Page 17 of Bound by Stars

Jupiter

Thirty days to Mars

I take a seat only one table away and ignore the pointed frown on Weslie’s face. Resisting the urge to make conversation, I pull out my sketchbook. She’s so unfriendly, I assumed it would be easy to sit quietly, but her general dislike of me makes me want to fill the silence even more.

I do a quick sketch of one of Tarak’s creature bots, etching the mesh-like pattern of their soft, metallic skin.

Turning the page, I draw the shape of ILSA, cylindrical body to domed head and oblong black face screen.

I add her smooth, light gray arms down to her cupped hands with thumb-like digits, like a mechanical claw.

Wes opens a panel on the bot’s side, and I mark it on the drawing.

ILSA’s screen lights up bright white and then shifts back to black with a white ellipsis in the center, each dot appearing and disappearing in order.

She’s rebooting. The dots are replaced with a swooped line, like a grin.

“Weslie, there is a human to your left who seems to be interested in interacting with you.”

“I’m aware, ILSA.” Weslie stares at her laptop screen, fingers flying over the keys.

“My social database indicates that the polite course of action is engagement. Hello, human. What is your name?”

I put down my pencil and open my mouth to talk, but Weslie beats me to it.

“ILSA, ignore him.” She speaks louder to make sure I hear her. “If he sat where I told him to, he would be outside your perimeter scan when you rebooted, and we could have pretended he wasn’t there at all.”

“He seems to be a healthy human. Is there a personality error or hygiene issue that makes you wary of him?”

“I’d like to know the answer to that, too, ILSA,” I say.

“Voice assessment: Jupiter Dalloway. We have met. Weslie’s aversion to you seems to be linked to her body temperature and heart rate. It is a possible indication of attr—”

“That’s enough, ILSA. Silent mode.”

Her robotic voice is quieter, but a pitch higher. “ ILSA. Silent mode .”

I don’t even fight the grin stretched across my face.

“Are you mocking me?” Wes puts her tool down and glares at ILSA’s face screen. “I have your communication tendencies set above a five-year-old human’s. You’re better than that.”

“I am more concerned about the error in your communication settings, Weslie.”

A choked laugh escapes.

She spins around, scowling at me.

I clear my throat, hunching back over my sketchbook. “Didn’t see you at dinner last night.”

She rests her head in her hand, propping her elbow on the desk and leaning closer to her computer screen. “Not really my scene.”

“You have to eat, though, right?”

She sighs loudly, typing as she speaks. “Not worth the spectacle.”

“You think dinner is pompous, wait for the Midway Gala. Ball gowns, tuxedos, dramatic entrances, dancing…the highest level of spectacle. And absolutely every passenger is expected to be there.”

“Every passenger?” She swings her head back to glower at me again with a tight smile.

“Well, every first-class passenger, but I think they have their own party downstairs.”

She raises her eyebrows pointedly, nods, and goes back to typing.

I just can’t stop myself from saying the wrong thing around her.

“I’m definitely sick that night.”

“You might be surprised. It’s kind of fun and we co—”

“All right, that’s enough.” She turns to me. “I think you need a break. If you’re done for the day, feel free not to come back.”

“I’m good.” I run my pencil over the bot outline, darkening the shape.

“A snack, then. You said you’d fetch snacks.” She hunches over her keyboard, typing.

“Trying to get rid of me?”

The serious blankness of concentration on her face doesn’t waver. “Always.”

“Fine.” I hop off my stool and raise my hands as I leave the room. By the time I’m back with two cups of tea and a protein bar, Weslie is standing with her back to the door, facing ILSA.

Balancing her laptop in one hand and typing with the other, she strikes a final key. “Repeat message.”

“Wes…zzzzleeee…plllll…” ILSA’s voice is low and painfully slow like she’s buffering.

“Stop message!” Weslie pounds on the keyboard, slides it back onto the table, and paces toward the window, gripping her hair.

ILSA’s face screen goes blank.

“Maybe a break will help. I brought tea.”

She whips around. “Why are you even here?”

“We’re supposed to—”

“Do you always do what you’re supposed to do? We could easily fake this partnership. Or better yet, leave me alone and take the incomplete. It’s not like they’re going to take your interplanetary corporation away from you.”

“Not a tea drinker, then?”

“You’re infuriating.”

ILSA’s mouth icon appears. “Displaced anger is a symptom of frustration.”

Weslie glares at the bot, and ILSA’s face goes blank again.

The door slides open, and Calypso enters. “How’s everything going in here? I’d love to see your progress.” Winding through the tables, they sweep past me and make their way straight to ILSA.

I raise my eyebrows at Weslie, shifting my gaze to Calypso and back.

I knew we’d be monitored. Calypso is not the kind of instructor who hands you the work and leaves you to figure it out.

They’ve always talked through assignments with me, encouraged questions, and even helped me research.

They’ll make themselves available whether Weslie likes it or not.

They stop in front of ILSA. “How’s the communication bug?”

“Still haven’t quite figured it out, but I’m close.” A bold lie.

I automatically squint and tilt my head to the side.

Weslie glares at me. Definitely a threat.

“How about the presentation? Have you started to draw up plans and specs?”

“Well, I—”

“I’ve been working on that bit.” I open my sketchbook, and Calypso takes it to inspect my work.

ILSA glides closer, wedging herself between me and Calypso. “The scale of my cranial dome is inaccurate.”

“This is a good start.” Calypso hands the book back. “They’ll want a digital version with labeled parts. Inside and out.”

“No problem. I’ll get the base ready while Weslie works on programming.”

“Good.” They turn to Weslie. “Keep in mind you’ll have to be ready to present this yourself. It will be much more in-depth than the judges’ panel, so be ready to answer any possible questions.”

“I’ll get it down by the time we arrive.” She sounds less sure of herself.

“Great. To keep you on track, I want to see a mock presentation when we hit the midpoint of our trip in”—they glance at their comm—“twelve days. That will give you plenty of time to consider my feedback and iron out any rough patches.”

Wes nods again, but all the false pleasantness falls from her face the second Calypso turns away.

“You’re on the right track. I’ll check back in soon!” they call through the closing door.

Weslie heaves out a breath, slumps in her seat, and groans.

“Don’t worry, I’ve spent an absurd amount of time in public relations and speech tutoring sessions over the past two years. I can help write the presentation, too.”

She looks up like she forgot I was here.

“So you gonna let me sit with you now or should I…” I point across the room.

She shoves her laptop into her bag and marches past me without a word. But she didn’t insult me directly this time. That’s progress.