouth parted in confusion. “I think— I think he thought Maxwell was in danger. So he shot Jacobi.”

”Maxwell?” Minkowski echoes. Eiffel remains impassive. 

Finally, she shakes her head, clearing it. 

“Get Hilbert and Lovelace and meet me in the comms room. On the double.”

Eiffel actually salutes, but Minkowski’s gaze is trained in the lever. 

What the hell is going on?

The door to Hilbert’s lab receives an unwelcome knock, and it annoys its occupant. 

Before Hilbert can tell whoever’s at the other side to go away, a voice undermines him. 

“Doctor, we need to talk.

Chapter Text

The insistent rapping against the metal door generates echo across the room, small as it is. 

Jacobi’s in bed. Not asleep— he hasn;t had a decent sleep since they came back from that nightmare— but at least he’s got his legs up and he’s staring at the ceiling just… trying to keep his mind blank. 

Because any thought that can prod its way into his brain is downright nightmare-inducing. And Jacobi’s good at compartimentalizing (he really is!) but there are somethings that surpass even the most stubborn of men. 

Jacobi has forgotten about the knocking by now, until it comes again, more insistent this time. With a sigh, he gets out of bed and dons his glasses before heading for the door and opening it. 

“Took your time,” Maxwell says, but her tone isn’t irritated. She sounds… conciliatory. 

And her frown is creased. 

These are two things that do not make him happy. 

He keeps it to himself. 

“What do you want, Alana?” He asks, then steps to the side to invite her in, and she does. She’s looking around his room, searching for a topic of distraction, maybe? Probably not— Maxwell has never been one for small talk. 

“You can stop worrying,” Maxwell says, her back still to Jacobi. “About… you know.” She licks her lips. “The situation has been neutralized.”

Jacobi frowns, confused. “Huh?”

”The duplicate,” Maxwell replies tightly. “He’s been neutralized. You can put it out of your head.”

Jacobi’s mouth hangs open for a second as he grasps for words. 

“What do you mean, ‘neutralized?’”

”Take a wild guess.”

“What?” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I thought—“

”Change of plans. He did something… not smart, so Kepler put a bullet in him,” Maxwell finishes tightly, not looking at him. 

Jacobi is quiet for a second— actually, he doesn’t know how long he’s quiet. His heartbeat is all over the place and that makes it hard to keep time. 

“Why did you come tell me?” He asks finally. 

Maxwell presses her lips, pondering her answer. 

“Kepler never would’ve shot him unless he was a thousand percent sure it wasn’t you,” she concludes. “You thought we doubted whether you’re the real one? Here’s your answer.”

Jacobi holds his breath, processing the conversation, and comes to the conclusion that she’s right.

(She always is— not that he’ll ever admit it to her face)

”Did you?” He asks suddenly. Maxwell blinks. “Doubt it, I mean. Did you doubt whether I was the real one?”

”Does it make any difference? There’s only one of you now.”

He doesn’t like the way she’s side-stepping the question, but when he opens his mouth to say so, she speaks.

”It’s late,” she says simply. “I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

Jacobi’s mouth closes on words he doesn’t say, and simply nods. 

“Goodnight, Alana.”

”The hell do you mean, ‘shot’?” Lovelace hisses, and the strength of her sentence makes Eiffel flinch as if she’d been yelling at the top of her lungs. He is spared the need to reply by Minkowski. 

“He means shot,” she says curtly. Lovelace turns the strength of her gaze at her.

”But why?”

Eiffel runs his hand through his hair, stressed. “I think he was protecting Maxwell. I barely got to see anything, but clone-cobi reached for her gun. I couldn’t hear them but he didn’t even get to point it by the time the bullet got him between the eyes.”

Both women press their lips together, making sense of the information. After a moment, Minkowski speaks. 

“So the guy shoots one subordinate to save the other? Is that how it works?” She asks, turning to Lovelace for an answer. The captain gives a derisive huff.

”That wasn’t Jacobi,” she says. “That was a thing who looked very much like Jacobi, and nothing more.” 

Eiffel wonders for a second when her certainty began flaking. 

Minkowski doesn’t seem to catch it, though. 

“He doesn’t only look like Jacobi, Lovelace,” Minkowski says. “He sounds like him, acts like him, throws tantrums like him—“

”So what the hell are you saying, then?” Lovelace snaps. “That there were two of him?”

Minkowski takes a breathing pause before answering. 

“I’m only saying, whatever he was, he did a very good job of looking confused and freaked out— same as the original Jacobi.” She takes a moment to let the words sink in, then looks at her two companions. “That can’t possibly have been an easy call to make, but he made it.”

”Yeah but if Maxwell’s life was on the line…” Eiffel begins, trailing off. 

“When you boil it down, he shot one of his team to save the other.” Minkowski’s face looks grim, and Eiffel hates that expression— it means danger up ahead.

”What the hell are we supposed to do with this information?” Lovelace asks, after a few seconds. “And where the hell is Hilbert?”

Hilbert is, for the first time, thankful for this secret room.

He rolls the gurney with the body inside and sets it up in the middle of the room. He’s moved in from his lab whatever he thinks he might immediately need, although he mourns the scarce access to his harddrives— he’s about to get data that should be backed up six times over, though none of those are at his disposal at this moment. 

He tries not to think about Eiffel and Minkowski driving a hammer through them because it raises his blood pressure. 

So for now, a good ol’ notebook is what he gets— the rest he’ll have to digitalize in his off hours, and he can kiss goodbye his repairing five hours of sleep at night. 

But it is all worth it. 

Assured that nobody had followed him, and that Hera had no eyes in this room, he pulls the blanket from over the creature that looks like Jacobi’s face. 

It’s a blatant lie, when people say that some die with expressions of horror in their faces as they see their cultural symbol for death come take them away.

A face in death initially generates no impulse— none until rigor mortis starts to settle in after a few hours, where the deneutralized proteins lock in muscle fibers with whateever’s left from the elctrical charge that was stored upon death. It makes the subject stiff, and sometimes can contract certain muscles with residual potential charge. Sometimes those muscles are the face muscles, and the deceased looks scared.

That’s all there is to it. 

However, as Hilbert approaches the face of the would-be Mr Jacobi, he notices no signs of rigor mortis having settled, despite the time passed.

No signs of bowel displacement or sphincter tones losing innervation. 

For all intents and purposes, despite the bullet in his frontal lobe and blatant absence of vital signs, the man in the gurney is all but taking a nap, for all he knows.

These are the hard cases, for him. Even if he doens’t himself admit it—it’s the ones that look like they could open their eyes and ask you how it goes for you— if you ignore the hole between his eyes. 

When Kepler came into his lab, Hilbert prepared himsefl to be berated to death over minutiae. Instead, he got gold.

The conversation was cold, but productive. Kepler made him an offer: he could quell that insatiable curiosoty to see how he can single-handedly make the world a better place, while at the same time using that same physiognomic element to sell the “contact” to Cutter as progress.

His —for the lack of a better word— teammates will  not be happy with this turn of events. But that’s unimportant. They don’t think big enough, and in a place like this, that’s the only strategy youcan adapt to. Be a step ahead. Always have leverage.

But most importanty— pick your fights.

Hilbert stares at the body on the gurney, dispassionate. He had no esteem for Mr Jacobi, so pulling him apart is going to be a simple matter— even a pleasant one, if you go for that sort of thing (and he does).

He takes the scalpel in his hand, and by the time  he makes the first incision, he’s already humming. 

Chapter Text

The atmosphere at the Hephaestus is thick and heavy, and this time it’s not something Hera can solve, and that drives her nuts. 

Secrets— so many secrets—

And she has to keep them all. 

Jacobi is dead and Kepler shot him and Eiffel knows and he told Minkowski and Hilbert has taken the corpse somewhere she can’t see doing something she doesn’t even want to imagine and she can’t tell anyone. 

If she had a head, this is where it would hurt. 

She wishes— she wishes she could do something. Warn someone. 

What’s the use of knowing everything if you can’t do anything?

Her programming—- her stupid programming. 

But she’s learning. She just— she needs a little more time. Then maybe, maybe, maybe she can bypass a direct order from Kepler. 

She just needs time. 

Morning comes, but it brings no respite. For all intents and purposes, nothing has changed in the last 8 hours— which is just as well, Lovelace thinks, considering there isn’t really a sunrise here. 

Her mind reels with the information that has been bombarding her for days now— the aliens, the duplicate, the murder—

(no, not murder— you can only murder a person and that thing wasn’t it, despite what her ears and her eyes and the goosebumps on her skin try to tell her)

—and she tries to breathe. 

She tries to breathe, remembering that time she took Sam out to float, that lifetime ago. She grasps at the memory of weightlessness and feeling untethered to anything save the music playing inside her suit. 

It’s her safe place, and she hates that she needs one. 

But what else can Lovelace do? She takes stock of her assets. 

Hera’s compromised, Hilbert has been MIA for the past 16 hours, Eiffel is shaken and they’re surrounded by the enemy. 

But she does have one thing. 

And that might just be enough, if she plays  her cards right. 

“Hey.”

The word cuts through the tension in her body and she feels like a rubber band snapping as she turns around to find Minkowski catching up to her. 

Schooling her face into passivity, she raises an eyebrow and hopes the gesture doesn’t seem forced. 

‘Are you late for morning briefing?” She asks, trying to sound light. 

Minkowski clears her throat, a blush tinting her cheeks. 

A surprised puff of laughter breaks through Lovelace’s lips. 

“Holy crap, you are.” She feels her lips pull into a grin, and this one pushes all her earlier thoughts into a closet and locks the door. “Welcome to the dark side, lieutenant.”

Minkowski clears her throat again, embarrassed. “I just overslept. Happens to anyone.”

Lovelace snorts a bit. “Yeah, anyone who isn’t you,” she says. “What do we owe this miracle to?”

The lieutenant presses her lips together and looks away, and suddenly everything that Lovelace hid in the closet of her mind comes tumbling out and her good humor vanishes without a trace. 

“Hard time sleeping, is all,” Minkowski mumbles. She crosses her arms over her chest and peers at Lovelace. “Have you come up with anything that might resemble a plan in the past 8 hours?”

”I’ve come up with a headache. Does that count?”

Minkowski doesn’t bother sighing. She jerks her head towards the hall’s door and draws a breath. 

“Come on. Kepler’s waiting.”

Kepler’s gaze is drilling a hole into the mess hall’s door, waiting for it to open. 

It takes some nerve for his entire crew to be late for briefing. 

When it finally slides open, the colonel feels his breath stagger and runs through a list of wishes he didn’t even know he had under the carpet in his brain. 

1. he hopes it’s not Jacobi— he doesn’t want to be alone with Jacobi
2. he hopes it’s Maxwell— he needs to clear the air with her
3. it better not be Hilbert— he’s on duty until Kepler says otherwise

He doesn’t get any more thoughts in by time the newcomer steps into the room. 

“Ah. Finally.”

Chapter Text

Maxwell is the only one inside of the loop, and she hates it.

It’s wrong— all levels of wrong. She’s not supposed to be privy to the agenda— she’s support. This level of surreptitious is… 

Well. It’s Daniel’s area. 

She tries to ignore the pang of guilt that settles in her stomach. She’s not guilty of anything— not really. 

Except, of course, being the reason Kepler killed that guy who tried really hard to be Jacobi. 

Also of hiding from both of them that she knows Kepler is running an autopsy through Hilbert in secret.  

She shouldn’t know this but she does, and that in itself is not a problem— the problem is that nobody knows that she knows, and if they knew she knew they’d wonder why she didn’t say anything about it. 

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

She’s late for the morning briefing.

__

”I… can’t be that late, can I?” Eiffel mumbles, trying not to seem too terrified. 

It’s always good to show Kepler that you’re somewhat scared, but like, don’t actually show him your hand, you know?

“Officer Eiffel,” Kepler greets him with boisterous cordiality— something that immediately sets Eiffel on edge. “Good to see you. As for your question, no. You’re not that late. Everybody else is simply cleaning the entire hull of the Hephaestus and the Urania with a toothbrush for the next seven rotations.”

Eiffel blinks. “Did I miss something?”

Kepler ignores his question and walks from behind the desk of the debriefing room, and Eiffel can picture a shark circling its prey and he is not so Raven with this image. 

“There’s something I wanted to ask you about, Eiffel,” Kepler says, stepping closer. 

Eiffel feels a stone drop to the pit of his stomach. 

Oh no. 

He— he knows, doesn’t he?

He knows that Eiffel saw him shoot clonecobi— nothing gets past Kepler— 

“There’s a bit of interference in the comms between the pod and the Hephaestus ever since you went out with it. Do you think you can run another diagnostic test on it? Just as a precautionary method.”

Eiffel bites back a relieved guffaw. 

“Y-yes, sir!” Eiffel splutters “Of course, sir! Right away, sir!” He turns on his heel, ready to sprint out of the room. 

“Officer Eiffel?”

Eiffel stops short. 

“The briefing hasn’t started. Sit your ass down.”

__

“This is frankly unamerican.”

“We’re a bit far from America at the moment.”

”Don’t be an ass, Daniel.”

Minkowski resists the urge to sigh as she stops brushing for a moment

(yes, Kepler keeps his promises, she guesses)

and looks to her right. Lovelace’s face is obscured by the visor, but her movements are distracted and vague as she scrubs the hull.

Minkowski would give an arm to know what’s going through her head right now, but the comms are too dangerous to use, even in a private channel.

All she has for company is Maxwell and Jacobi’s pointless bickering as background noise inside her helmet— yet she’s somehow glad for this.

The visor obscures her face as well, so it’s not immediately obvious that she’s staring at Jacobi, trying to figure everything out. 

Watching him argue with Maxwell, though…

Well, it eases her mind a little, even though she knows it shouldn’t. For all they know, this thing could simply be a very good actor. 

And who’s to say that Kepler shot the duplicate? He might’ve made a mistake. 

Yet as she watches Maxwell and Jacobi together— as she hears them in the lowest possible volume setting in her helmet— she can’t help but feel that you just can’t pretend this complicity— this humanity. 

This has to be the original Jacobi. She’s certain of it. 

Or at least, so she tells herself.

__

Kepler pours himself a glass of scotch, then swirls it as he looks out of the observation window at the detail crew. He can’t see their faces, but he’s perfectly sure which of the suits belong to his team— he could find them in his sleep. 

He knows it’s a slippery slope, but Kepler allows  himself to consider for a minute what they might think of him— despite his best efforts, he still does have a heart, he thinks bitterly. 

He starts with Jacobi— his right hand man. 

Kepler knows he made the right call the first time— he’s decided on it. Despite the original Jacobi’s reticence, the specimen simply had to be assimilated. Should Mr Cutter find out—

Kepler’s grip tightens slightly around his glass. 

He is not looking forward to that explanation— there’s simply no way to spin the events in a way to cast it as anything other than an abysmal lapse in judgment.  

His eyes trail to the other suit he knows by heart.

A sea of thoughts rises and crashes against the walls of his mind, begging for entry, but he shuts the door on all of them— he can’t allow himself to let them touch him. The truth is too close and those thoughts can only serve to bring it closer, and so he denies them access. 

He takes a deep breath as his eyes finally reach a suit that isn’t even pretending to work— just stares plainly at Jacobi, and he imagines that thing’s eyes squinting as it tries to decipher what it’s seeing and what to trust, laughably unaware of the irony of it all.