Two hundred and twenty-eight.

That’s how many “phantom ships” have shown up on the radar in the past four hours. And not only that, we discovered that Chrys is reading her own signal at the center of the Antinomy space field without the use of C-CIL’s algorithm.

I’ve decided to implement mandatory breaks to try and keep us both from going crazy. Radar watch can get a bit maddening after a while, especially when the vessels showing up never last for more than a second or two.

Ready for a change of pace, I walk back to the observation deck, and hoist myself onto the windowsill. There’s a book lying about a meter away, and I inch myself over to grab it. What do you want to bet Byer left it here when he was in one of his brooding fits.

I pick it up and inspect the cover. I, Robot. I tried to read it once, but I couldn’t stand it. Even the name makes my skin crawl. Robot. It’s such a demeaning word.

Dad had tried to get me to read it a few times. He told me it was important to understand how people used to think, to understand how much things have changed. But I couldn’t stomach it—the prejudice, the fearmongering, the hateful rhetoric. Whether Asimov’s intent was to condemn the vulgarity of human superiority or condone it is irrelevant. Those ugly, archaic ideas still stand there, immortalized in print, like monuments to small-minded human ignorance. It makes me sick to think about living in that kind of world, and the sentiment is only strengthened by the fact that some people still view human intervention-guided intelligent life as somehow less-than.

I pick up the book and flip through it, glancing over the pages, picking out a line here and there. I shake my head, remembering why I disliked it so much in the first place. It’s outdated and often downright offensive. But then something toward the back of the book catches my eye. A name. Byerley. I flip back through the pages, trying to find where it first shows up, and start to read.

“Who are you?”

“What do you mean?” Byer asks, looking at me curiously as I walk through the door to the bridge.

“I mean, who are you, really?”

He looks at me with that impenetrable gaze of his but doesn’t answer.

“I don’t even know your real name,” I say coolly.

“I thought you didn’t care,” he replies. It’s true, I have acted like I couldn’t care less about his real name. But now I am a little curious.

I shrug.

“I just thought it might be nice to get to know you a little,” I say.

He nods, watching me as I cross the bridge.

“Yeah. There are some things I’d like to know about you, too.”

“Okay,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “How about this. We each get one question. I’ll even let you go first. Sound fair?”

“Sure,” he says.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I sit on the dash across from him and wait.

He looks into my eyes, studying me quietly for a moment.

“What happened?” he asks.

“What do you mean, ‘What happened?’” I ask, even though I already know. I feel my heart quicken as I wait for him to reply.

“Why were you out here alone?” he asks, his voice low and even.

I turn and look out the glass. I know that it’s time I told someone, even if it’s him. I’ve kept it to myself for so long. It’s time to finally face it, even if I don’t feel ready. I take a deep breath and turn back to Byer.

“We were on a job,” I begin slowly. “A relocation. That’s what we do. Chrysanthemum and Lotus—we work in tandem. Same crew, but we split up when, when—” I try to think of how to describe it. How do I say enough without saying too much? “—when the work is a little more sensitive,” I say. “Lotus does the grunt work, and Chrysanthemum acts as a cover.”

Byer nods, watching my face intently.

“The whole idea is that if anything happens, if anything goes wrong, Lotus will take the fall, and that way Chrysanthemum stays in the air. She keeps her hands clean.”

I swallow. Now comes the part I dread. The part I still dream about. The part I’ve tried to push so far back into the corners of my mind that it will never see the light of day.

“I was on Chrysanthemum that day,” I continue, “and something went wrong. Someone showed up—Omen.”

I look at Byer to see if there’s any sign of recognition in his eyes, but he doesn’t react.

“Omen is,” I say, “Well, it’s the last ship you wanna see when you’re trying to avoid trouble.”

I pause for a moment, steeling myself to continue.

“I tried to warn Lotus, but—” I shake my head. But they would listen, I leave the last part unsaid. “And I—I was supposed to take Chrysanthemum and run. That was the plan. That was always the plan.”

I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“But I messed up,” I say quietly. “I—” I pause, trying to find the courage to say it. To admit how stupid I was. “I fired on the other ship. On Omen. I thought if I could buy Lotus some time...” I trail off without finishing. I look down at my shoes, and a long quiet moment passes without either of us speaking.

“I was so stupid. I risked everything. And now everywhere I go, I’m looking over my shoulder.”

“The Vanguard,” Byer says.

“I have no clue if Omen was able to ID me, but if he did,” I shake my head, unable to finish the thought. If he did, he’ll never let me go. He’ll never stop until he’s found me.

“I figured maybe I could just lie low, slowly make my way back to Meridian, try not to draw attention to myself, and maybe, just maybe I’d get away with it.”

I stare out the glass, into the darkness that stretches out in front of me, warped by unseen forces. Black nothingness, deformed nonetheless.

At least Byer knows better than to ask about Lotus. After all, he knows I’m still looking for them.

“Hey,” he says in a low, quiet voice, waiting for me to meet his eye. “I would’ve done the same thing. Any good captain would’ve.”

I smile and feel a tear slide down my cheek, wiping it away quickly before another can follow.

I can’t say I feel much better. But maybe just a little bit lighter.

“Okay, it’s my turn,” I say, trying to change the subject as quickly as possible. Enough about me, it’s time to get some answers of my own.

I look at Byer seriously. I stare into those hard, unreadable eyes.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “Why are you on my ship?”

He looks back at me but doesn’t speak. He sits quietly for a moment, and then, unexpectedly, he reaches a hand toward mine, taking it gently from my leg where it was resting and pulling it toward him. I find myself instinctively trying to pull it back from him, but he holds it tightly in his grasp, my fingers wrapped inside his. He brings my hand to the side of his face, pressing my fingers into the warm, soft flesh of his cheek.

I look into his eyes, noticing the small flecks of color in his iris for the first time, the ring around the outside that’s slightly darker than the rest. I study the freckles dotted unevenly around his temples, the mole that partially obscured by an eyebrow, the curve of his lip that somehow never fully make it to a smile. I see him, for the first time, for who he really is.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I wonder aloud.

“Would it have mattered?” Byer asks in return.

I shake my head.

“No,” I say. And I mean it.

His eyes soften with a smile.

“That’s why.”

Byer lets his hand fall away. But I keep mine where it is, held to his face, my fingertips pressing gently into the tender skin of his cheek to trace the delicate lines of the wires underneath.