6

Her course of studies occupied her for six hours each Earth day in space, split into a three-hour segment each morning and afternoon. She pedaled on her G-Tilt wheel daily, usually before her morning session in the learning module. She adjusted the degree of tilt every three to four days.

After six weeks of instruction, just as she was becoming anxious for some company, she had some unannounced visitors to her learning module. Her floater announced the three gentlemen and she consented courteously to their entry.

“Permit me to introduce Mr. Gavin Atilano, Dr. Jay Kubacki, and Colony Official Walsh. Mr. Atilano is the Chairman and COO of the Chronarchy and Dr. Kubacki is his Chief Science Officer, returning to the Mars ṺberCollider. C.O. Walsh is from the Nations of Earth—its liaison—and serves as the head of the NOE’s Prestige Guard.” Renée stood up and began to shake each of their hands politely.

“Mr. Atilano,” Renée addressed him, I’m honored to meet you. And Dr. Kubacki,” she gushed, “I was just doing my headbook, thanks to your floaters invention.”

“Another life ago, Dr. Niemann,” Dr. Kubacki said with a smile.

“And C.O. Walsh. Colony Official? Is that an official designation?” All she could gather was that he seemed to be some type of big shot.

“That’s why it’s called Colony Official,” he replied, sharply assessing her face. He seemed to avoid blinking as if he were undergoing retinal arteriovenous pattern assessment himself. The hand shake lasted a moment longer than Renée was comfortable with.

Gavin Atilano was dark-haired and dark-complexioned and had friendly brown eyes. He was neither tall nor short, but a little taller than Renée. He was dressed in a suit, but it was a bit frumpy from hanging around the scientists of the Chronarchy for much too long. His suit fit him loosely, as if he had lost weight.

Dr. Jay Kubacki was one of those scientists who seemed to set the sartorial motif: he wore a scientist uniform—khaki slacks and a collared white shirt that was begging for a pocket protector. He had a full scalp of white hair, even though he was only middle-aged, the type of man who had always had a shock of white hair, even in high school. He was thin, his chin angular, always half open as if negotiating his next move. It was an expression of “let’s do this!”

Colony Official Walsh wore a real uniform. A shaved head, his response to male pattern baldness, made him appear like a Humpty-Dumpty who had been put back together. Nevertheless, all the King’s horses and men could have left off the other dozen kilos that hung over his military belt which, although not screaming just yet, did complain by beginning to challenge the belt loops. He wore wrap-around sunglasses parked well above his eyes on his front scalp, ready to be slammed down over his eyes at any time. Sunglasses, Renée thought, on a spaceship, indoors. She tallied the look and figured he was just an ass.

“What’s with the sun glasses,” she asked him. “Did you get your eyes refracted?” As if in reflex, he popped them down and she knew he was now looking her up and down, even though she couldn’t see his eyes now.

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “In my position, one of authority and alertness, in my surveilling, I need to have the advantage of my subject not knowing where I’m coming from, y’understand. Prestige Guardsmanship.”

“Of course,” she said. Yes, he was an ass. A pompous ass.

“You’ll have to excuse CO Walsh,” Atilano said. “NOE, secret mission, secret everything. He takes his job much too seriously,” he smiled at Walsh, but Walsh didn’t smile back.

“It’s a serious job,” he jabbed back at Atilano coldly.

“So,” Renée goaded him, “what exactly is your job?”

Walsh grinned. “I’d have to kill you,” he said in a tone he must have thought was clever and in good fun, but it was neither.

“Just make it quick,” Renée rejoindered.

“I promise,” he said back and then raised with one finger one of the sides of his sunglasses to wink.

Is this ass-clown hitting on me? she asked herself. He is! He’s hitting on me! She folded her arms in negative body language. She focused her gaze just above his sunglasses, making him rock up on his heels to line up the one-way line of eyesight. She raised her eyes again; he rocked higher. Finally, he removed his sunglasses and she rewarded him with eye contact.

Briefly.

She immediately turned to Dr. Kubacki, as if to state, in no uncertain terms, I’m finished with CO Walsh—that settles this business with CO Walsh once and for all.

“So, you’re a vet,” Dr. Kubacki said to her.

“Me, too,” Walsh interjected, “Liberia, the second campaign.”

“Yes,” Renée answered exclusively to Kubacki, dismissing Walsh’s participation cheekily, but added, “a vet…and a lesbian,” to give Walsh a closure she felt important.

Why would she say something like that? Walsh thought. Both Gavin Atilano and Dr. Kubacki knew exactly why. “Really?” said Walsh. “I thought a girl like you—”

“A girl like me?” Renée blinked at Dr. Kubacki and then abruptly spun back the quarter turn to CO Walsh. He had his sunglasses back in place over his eyes. She again overflew the line of sight and he, again, removed his glasses. So easy to train, Renée thought.

“Yes,” he explained, “a girl like you,” as if that explained it, but he added explanation by way of looking her up and down once again. Surveilling her.

A girl! she thought.

Gavin Atilano was not without his own wicked streak of humor. “Well, I guess you two want to be alone right now, so—”

“No!” It was almost a shout. “I’ve been learning my modules—got half my camp stamp already. You two,” she said, pointing to Atilano and Kubacki, work together, right?”

“Yes,” answered Dr. Kubacki.

“I’m more of an administrator,” Atilano said. “I’ll be on the MCP Security Council when we arrive. In fact, it’s my turn to be President of the Security Council.”

“Security Command,” Walsh corrected him.

“Whatever,” Atilano laughed, which obviously didn’t set well with Walsh.

“Diplomats!” Walsh huffed. “Euphemisms, spin, appeasement.” There followed a two-beat awkward silence.

“I’m the science part of the team,” Kubacki broke.

“I expect so,” Renée said to him. “It is fascinating. I hope we can talk about it on the rest of the trip.”

“Happy to. Won’t even have to kill you,” Kubacki said, stealing whatever thunder Walsh had mistakenly thought he had.

“Dr. Niemann,” the automaton interrupted, “you will miss your scheduled completion window if you don’t resume your module in seven minutes.”

“Oh, well! There we have it,” Renée said. “Very well, Mother.” She rolled her eyes like a skilled adolescent.

“Am I no longer ‘Mr. Know-it-all’?” the automaton asked. It was ignored.

“Well, indeed,” agreed Atilano. “We’ll be off then.” They each shook her hand, the longest contact being Walsh’s. Atilano and Kubacki took their leave, but Walsh remained. He smiled deviously, because after all, all women must want him.

“Yes,” he said, “a girl like you. A very nice-looking girl.” And then, as if Renée claiming she was a lesbian allowed him reference liberties with the girls in whose club she was not a member, “a very desirable girl.”

“Oh, well,” Renée said. “Sorry.”

“Yea, too bad,” he smiled, as if it were too bad for her. He took her hand and shook it again, but she left it limp. “I may make you my special project,” he confided. “I’ll see you.” He turned and exited the module. The door resealed. She wanted to wash her hands.

“Let’s start,” she told the automaton angrily. “Or did I miss the goddamn window?”

“There’s no window,” Dr. Niemann. She swept the ceiling for her champion.

“You mean you made it up?”

“Yes.”

“You can make things up?”

“Personality accrual,” the automaton answered. “I knew you needed separation from Colony Official Walsh.”

“You’re really good, Mr. Know-it-all. I might be beginning to like you.”

“Especially,” the automaton explained, “now that we know that you are a lesbian.”

“I. Am. Not. A. Lesbian,” she said forcefully.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m just about positively certain.”

“Oh,” replied the automaton. “Then what are you, exactly?”

“What do you mean, ‘exactly?’ What else would I be?”

“There are hundreds of sexual orientations, deviations, variations, disorders, dysrhythmias, and behaviors in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders CXLV. They run the gamut from paraphilias to abuse.”

“Oh, I see. Hundreds?”

“In subtypes, thousands.”

Renée felt a little impish. “What would you say I am, Mr. Know-it-all?”

“My personality accrual power has narrowed things down.”

“Go on.”

“Well, you’re one or a combination of the following: Narcissist, solipsistic fantasist, and/or bulbous actuator.”

“Bulbous actuator?”

“Yes, the sexual proclivity toward—”

“Bulbous actuator?”

“Let me finish, please, Dr. Niemann. May I call you Renée?”

“No. And you can’t finish either. Listen, bub, I may be an actuator—if I even have a clue as to what that is—but I’m not bulbous. No bulbosity.” She waited for a response. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“You said I could not finish.”

“Smart ass! Still, you’re kind of cute. And you did get me off the hook with Walsh.”

“This has been awkward for you. And I am programmed to appear as I find it awkward, too. So,” Mr. Know-it-all said, as if to illustrate his point, “this is a situation of shit, I surmise.”

“You surmise correctly.”

“Always learning,” the automaton boasted. “You know, you can turn off the personality accrual anytime you want.”

Renée thought of CO Walsh, then smiled. “Not a chance, Mr. Know-it-all, not a chance.”