If those aboard the Icarus II had had a guide to handling immature behavior, one would have found "seam duty" under the heading "Do we need to separate you two?"
At this point, the two in need of separation were together at the suit locker outside the ship's main airlock. Mace tugged hard at a storage harness, stepped aside as the golden armored body rumbled clear. Two tiny green lights on the chest plate: two full tanks of air. Locker to the right: Mace took out a pressure vest, zipped and buckled himself into it while Capa popped the seals on the suit.
"I could go, Mace," he said.
Mace glanced over, saw Capa looking at the suit, saw the quiet fear in the younger man's face. Brainiac hated going outside, and that was a fact. "Don't be stupid, man. You're the one who's indispensable to the mission. I'm just a dumb tool." He looked toward the ceiling cam. "Right, Whitby?"
Your phrasing, not mine, Mace.
"Bitch," he muttered.
From the wall speaker came the voice of Icarus: Say again, Mace?
"Nothing. Disregard, Icarus."
Yes, Mace.
No, really, Mace. Whitby's voice, as sweetly neutral as that of the ship. Say again. Please.
Harvey's voice, now on the feed, irritated: Always room for one more on that detail, Whitby.
My apologies, Mr. Harvey.
Mace grunted, shrugging into the suit, shifting the helmet into place. Capa threw the locks, and Mace waited through the dogpitch whistling as the suit's seals seated and its systems came fully on line.
Grid visible, Mace? Whitby asked.
"Yes, Pilot," Mace replied, watching the schematic of the ship's hull fill the air before his eyes. He didn't know why he called her that: it sounded impersonal, somehow insulting, without re-crossing the line to "bitch."
Thinking too much into it: if Whitby heard his contempt, her voice didn't reflect it. She spoke again, on the feed, evenly: Tools in hand, Capa?
Yes, Whitby.
Go to it, boys. I'll be keeping an eye on you.
Mace entered the airlock. As the inner door closed, he thought of giving Capa a thumb's up. Then he thought the idea stupid. He checked the belt on his toolkit and his tether line; he faced the outer door and waited for the vacuum, the palpable blackness outside.
Seam duty. Checking key points in the ship's hull for structural integrity, a painstaking, awkward process that involved one person inside, a second person immediately across the bulkhead outside, making and comparing measurements with digital scanning micrometers. Anything falling outside spec on the measurements received spotwelding, handipatch, or a segment of interior or exterior tiling. The ship couldn't scan herself as thoroughly as two humans with handheld equipment could: Icarus could "see" herself structurally only where her makers had installed sensors. And it was logical in more ways than one for Capa to be the one who stayed inside: not only did it make no sense for him to risk himself unnecessarily, but he was much more suited than Mace, with his lean, wiry frame, to weaseling his way into tight corners of the ship. He could even go under the floor plating if need be.
And really, Mace didn't mind going outside. He found it calming, a chance truly to be alone. He re-ran the scene outside the galley with Whitby and Capa, saw his fault, resolved to apologize: a simple process of repair, methodical. Then, as he made his way along the dirty white tiling of the hull to the first checkpoint, he found himself comparing Whitby to Cassie. Whatever Cassie's reasons for leaving had been, he wasn't able to blame her; further, they had in Whitby a fine pilot. Still--
"Do you ever think of her?"
He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Capa's voice said over the feed: Think of who, Mace?
"Cassie."
Yes.
"Miss her?"
Yes. But I'm glad she's not here.
"Me, too."
Would've been... awkward.
"Yeah."
Though I can't help but-- I suppose it's only natural: after all, she was my first--
"Your first what?"
A pause. Nothing, Mace. Forget it.
"You said it. Your first what...? Oh, no. Oh, no no no. Don't tell me she was your first--"
Yeah.
"You're kidding. You are fucking kidding me."
No.
"You're telling me-- Capa, come on: you're a good-looking-- I mean, you're not exactly an ugly guy. What the hell were you doing all those years?"
Research. Science. I just never-- It never really seemed like a priority--
"Did she know? Cassie. Did she--"
I think-- I think she had a pretty good idea.
On the flight deck, Trey stared at a display near Navs. "My God--"
He wasn't tuned in to the discussion outside; if asked, he wouldn't have considered himself privy to anything resembling current revelations or potentially embarrassing confessions: he was watching the readings from the ship's external sensors, and he was seeing something frightening. Terrifying, even. "Captain--"
Kaneda rose from the co-pilot's chair, joined Trey at Navs. "What is it, Trey?"
"Spike in radiation across the board, and it's rising, sir." Trey was fighting to keep his voice steady. He was nearly succeeding. "I think it's the leading edge of a flare."
Asked Kaneda, calmly: "Time to peak intensity?"
"Five minutes. Maybe six."
Kaneda turned toward Comms: "Mr. Harvey, all channels: all hands prep for radiation lockdown. This is not a drill."
"Yes, sir."
They all went into action, Whitby, Kaneda, the others inside, offlining the ship's systems, activating spot-shielding. Searle checked in from Medical; Corazon responded from the Oxygen Garden, where they'd be sheltering once the Icarus's basic computer systems were masked. The ship itself, her metal and plastic and glass, were built to withstand the radiation of a solar flare; flesh and blood and bone, plant matter, were not: the effect on an exposed human body would be akin to extremely high-wattage microwaving. Trey was the first to finish his portion of the systems-wrapping; Kaneda sent him to help Corazon check the shielding in the Oxygen Garden.
From Comms, Harvey said: "I can't raise Capa or Mace."
"Did they hear the warning?" Whitby asked.
"I don't know."
Kaneda asked Whitby: "What was their last reported position?"
"Moving on to section sixteen."
"I will get Capa." Kaneda headed for the door. "Finish shielding your station and get clear, Mr. Harvey."
"Yes, sir."
"What about Mace?" Whitby asked. "Sir--"
Kaneda paused at the doorway. "He heard."
"We don't know that--" Harvey began.
"You have less than four minutes to get to the shelter, Mr. Harvey." Kaneda glanced from him to Whitby. "You, too, Loinnir. Do not be late."
Static, then silence, on the feed. Capa, wedged tightly into an unlit corner, his torso twisted between a support beam and the floor plating as he wrangled a piece of patching, didn't immediately notice. Then he got to thinking things unrelated to arguments or patching or physics, and he felt his cheeks and ears go hot there in the dark, and he said:
"Mace-- I was kidding. About Cassie being-- umm. You know I was kidding, right--?"
Silence. Another brief burst of static. Capa tapped the earpiece of his headset.
"Mace? Whitby, can you raise Mace?"
Nothing.
"Icarus, test feed on channel three."
Nothing.
He could feel his heart beating. "Icarus, respond--"
"Capa--!" Kaneda's voice, sharp, behind him. Capa untwisted himself, brought himself to a crouch, straightened. Before he could ask, Kaneda was gesturing for him, beckoning, a universal hurry: "Flare approaching. We need to get to the Oxygen Garden now."