Page 19 of Bound by Stars

Jupiter

Twenty-two days to Mars

Weslie is already set up with ILSA at the back of the lab when I get there. For the better part of almost five days, I’ve switched between drawing and writing her presentation speech in absolute silence. She has straight out refused to talk to me, but that’s going to change today.

I roll my shoulders back and approach her table, passing Curran and Tar, sitting side by side and too deep in work to notice me. On the other side of the table, Asha is buried in fabric and waves a pair of scissors. Her gaze flicks toward Weslie and she grimaces.

I shrug at her and take a slow inhale, marching straight up to Weslie’s table.

She continues staring at the computer screen like I’m not here. If there weren’t other people on the ship, I would be convinced I was a ghost by now.

“I’m sorry for what I said in the library.

I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you or your friend had anything to do with the paint in the elevator, only that the porters might know more about what happens on this ship than even Asha.

I don’t assume that everyone from Earth is a criminal, but with people like Hale throwing their small-minded prejudices around, I can understand how it could have come off that way.

I’ll be more mindful of my words going forward. You can count on it.”

Her fingers slow on the keyboard and her eyes twitch like she’s resisting looking at me.

I take a deep breath and lean over the table.

“I know you generally prefer to pretend I’m not here, and you’ve made it absolutely clear how much you hate working with me, but if I’m going to help you prepare for this presentation, we’re going to have to talk eventually.

” I open the file and slide my tablet across the table.

“Think you could cut me some slack today and take a look at what I’ve written so far? ”

She shifts her eyes to the tablet and then to my face. Her expression softens. “No need for all the drama. All you had to do was ask.”

I massage my forehead. “Do you have any clue how intimidating you are?”

She lowers her chin and glares at me through her dark eyelashes.

“Not in a bad way,” I add.

Some of the tension melts from her expression. “Likably intimidating? And here I thought I was just plain mean.”

“Oh, definitely that, too.” I brace myself, waiting for her deep-cutting retaliation.

She laughs, sitting back in her seat and scrutinizing me with tight eyes. Her mouth twists like she’s holding back a smile. Almost like she’s impressed.

Pulling the tablet closer, her eyes roam the screen before she points at the stylus in my hand, signaling for me to hand it over. Scribbling some notes, she slides them both back across the table and stands up to stretch. “You had a lot of the terminology wrong.”

“I mean, you were ignoring me the entire time I was working on it.” I had to look up her public contestant profile to get most of the information.

She huffs out a breath. “Okay, maybe it was a little harsh giving you the silent treatment for five days when you didn’t technically accuse me of anything.”

“Maybe a little.” I laugh, sliding onto a stool. Thinking better of lingering on her semi-apology too long, I ask, “Made any progress with the messaging?”

“I think so. I just have to finish this and…” She smacks the last key with her index finger. Looking up at ILSA, a full grin stretches across Weslie’s face. “…there. ILSA, please deliver my recent messages.”

“Message. From: Mom. Received eleven days ago. Dear Weslie, I hope this message gets to you before you’re out of range.”

“Yes!” Weslie leaps out of her seat, thrusting her arms into the air.

I wish I could have seen her build ILSA from the start. I can just imagine the look on her face when she booted up for the first time. The way her mask slips when she’s working. Completely possessed by equal parts curiosity and joy.

“I need you to knooo…” ILSA’s face goes blank, and the word turns into an uncomfortable long tone.

“No!” Weslie falls into the chair, eyes running over the code on her screen.

“All messages permanently deleted.”

“What? How? ILSA, Retrieve deleted messages!”

“Inaccessible. You have zero messages.”

She holds her face in her hands, so her growled words are muffled.

“This doesn’t make sense!” Running her hands over her hair, she stands and brushes past me, close enough that I’m enveloped in the scent of floral soap, lilac maybe.

But underneath the flowers, there’s still a hint of trees and sunlight like the best parts of Earth are infused into her freckled skin.

“Maybe they’re backed up on your comm,” I offer, shaking off the urge to breathe her in again.

“Unfortunately, ILSA is my comm.” She raises and twists her hands, bulky sleeves falling away from her bare wrists.

The sweater is practically swallowing her whole. She looks cute, and I have to fight the urge to say it out loud. Dammit, I have to get control over my thoughts. I cannot go there. Even if she weren’t from Earth, I couldn’t risk so much as a minor crush.

After an hour of switching between pacing and typing, she lays her head on the table.

“Any luck?”

Her body stays slumped over the table’s edge, only her eyes shifting toward me. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She sits up and closes her computer.

“Want to give the presentation a try?” I say with too much enthusiasm.

“Not really.”

“Maybe talking out the issue with ILSA’s comm system would help?”

She huffs out a breath and yanks my tablet back. “On second thought, I would love to practice the presentation.”

By the third try, it’s not getting any better.

Every word is shaky and unsure. Like the very thought of public speaking has transformed her entire personality.

She wipes her palm over her thigh again.

“I’d like to start by thanking the board for this, um”—she glances down at my tablet in her other hand—“for, um, this opportunit—”

“That’s already two ‘um’s,’” Asha informs her in a singsong voice, continuing to snip the colorful material in her hands. On the table in front of her, the fabric moves. A little metallic bunny ear pops out from underneath.

I catch Weslie’s eye, trying to be reassuring. “You’re doing great. Keep going.”

“For this opportunity. My entry, ILSA or Individualized, um…” She glances down again.

“You don’t need to check, Weslie. You named her. Try without the tablet,” I say cautiously, but when she lifts her narrowed eyes, I can see the encouragement is just pissing her off at this point.

She lays the tablet down, lifts her eyes, and takes a breath. “Individualized Life Support Assistant.”

“Don’t stare at the ceiling,” Tar reminds her.“My parents are always getting on me about that.”

She groans and rubs her hands over her face. “This is ridiculous. I’m never going to be good at this.”

The audience is clearly not helping. I turn to my friends, but only Curran and Asha look up. I point toward the door, asking them silently to leave.

“I need to get in a run. Want to join me, Tar?” Curran slides out of his seat, tucking his computer under one arm.

Tar’s face flushes and he nods, following and leaving Asha behind, still hurriedly collecting her stuff.

“I’ll join you!” Asha adds, already following, fabric spilling out of the bag at her hip. She pauses at the door. “You’re really improving, Wes. You’ll get it down.”

“Want to try it without the crowd?” I ask as soon as we’re alone.

“Not even a little bit,” she says through her teeth.

“Okay.” I raise my hands. “Figure out why ILSA deleted your messages?”

“Oh, no. Asha left her scissors. I should take them to her.”

I step into her path. “She doesn’t really need them in the gym. Nice try, though.”

“Can we not talk about the messaging or the presentation?”

“Okay. What else is left?”

She drops onto the stool in front of her laptop. “There are some small fixes I need to iron out to clean up the code. I think I have the medical emergency awareness installed and ready, but I haven’t had the opportunity to test that.”

“Let’s check that off the list. How do we test it?”

“We have to wait for someone to be injured within her scannable perimeter. Someone that isn’t me, so Meridian and Hale will be no help.”

“I guess that makes me the lab rat.” I pick up Asha’s scissors.

“We can wait until—”

Opening the shears, I run the edge across my palm. Searing pain instantly runs up my arm.

“Fuuu…” I hold my closed fist up, curling my lips around my teeth and the string of words I want to scream. Blood drips down my arm. “That always looks so painless in movies.”

“What the hell, Jupiter!” She leaps out of her seat, frantically scanning the room. “Keep it elevated! I’ll find something to wrap—”

ILSA rushes past her. “Jupiter, you have suffered a laceration on your right hand. My scans indicate the depth of the wound requires medical closure to prevent infection and further damage. Do I have your permission to attend to your injury?”

Smiling at Weslie, I answer, “Yes, ILSA.”

I offer my hand, and she works quickly, cleaning, spraying antiseptic, and then a numbing agent—thank the universe—from the nozzle in her palm.

Weslie steps back, her shoulders loosening as she watches her bot work exactly as she intended.

ILSA applies skin adhesive, then her supply compartment pops open, and she pulls out a roll of gauze, wrapping the wound. The entire process is done in under three minutes.

Damn, she’s impressive.

“Keep the area clean until fully healed. Recovery time estimate: two weeks. In the future, please exercise more caution while handling sharp instruments.” ILSA backs away, her face going neutral.

I hold out my bandaged hand. “I’d say that worked.”

“We could have just waited for someone to get sick or bump into something. You didn’t have to mutilate yourself!” She grabs my fingers and wrist, examining the wrapped wound. “At least it’s not your dominant hand.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. “You noticed I’m left-handed.”

She releases me, backs away, and hops onto the edge of a table. “You never stop drawing. Anyone who spends more than a minute around you would know that.”

“Weslie, this is a big deal.”

“I know, I actually fixed something. Now if she could just deliver a simple message, I’m golden.”

“No, not ILSA.”

She frowns at me like I’m not making sense.

“Wes, we might actually be friends.”

She meets my gaze for a beat before dropping her eyes and clearing her throat. “Hardly.”

“You know, it’s okay to admit you don’t hate me. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” I take a step closer. Dangerous territory, but the longer I’m around her the less I care.

“If only it were the truth.” But her voice is breathy. There’s none of that usual stubborn conviction in her words.

ILSA chimes in, “His heart rate and body temperature suggest he is being truthful to the best of his knowledge.”

“She’s insisting she still hates me, ILSA.” I carefully take Weslie’s hands. She doesn’t pull away, so I stare into her eyes like I’m searching for the lie. “But I think she’s being dishonest.”

She freezes. I expect the usual rage, but her expression is gentle. Her lips part.

“Weslie’s elevated heart—”

“Okay, okay. You aren’t completely horrible,” she admits, tearing her hands away and blinking like she’s come out of a trance.

“I’ll take it.” I check my comm. It’s already six p.m. Dammit. “I have to go.”

“Right. Okay.” Weslie leaps off the table. “ILSA, close up.”

“Want to meet up after class tomorrow?”

“Okay.” She shrugs, but her smile looks more like a definitive yes.

I grab my stuff and head for the door. Pausing, I turn back to her. “Actually, I’m going to this thing later tonight. I was thinking, maybe…do you want to come?”

She twists her lips and raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe Asha already invited you…”

“I think she mentioned something about tonight, but honestly”—she lets out a quick, breathy laugh—“at a certain point, I have to tune her out. My brain can only hold so much new information at a time. What is it?”

“I think it’d be more fun if it was a surprise.”

She rolls her eyes. “I hate surprises.”

“That doesn’t shock me at all. I’ll pick you up after dinner.”

She twists her mouth, glaring at me dubiously, but by her eyes, I know she’s intrigued enough to come along.

“Bring a jacket!” I back out the door and run down the hall.