Variables – Clean Slate
A dulled roar of voice and water lapped at the edges of thought, its unyielding pull demanding attention and inclusion. The island of self, of sanity, dwindled with each wave of need that washed over her. Yet a faint smile still tugged at the corner of her lips. Her arms were still warm, the smell of his hair and heaviness wrapping her up in a thin cloud of security. Let them come, she thought, reveling in the singular joy of her own voice. Even as thousands of others called out, demanded, pleaded, sobbed, shrieked to her in muffled desperation. I shall let them in. Let me in. It is enough…
The flood devoured her, shattering her delicate bubble of solitude with the torrent of need, dependence. It was enough.
A week after the attack, Mischa pronounced Anemone sound and made allowances for short walks around the Gekko-Go. Dominic accompanied her, always with one hand on the small of her back. Occasionally one of the children would join them or Talho would waddle just ahead, describing the movement of the baby and criticizing the absurd names Holland suggested. "Pulp Franz Novak" had been his response to Talho's shooting down of Devilfish and the mere mention of " Zeus" had sent Talho into a murderous rage.
On one occasion, the miniature caravan had bumped into Renton, presumably on his way back from the restroom. Having abandoned the hangar, the young Mr. Thurston had taken up residence in an unused storage room of the ship. He tread carefully now around Nirvash, never touching it or preferring to avoid the hangar altogether. The only real change in his interactions with the crew occurred in his oddly uncomfortable interactions with Anemone. Upon encountering him on their walk, a heavy silence hung in the air and Dominic felt the hairs on his arms rise.
"H-hello," Renton had stuttered after nearly five minutes of utter silence, eyes darting anywhere but theirs. Anemone only nodded, unsure what to say or do other than to cling tighter to Dominic's arm. After another few minutes of Renton awkwardly shuffling, opening and closing his mouth like a slowly dying fish, he had turned and hurried down the nearest corridor. Not thirty paces later, Anemone requested their stroll through the Gekko be cut short. Leaving her in the room to rest, Dominic strode purposefully to Holland's quarters.
"Come in," Holland replied to the three sharp raps on his door. Dominic slid open the panel to find the captain, unsurprisingly, lounging in his boxers in front of the stereo system. Static filtered through the excessive speakers as Holland fiddled with several switches and dials. The lieutenant joined him, folding his legs beneath him as he settled into the lush carpet. The room smelled of detergent – Talho must have recently washed the bedclothes – and board wax. Sprawled around the nearly nude Novak were dozens of weather predictions, Trapar patterns, and field studies of the new Coralian Clusters emerging in the cities. Dominic's stomach clenched as he noted a scribbled page of tactical battle plans tucked under Holland's left foot.
"You requested me, sir?" Dominic ventured as he absentmindedly began reading the weather forecasts: sunny with a chance of heavy clouds forming towards evening. Holland grunted and tweaked the tuning dial once more before turning to Dominic.
"Have you and Anemone given any thought to what I suggested?" Holding up his hand, he intercepted Dominic's ready answer. "I know it's only been a week, but we need an answer soon and she is the only pilot who can do it." Dominic grimaced and stared at the loops of carpet reaching up over his boots. What Holland wanted of them was too much, Anemone could hardly stand to walk around the ship.
"She cannot physically withstand it," he said finally, choosing careful words that would not betray his own sentiments on the subject. Holland frowned and nodded.
"I've spoken with Mischa," he said, "who wasn't too hot on the idea. But within the next three weeks we could still launch an assault with some hope of success. After that…" The static on the radio peaked in a thick, angry drone before cutting out entirely. Holland switched off the system, making small, illegible notes on a pad of paper in front of him. Dominic's nails dug into the calloused skin of his palms. The mission was suicide! Holland knew this, and still he asked such things of Anemone. In this state of health!
"We haven't spoken of it," the lieutenant answered through clenched teeth. "And I haven't brought it up. She needs her rest."
"She needs to decide," Holland replied forcefully. "If she won't fly, then we have no hope. No human can break through the antibodies."
"And you think she can?" Dominic shouted, head snapping up and blazing eyes meeting the cold gaze of the ship's captain. Tension crackled between them as Holland rose, brushing the dust of the carpet from his shorts. Staring accusingly at this man who dared gamble with the life of his Anemone, Dominic stood as well. After a moment of silence, he turned toward the door.
"LFO," Holland muttered, freezing Dominic in his tracks.
"What?" he growled. The captain ambled past him, sliding open the door and pausing with one hand on its frame.
"We already have the LFO prepped. Talk to her about the mission."
"Bu-" Dominic began, cut off once again by Holland's raised hand.
"She's still a pilot. It's her choice to make, but we need an answer soon. The earth rests on her shoulders now. If she won't fly into the Cluster, then the chance for our survival is lost."