out into the stars to waste life upon life for next to no scientific gain? Or, would you rather humans do their thing. That we try to one-up ourselves. That we make it our goal to ensure these deep-space missions grow. That we make the travel faster, cheaper, safer. A space race against ourselves is something to root for. You know it is.”
Two words rattled through Vanhi’s mind. Two words she absolutely hated whenever they cropped up. Two words that meant she was sliding down someone else’s rabbit hole with no visible daylight on the other side.
He’s right.
“Okay,” she said after a long pause. “I don’t want to see a mission go to waste. Not if it doesn’t have to. I’m in.”
He raised his jellab. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
SEPTEMBER 12, 2116
“You appear nervous. I think it would be more effective if you appeared not nervous,” C said.
The third-floor public bathroom in the consortium office was freaking freezing, and the sink refused to give hot water. In addition, the battle between paper towels and hand dryers still raged on, and seeing how this particular model of Strongblow (no, really) had an “Out-of-Order, sorry :( ” sign taped to it, Vanhi was firmly on Team Paper.
She settled for flicking her hands over the sink basin instead of wiping them on her business jacket. On the counter, C peeked out of her open purse like one of those pocket dogs rich girls carried. The light near its camera flashed green.
“I hadn’t considered that,” she said sarcastically. “Don’t look nervous, got it. Anything else?”
“Your shoe is untied.”
She glanced down, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “I’m wearing pumps. Oh, was that a joke?”
“Humor eases tension and is often used to suppress anxieties. If that witticism was not sufficiently alleviating I can find another one.”
She pushed the phone back into its pocket and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I’m good, thank you. Sleep now, C.”
Shoving through the swinging door, she stopped dead and was nearly smacked in the face by the springback. In the hall, outside the presentation room, sat Dr. Kaufman. But he wasn’t alone. A young man in an overly baggy suit—an aide, maybe, or an intern—stood nearby, stopped by Kaufman’s grip on the bottom of the boy’s jacket. The kid looked nervous, stack of files in hand, body taut like he wanted to run away. Kaufman’s hold wasn’t restrictive, just … intrusive.
Calmly, Kaufman spoke in low tones, nodding regularly while the young man listened.
After a moment, Kaufman pulled a wad of bills out of his breast pocket. The aide glanced furtively over his shoulder, this way and that, before snapping up the cash and handing Dr. Kaufman a folder from his stack.
With a flourished lick of the thumb, Kaufman began flipping through the contents, taking mostly cursory glances at the pages. He hadn’t had the file for sixty seconds before he handed it back. Looking around once more, the boy slipped it into the center of his pile, exchanged a few quick words with the doctor, then shuffled off around a corner.
It was blatant, it was careless, and though Vanhi was decently scandalized, she wasn’t surprised in the least.
“What was that?” she demanded, stomping up next to her former advisor.
He glanced up, lips pursed. “What was what?”
“I saw you pay that kid for something.”
“We shared a cab this morning. He insisted on paying then, and I insisted I compensate him now.”
Most people would have bought that explanation outright. But Vanhi knew better. She dropped heavily into the chair next to him. “Try again.”
He threw up his hands, melodramatic as ever. “I can’t convince you of the truth if you’re not having it.”
This was the brilliance of Dr. Kaufman’s schemes. He played innocent so well; seemed so put upon. He was the sort of person to play the fiddle with one hand and throw a dime with the other. And people who picked up on his braggadocious nature always found a way to dismiss it as well earned. After all, “He’s done a lot for SD research.”
Only those actually in SD research knew how overblown his claims were. His contributions had been important, but he made it sound like he’d discovered SD travel all on his own. He hadn’t. No single person could have.
But the general public didn’t know that.
People tended to like the “single genius” answer, no matter how inaccurate.
Grad students who’d complained he’d put his name on research he’d had no involvement in were labeled “ungrateful.” Academic partners he didn’t get along with often had their dirty laundry publicly aired by anonymous tipsters. Projects he found no value in were sometimes abruptly unfunded.
But no one could ever trace lines of fault back to Kaufman. Things just always seemed to go his way.
Vanhi saw through the bullshit. She called him on the bullshit. It was the only way she’d held on long enough to come away with her Ph.D.
Unfortunately, earning her degree under his tutelage gave him claim to her future accomplishments—according to him and society at large, anyway. She could never be free of his overbearing, rights-grabbing, self-aggrandizing shadow.
So the least he could do was tell her the truth about a stupid fistfull of bills in a halogen-lit hallway.
“What did you pay him for?”
“Sexual favors.”
“What did you pay him for?”
“Burning his bad tie.”
“What did you pay him for?”
“A cab, Vanhi. I told you. A cab.”
She would keep at it until he confessed. “What did you—?”
The door to the main chambers opened, revealing a gentleman in a suit jacket and kilt. “They’re ready for you,” he said, gesturing for them to enter.
“After you,” Kaufman said, smiling at the escape it provided.
As much as she wanted to argue with him, now was not the time. She walked in.
Most of the large auditorium lay in darkness, except for the high balcony at the front of the room which seated the eight consortium members chosen for today’s evaluations. A gentle spotlight slowly dawned over two chairs at a desk midroom. The space felt more like a courtroom than anything.
It stole Vanhi’s breath away, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. She had a strange
