2: Dr Bonnie Whitaker. USARIC’s then-chief scientist. Honorably discharged from ASF. Specialist in martial arts and prototyping.
3: Jaycee Nayall. Head of Weapons & Armory. Five years’ service with ASF. Died during service and subsequently reconstituted.
4: Wool ar-Ban. Chief Medician and Medix liaison. Five years’ service. Project medician coordinator of the Star Cat Project and caretaker of subject #6.
5: Tor Klyce. Head of communications and specialist in psychoanalysis.
6: Jelly Anderson. Domestic household cat, and runner-up of the Star Cat Project. Joined Opera Beta after the winner, Bisoubisou Gagarin (Russia) reported dead.
“Thanks, Manny,” Oxade said.
“You’re welcome.”
“We don’t know much else. What we do know is that the stupid cat would have had something called infinity claws installed when they reached Saturn’s vicinity.”
Alex didn’t hide his faux-puzzled expression, “ICs. I know of them, but I don’t know what they actually are?”
“Titanium talons installed in place of her cuticles,” Oxade said. “Also, micro-fibre whiskers. Designed to heighten the senses.”
Alex jumped in to the explanation. “Right, they’re for an extra layer of protection. The claws are like talons. I hear they’re fierce.”
“Really?” Oxade folded his arms and took a keen interest in Alex’s expertize on the subject, “And the whiskers?”
“Anderson would have had a K-13 chip implanted just above her right shoulder so the crew can track her. The whiskers work in conjunction with it. As I say, heighten the senses,” Alex lifted his left forearm and pointed at the three inked lines across his skin, “They also act as a rudimentary one-way communication channel, a bit like our Viddy Media installations.”
“Wow, check out the big brains on Hughes, here,” Nutrene licked her lips at him, suggestively, “Not just a fit body.”
Oxade cleared his throat and grew suspicious, “That’s very interesting, Alex.”
“Yeah, out of all of Beta’s crew, Anderson is the one we need to keep an eye on.”
“I’m sure she is,” Oxade grunted and punched his left arm forward. “There’s just one thing I don’t quite understand, though.”
“What?”
Oxade’s Rez-9 flew into his palm, “How do you know so much about Anderson?”
“Huh?”
Alex held his breath and eyed the gun in his captain’s hand. ‘Idiot,’ he thought. He’d opened his big mouth and said too much. In acting dumb, he’d given the game away. The look in Oxade’s face said everything. Alex knew that he knew.
The control deck started to close in.
If Alex hadn’t been wearing gloves, both he and Nutrene would have seen his fingers covered in sweat.
“I, uh…” Alex didn’t expect his voice to crack so blatantly.
Oxade tilted his Rez-9 and ran his thumb on the side lever, arming it, “Come on, explain.”
“I, uh, just…”
“You just what?”
“I read up about it before we left—”
“—Lessense,” Oxade lowered his gun and eyeballed Alex with a devilment usually reserved for people who murder family members, “I’m not stupid, you know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed what’s going on.”
“Wh-what? N-Nothing’s going on—”
“—Then wh-wh-why are you st-st-stuttering like a goddamn f-f-fool?” Oxade mocked with viciousness and aimed his gun at the boy’s face, “Answer me, you st-stuttering d-d-dick.”
“I j-just…”
“Answer me.”
“Oxade,” Nutrene screamed in his ear, “Are you out of your mind?”
“If he doesn’t answer me, he’ll get a Rez-9 charge in his,” Oxade pulled his index finger back, teasing the trigger, “Hughes?”
Alex licked the dryness from his lips and hyperventilated, “I’m n-not… I’m…”
“Who are you, Alex Hughes?” Oxade roared.
“I’m… I’m… Alex—”
His speech slowed to a complete halt.
The ground twisted into the air and punched him square in the face, knocking him flat out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tripp sat in front of his N-Gage screen and stared at the eleven-year-old boy on the screen; his son, Rogan. He’d begun to resemble his father. The comparison of their jaw lines and eyes were unmistakable.
Almost five years had passed since Tripp had left home. It had been ninety seconds since he spoke to his son.
Rogan’s ears pricked up as Tripp’s last sentence rolled into the front room. He turned to the screen.
“We’re on a ninety-second delay, which will make talking to each other interesting, won’t it? How is school?”.
Rogan eventually sighed, “School is okay, Dad. I hate my math teacher. He’s very strict. Why haven’t you come home, yet?”
Tripp had to wait another ninety seconds for the message to reach him.
Rogan would be a teenager when he returned home. Tripp looked away from the screen and covered his face, refusing to reveal his emotions.
“Why are you crying, dad?”
Tripp wiped the pink liquid from his eyes and cleared his throat, “I’m not crying, son. It’s just that I’m so happy to see you. Where’s Spooky?”
Rogan leaned into the screen and moved his eyes left and right trying to soak up his father’s quarters, “Is that your room?”
“Yes,” Tripp muttered, “How is everyone?”
“Spooky died, dad,” Rogan said, clearly antagonized by the memory of the event, “She got really ill. She really missed you after you left.”
“Dead?” Tripp closed his eyes and felt the bottom of his heart crack open, “Oh.”
Tripp wiped his face and saw his wife, Samantha, peer into the screen. She raised her eyebrows in shock before she burst into tears, “I thought you were dead.”
Finally, a bit of good news to counterbalance the bad. His wife looked healthy and vibrant as she held their son against her chest.
“Why did you think Daddy was dead?”
“Oh God. Tripp,” she traced the screen with her fingertip and burst into tears, “Why didn’t you send us a message?”
“Aww, mom. Get off me.”
“What message? We couldn’t send any messages while we were away.”
Another ninety, torturous seconds passed by. It allowed both parties to absorb each other’s facial reactions. A sense of dread crept into the delayed conversation.
“Tripp, sweetie,” Samantha cried into the screen, “I’m so sorry.”
“What? What do you mean you thought I was dead?” Tripp slammed the desk, spilling his tears onto his fists, “I’m not dead. I’m coming home.”
“We thought they switched you off. They said they’d try to rebuild you if they ever found Opera Beta.”
Tripp ran his fingers under his left earlobe. He prodded his fingertips into his neck, seconds away from tearing his own throat out and ending it all.
“You knew I was an Androgyne?” He muttered through his weeping knowing it’d be another ninety seconds until he got confirmation from her, “You knew all along?”
Another man about the same age as Tripp leaned over Samantha. He ran his hands over her shoulder with over-familiarity, “Is this him, sweetie? Not bad-looking for a Series Three unit, is he?”
“Sweetie?” Tripp felt the saliva escape from his mouth. His esophagus turned to stone. The walls in his quarters threatened to entomb forever, “Wh-who’s that?”