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While the color drains from my face, a young crew member walks into the room. At first she doesn’t seem to notice us, then her gaze drops to the floor where we are recovering from a state of half undress, and she jumps back

“Oh, I didn’t… oh. Sir, there you are.”

Marek still kneels on the ground, one arm resting along his thigh to obscure whatever undressing I managed to get done.

My hair is a mess.

I must have lipstick smudged all over my face.

“Yes,” Marek slowly responds. “I am here.”

He doesn’t look at the young woman, instead letting his worried gaze land on me.

One heated exchange, one bout of passion.

And we’ve already been found out.

12

MAREK

“The exploration of space will go ahead, whether we join in it or not, and it is one of the great adventures of all time, and no nation which expects to be the leader of other nations can expect to stay behind in the race for space.”

—John F. Kennedy, American President

* * *

In reality, seconds pass.

In this room, however, those seconds carry the weight of centuries.

The young engineer who I recognize as Astrid Keller looks between me and Azalea, her mind piecing together the scene’s obvious message--that Azalea and I were engaged in something sexual. Perhaps we could avoid further scrutiny if we did not exude such a strong stench of guilt about us. Our body language alone serves as an admission of a crime.

The moment Astrid opens her mouth to break the silence, Azalea rushes out of the room. She does so without saying a word, practically throwing her body through the door when it opens.

I take a step to follow, but then realize that might only make the situation worse. I must answer for my actions, and that starts with the one person who witnessed them.

“I won’t tell a soul,” Astrid says, the moment I turn to face her.

Even in this dark room, light reflects off her eyes as she returns my stare without blinking. Her blond hair is tied back in a bun, her uniform impeccably pressed. Her appearance is all business, as I would expect from my chief nuclear engineer. Fortunately, she seems serious about taking my side.

“I understand,” Astrid says. “It’s an impossible situation.”

“It is…” I want to lie, to sound like the calm and collected leader, but the engineer’s sincerity has already cut through that facade. “It should not have happened. I made a mistake.” The words are not a lie… but they feel as such when they leave my mouth. Part of me cannot condone calling what I feel for Azalea a mistake.

“Or you’re human,” she responds. “Confident as we all may be in the computer and the algorithm, some feelings simply defy reasoning.”

I inherently dislike anything that claims to defy reason. What is the point of reason if it can be defied so easily by the whim of emotion? That said, there is truth in her words, one I am reluctant to acknowledge and powerless to act on.

I can only calculate that which I have data for. I did not factor in what a late-arriving Azalea Clark would do to my heart.

“Was anyone injured during the engine failure?” I ask, needing to change the subject and take the focus off myself.

Astrid studies me a moment, as though she is not quite ready to switch topics, then finally answers. “No injury, save a few bruises on the crew and passengers who fell. Plenty of cleanup to do on the recreation deck, but no structural damage there.”

“And anywhere else?”

She hesitates. “Losing an engine for that amount of time caused a significant amount of torque along the level one casing. No visual signs of distress, but I’m not ready to give a clean bill of health.”