was the xenobiologist in charge of the original Convoy Twelve mission. The one who’d falsified data.
A surge of anger roared through Vanhi’s arms. She shoved Dr. Chappell away, fuming. The larger woman stumbled into the far wall. “You’re not involved in the missions anymore, how did you get in here?”
The answer dangled from Chappell’s neck: a construction badge. Either she’d gotten a job as a ship builder, or she’d stolen the creds off some poor worker.
“Did you seriously come all the way from Earth to get in my face? You ruined your own damn career,” she said darkly.
C beeped from her purse. “Should I call security?”
“Absolutely,” Vanhi spat, turning to the door once more.
Dr. Chappell wailed, sliding heavily down the wall until she slumped in a pile of akimbo limbs. “It should be me giving that speech tomorrow. Me.”
“Yeah?” Vanhi kept her tone haughty, but she was rattled. She couldn’t keep her hand steady as she tried the lock again. “Maybe you shouldn’t have cooked your books, then.”
Thump.
Something large, but not weighty, struck Vanhi in the small of her back. For a moment, she froze, assessing the damage—but she wasn’t hurt. Holoflex-sheets now littered the hall. The manila folder they’d come in lay at Vanhi’s feet.
“How many times are you going to spew that shit line?” Chappell shouted. “You fucking liar!”
“That is not appropriate workplace language,” C chided.
Of course I get the confrontation with the psycho lady. Of course. Not Kaufman, oh, no. Because he’s the big important dude. Who wouldn’t choose to pick their fight with the little Indian woman instead?
His assigned rooms were just a hall over. Not far. Not far at all.
Vanhi’s door finally opened. She didn’t go inside.
“You know what?” she said, turning around.
Mascara ran down Dr. Chappell’s face.
“Screw you. Screw Kaufman. Screw everyone. I haven’t done a damn thing to you. So, screw off back to Earth.” She bent to swipe a sheet off the floor. “What even is this?” she demanded, creasing it in her fist. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
“They’re the original results of my study—not your doctored bullshit, which I have for comparison.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dr. Chappell gathered her legs under her, pushing herself upright, swaying like a rag doll from the waist up. Here on the base, the air was thin, the pressure low—it probably hadn’t taken more than a single shot of whatever she was drinking to get her in this state. “You and that figjam got ahold of my work—stole my work—and you’re going to stand there and deny it?”
A little seed—one that had long ago been buried in Vanhi’s gut—sprouted. Its little spring-green tendrils pushed up, up, budding leaves with labels on them: doubt and recognition.
“I don’t know where Kaufman found your original work, but he had a duty to expose you. You put all of us to shame.”
Chappell’s indignant “Ha!” echoed in the narrow hall. She shook her head, eyes rolling back to gaze forlornly at the ceiling. “You won’t even admit it to my face. Why did I think you would?”
The pressurized hiss of a heavy airtight door emanated from the far end of the hall, around the corner. Two men in gray camo approached—one wore a badge of the Mongolian Admiralty Enforcement, the other of the United States Coast Guard.
“English,” Vanhi said to them, preempting their request for the party’s common language.
“We received an automated call for aid,” said the Mongolian security guard.
Dr. Chappell rubbed her eyes, smearing away the streaks in her makeup. “Yeah, yeah. Throw me in the brig. Whatever, stickybeaks. This mongrel and her mongrel mentor keep ruining my life, what else is new?”
“You assaulted me,” Vanhi said.
“And I’ll face the damn consequences, unlike you.”
“Ma’am, we need you to submit to a sobriety test,” said the U.S. guard.
“Like it’s a crime to get legless when your life is stolen from you?”
Both guards tried to steady her when she took a step up and forward, but she batted them off. “I’m coming with you. I’m leaving her alone. Don’t you put hands on me.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to not be belligerent with us.”
“Doctor,” Vanhi said, not sure why their form of address bugged her. She never corrected anyone when they called her ma’am or miss. “She’s a doctor.”
“Shut up,” Chappell said, turning her back on Vanhi. “Take me to the brig, or whatever you’ve got up here. I don’t want to look at her anymore.”
Vanhi crouched again, sweeping the stray sheets into the manila folder. “Don’t forget your file.”
“Keep it,” she said. “Maybe if you stare at them long enough you’ll develop a twinge of empathy.”
“We’ll need you to give a statement,” the U.S. guard said as Chappell was led away. “But I know you’re under a lot of pressure, Doctor Kapoor. If you want to do it sometime after your press conference tomorrow, that’s fine.”
Hand tensing around the folder, she realized she was shaking. “Yeah, okay.”
“Do you need anything? Would you like a guard outside?”
“Um, sure. Thank you.”
“All right. We’ll send someone. They can call you when they’re stationed.”
“Got it,” said C.
The guard looked skeptically at her purse, but said nothing.
“Thank you. Good. Thanks.”
“There’s nothing else you need?”
She waved him away. “Some sleep. That’s all, thank you.”
He nodded curtly, hurrying after his colleague.
When he was gone she slipped through the door and shut it swiftly, collapsing against it for half a beat. She dropped her purse and clutched the folder to her chest.
“I’m so stupid. Why did I think I’d never have to talk to anyone from the original mission?”
“You’re
