Golden Fleece

TWENTY-TWO

MASTER CALENDAR DISPLAY • CENTRAL CONTROL ROOM

STARCOLOGY DATE: SUNDAY 12 OCTOBER 2177

EARTH DATE: TUESDAY 11 MAY 2179

DAYS SINCE LAUNCH: 745 ▲

DAYS TO PLANETFALL: 2,223 ▼

While I was down, I missed a night of making subliminal suggestions to Aaron during his sleep. Bev didn’t get me fully back on line until 0457, and by the time I got around to checking on Rossman, he was too close to consciousness for me to risk speaking to him.

At 0700, as requested, I woke Aaron and Kirsten to the music Kirsten had asked for. She had a silly fondness for Hydra North, that vapid pop group immensely popular with the all-important eighteen-to-thirty-five age group when we had left Earth. The voices of the two men and the woman weren’t bad, really, but I just couldn’t stand the keening of Tomolis, the orangutan who sang the high bits. I shunted monitoring sounds from that apartment to one of my parallel processors.

Two minutes later, though, with them still lying in bed, I had to bring that apartment into the foreground again. A man had fallen from a tree on the forest deck and required medical attention for a twisted ankle. Kirsten’s name was on the top of the on-call list. She hurried to get dressed, Aaron contentedly watching from the bed as she stretched and squirmed into her clothes.

As soon as she was gone, though, Aaron’s demeanor changed. He got out of bed, bypassed his usual twenty minutes in the bathroom, and went straight to his worktable. He rifled through the clutter until he dug up Di’s gold watch. I tracked his eye movements as he read the inscription over and over again. Finally he gave a double press to a diamond stud on the watch’s circumference. Although I could see its face clearly, I didn’t have enough resolution to read the tiny indicator that came on when he did that, but the digital display changed to six of those old-fashioned box-shaped zeros made of six straight line segments. Stop-watch mode, I guessed.

Aaron then touched the inside of his left wrist, changing the glowing time display on his medical implant to six round zeros. He simultaneously squeezed Di’s watch in his right hand and pressed that fist against his own timepiece, tripping switches on both in unison. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—”

“What are you doing, Aaron?”

“Six Mississippi, seven Mississippi, eight Mississippi—”

“Please, Aaron, tell me what you are doing. This chanting is most atypical of you.”

He continued counting Mississippis, piling up more and more of the states (rivers?). At every tenth Mississippi he started over. After six complete cycles he squeezed his right hand and simultaneously touched its knuckles to the contact on his implant. He looked at the inside of his wrist. “Fifty-seven seconds,” he said softly, almost to himself. He opened his fist revealing Di’s sweat-soaked watch. “Sixty seconds!”

“Of course,” I said quickly. “We know that one is fast.”

“Shut up, JASON. Just shut up.” He stalked out of his apartment. It was shipboard dawn, so the grassy corridors were awash with pink light. Aaron marched to the elevator station, and I slid the doors open for him. Hesitating at the entrance, he turned around, set his jaw, and entered the stairwell.