Orbital

Forty-One Device

She lets go and drifts away from me, steadying herself with a hand on a work bench. “Sorry, didn’t mean to lay all that on you.”

“I get it. Trust me. I was in a similar situation, not having anybody to go to. But I’ll see what I can do about this.”

I look around for the box. Samantha reaches behind my head and produces it from seemingly thin air. “Space is weird.”

“Yes, it certainly is.” I look around for something to distract the conversation so I can come back to the box a little later on nonchalantly.

At the far end of her module I see a sleeping bag attached to the wall. “You sleep up here?”

“Some of my experiments need close attention. It’s easier to catch a nap in my lab then going back down to the hotel. To be honest, I kind of like it. Warren thinks there may be some long-term benefits to the occasional microgravity catnap.”

“Interesting.”

I drift around her lab looking at the machines and the occasional touches of home. She’s got a bulletin board filled with photographs of all her travels. I recognize a bar near Baikonur Cosmodrome, the Russian space launch complex.

“You trained in Russia?” I ask.

“Their commercial program. That’s where I got my certification.”

When SpaceX, Blue Origin and iCosmos developed reusable rockets, and pretty much took the floor out of the space delivery market, the Russians, who had been used to getting paid $60 million a seat to send someone into space, had to find a way to compete with a price tag that was now a tenth of one percent of that.

While they started a crash program developing their own reusable craft, they put their half century experience putting people into space to use by developing a training program for commercial astronauts — mainly for researchers going to work in the new fleet of space stations taking orbit, and developing the modules for those stations.

Finding out that Turco spent time in Russian training with some of the people that still want me dead doesn’t make me trust her less — but it doesn’t exactly make me trust her more.

I spot a photo of her and man sipping fruity-looking cocktails in a beach bar. There’s another photo of the two on a ski slope.

“Ex,” Samantha says, hovering over my shoulder. “A good guy. That’s why I keep the photos up. Good times.”

“Don’t tell me he had an untimely ski boot accident?”

She gives me a sly smile. “No. It’s not easy maintaining a relationship when your office is in orbit. I’m sure you can understand.”

“My first trip to space was the one you probably heard about. I’ve only spent a few days in orbit.”

“Oh. I would have thought you’d have been up more than that.”

“Nope,” I lie. “And most of that time was spent trying not to get shot at.”

“So this is your first civilian trip?” she asks.

“Yes. Yes, it is. And I’ve spent a good portion of my time in the hotel. I’ve never even gone to sleep in zero-g.”

“Well, if you ever want to borrow my bed to give it a try, you’re more than welcome.” She puts a hand over her mouth as she turns red. “I mean…when I’m not here.”

“Are you blushing Dr. Turco?”

“It’s the effect of microgravity. And shut up. You know what I meant.”

Yes. Yes I do. Samantha is tough and intelligent. She’s also got a vulnerability that’s just under that diamond-coated skin of hers.

She’s been flirting with me from the moment we met. It could be attraction, boredom, or just the way she is. But I’m savvy enough to know the comment and the accidental “oops” moment were her calculated way to see what my degree of interest is.

This is a delicate situation. She could be genuinely interested in me or using her feminine ninjutsu to catch me off guard.

I pluck the box from her hand, using it as a helpful distraction. “Let’s take a look at this. You have a microscope?”

She gives me a “duh” face. “I think I can find something.”

If she was worried about me discovering what this does, she’s hiding it really well.

We fasten the box to a clamp and use a small camera to inspect the device closely. As she watches the monitor, I peer through a pair of stereoscopic eyepieces that show me even greater detail.

Under magnification, the surface of the box reveals a semi-transparent layer that explains the discoloration.

“It’s a camouflaged solar panel,” says Turco.

I flip the box over to look at the electronics on the inside. As I examine the circuit board, looking for some evidence of who made it, I become aware of the fact that I’m extremely vulnerable, with my back to her.

Out of the corner of my vision I catch her shadow drifting closer.

Her fingertips touch my neck and I flinch, jerking away from the microscope.

Samantha pushes back from the bench. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to touch you.”

Killer spy or innocent woman, I need her as an ally. I reach out and grab her wrist and rub her palm with my own. “Cold hands. Let’s warm them up.”

I can see the relief on her face as she realizes the gesture has been reciprocated. I let go and turn back to the microscope.

I can spot the antenna module and the transmitter, but there’s nothing that says Made in China or any other identifying mark. Not that any would really tell me much.

It’s entirely possible the thing could have been made using a high-end 3D printer. It could have been manufactured on the Sagan, for what I know.

Samantha’s fingers, warmer now, begin to massage my neck. Her thumbs caress my spine and push into my shoulder blades under my t-shirt. I can feel her breasts pressing against my back as she floats behind me.

She’s very sensual and it feels amazing.

And I feel like a whore.

It’s just a massage, I tell myself.

I just wish that a certain someone else back on Earth was giving it to me.