The idea had its flaws. Alcubierre Drives consumed a lot of oryza during interstellar travel, and if the EIF truly had a presence in all the systems of the Edge, as its propaganda signals liked to claim, then it would be cheaper to skip the trip and pocket the cash.
Clarke could go to Antonov and ask. The EIF director was part of the passengers Beowulf would ship to planet New Angeles.
Antonov would refuse to answer, claiming that, for security reasons, he could not discuss the finer points of their mission until they had left Asherah. He and Clarke had already gone over that dance before boarding the Free Trader.
There was no fault in that reasoning. In the capital of the Edge, one never knew who was listening. Even the sealed interior of a spaceship wasn’t a guarantee of privacy.
Don’t kid yourself, Clarke thought, you know why you don’t want to leave your quarters.
It would mean confronting Julia.
He knew he’d have to talk to her sooner or later; she was one of Beowulf’s passengers, after all. Only rich passenger liners could afford the comfort of enough space to avoid facing an ex.
He forced himself to stop thinking about her. It would do him no good to hold a grudge against the woman, she had done what she thought was best.
That was the trouble with people with causes.
Clarke sighed and plopped his body into his bed. The frame creaked under his weight, and his ankles dangled out if he tried to stretch. But hell, he had lived in worse conditions during his planet-side stays.
All in all, the quarters were comfortable enough. He had a desk with a crappy computer terminal installed, a closet pre-loaded with the Beowulf uniforms and an emergency vacuum suit, a mini-bar loaded with snacks (not free), and a simulated window that showed whatever he liked. Currently, it showed deep space, away from any known star.
Technically, he could spend the entire time locked down in his quarters, take-off and landing excepted. He had been registered at the Beowulf’s billets as a crewman, but Antonov had insisted it was only to help them fool customs. Since the customs officer had already made his trip around the ship seventeen hours ago, and found nothing faulty or suspicious, Clarke was free to enjoy the free interstellar trip as a passenger.
He knew he wouldn’t do it. Since his youth, he could never remain long without making himself useful. It was the way his parents had raised him.
In fact, he decided he’d go out to help the crew ready the ship before take-off. He enjoyed manual labor. It was a kind of meditation, a way to let his problems wash away while hauling heavy cargo in a fraction of Earth’s gravity.
But first, someone knocked at his door.
He smoothed over his Beowulf overalls with one hand before opening answering. He found himself face to face with Julia Fillon.
Of course.
“Julia,” he said.
“Joseph,” she said, with as neutral an expression as his.
She hovered before the door frame until she realized that Clarke wasn’t going to move to let her in. If that bothered her, it didn’t show.
“Captain Navathe announced take off procedure start in six hours. Everyone needs to be strapped to their seats by then,” she said, “I thought I’d let you know.”
“Understood,” said Clarke. He knew it was bull. His wristband was synced to Beowulf’s intranet, and the timer at a corner of the screen wouldn’t let him forget about take-off countdown. Julia knew this, since she wore a wristband the same as him.
So, he waited for her to tell her part.
“Can we talk?” Julia asked.
Clarke wasn’t keen to passive aggression, so he ignored the I don’t know, can we? response a part of his brain suggested. Instead, he said, “Go ahead.”
“I’m sorry you reacted poorly to the EIF’s test,” said Julia, “I understand you want nothing to do with me, but I wanted you to understand why I did what I did.”
The way she had worded her apology—sorry you reacted poorly—was enough to piss off even Space Gandhi. Clarke’s shoulders were as tense as ripcords.
“You mean, why you had me kidnapped, drugged, and gaslighted,” Clarke pointed out.
“For a good reason,” she said. “We need your expertise, Clarke. There’s not exactly many retired fleet officers in Jagal that aren’t in league with the Defense Fleet.”
“That’s why you jumped into my bunk all this time? You needed to keep an eye on a possible asset?”
“Bullshit,” she said, her eyes flashing a pang of pain which disappeared before Clarke was sure he saw it. “We had no idea the mission was happening. Same day the EIF contacted you was when we heard about it. I recommended you because I knew your history. The real one. I know you won’t fail the people.”
“So says Antonov,” said Clarke. Julia knew as much of their supposed mission as Clarke did, which was nothing. “See? The problem with associating with people who are good at playing mind-games is that you never know when they’re playing with you.”
“It’s for a good cause,” she said.
“Everyone justifies their actions by saying that,” said Clarke. “The enforcers protect the integrity of the Edge, Tal-Kader protects the economy, Commodore Terry protects mankind’s cohesion.”
“In this case, it’s true,” said Julia. Just as many officers in Clarke’s time had said to justify the atrocities committed during their command. “You agree with us already, you agreed to help us.”
“No,” said Clarke, “I agreed to hear you out. Antonov is bringing me to New Angeles so he can sell me his mission without fear of Big Brother watching. If at any point it sounds like a suicide run or a terrorist bombing, I’m riding the Beowulf right back at Jagal.”
“Terrorist bombing?” Julia’s fist clenched so hard Clarke wondered if he had a punch coming his way. “You sound like Tal-Kader’s show hosts. Maybe it makes sense. I told myself you were doing this for the people, not for Antonov’s offer to reinstate you back to the Fleet with your uniformed buddies. Seems like I was wrong.”
“You wanted a soldier,” Clarke said, letting her accusation wash over him like water over teflon, “you got one.”
He’d never trust organizations that claimed to know what the people wanted or needed, no matter how noble their cause, especially when they believed all morality trickled down from their group. To Clarke, morality came from people’s minds and hearts, from empathy and honor.
A soldier may follow orders, may even kill on command. But the instant he forgot why he did so, he was lost.
Julia’s nose twitched in the way it did when she was pissed. Clarke had once thought it was endearing.
She controlled herself, and her fists unclenched. She took a step back, ending the conversation.
“Clarke,” she said.
“Fillon.”
Clarke watched her march down the corridor, stamping on the naked gunmetal floor as she went.
So much for apologies.
IN THE END, Clarke donned his pressure suit and made himself useful by going to the Beowulf’s cargo hold and lending a hand to the crew there. Technically, all containers had to be secured days before take-off, but any sailor with enough experience knew that there was always a last-minute disaster.
Today, the last-minute emergency took the form of a titanium alloy cord that had snapped near bay B23 and collapsed half a container row, like a row of dominoes falling down. Half the ship’s crew, excluding EIF passengers, were there, about forty men and women clad in pressure suits, manning cranes and heavy equipment while filling the radio channels with chatter and an unending string of yelling and cursing.