Elliot scuffed his shoe on the floor as he walked. There was nothing to kick; there was never anything to kick on the Craton‘s spotless decks. Drones came through and picked up what few objects got dropped on the floor – people never just threw garbage down! – and swept or scrubbed or soaped every spot that ever needed it. If necessary, even some mild radiation to scour a spot clean of dangerous microbes.

He knew all about how it worked because of how many times he’d tested the limits.

Who cared if he threw worms and mud on a wall? Drones just cleaned it. Sure, he’d get a scolding, but he hardly cared. He was mostly curious how fast and upset the drones would get.

He wished he had something to kick. But he’d lost permission to kick balls down the halls from how many people they had hit. Sometimes they were accidents.

Passing some of Beetle-Slugs, he whistled out a kind of pidgin hello. At least, Gracken from the Response Shuttle repair team had told him that’s what it meant. He couldn’t be sure, but the Beetle-Slugs he met always seemed to appreciate it, and this one replied in a similar sound.

Coming up to the door, he was almost disappointed to be home. The door detected him and opened automatically.

It was dark inside. It always was anymore.

Walking in, he had to give his eyes a moment to adjust.

“Dad?” he called.

He heard a sound, and a door opened to his father’s bedroom.

“Elliot,” he said. “You’re home already?”

“It’s 1430,” Elliot replied. “I’m supposed to be home now.”

“Oh,” his father replied. His voice was slightly wan.

Elliot stepped over a book that was laying on the floor. In a sharp contrast to the ship at large, the apartment floor was cluttered. Elliot saw a plate with part of a ration roll on it. His dad had only taken a couple of bites out of it.

“Dad, let me call in the cleaning drones,” he said.

“No,” his father said sharply. “Something’s broken with the drones in here. They don’t . . . they don’t clean like they’re supposed to. They just follow me.”

Maybe because he had ketchup on his shirt, Elliot thought in annoyance.

“I’ll be in my room,” Elliot said, walking off.

“Wait,” his father said. “I’ll get dressed and we’ll go down to a place we can get dinner together. How about that?”

Elliot looked at his dad. “That’s okay,” he replied, and walked on.

----------------------------------------

Iago sat down heavily on his chair, thinking that with how many times he’d let his son down lately, it made sense that he didn’t want to put his hopes in going out for dinner.

Honestly, Iago didn’t know if he could. He might be able to power through it for the sake of his son, but how many day’s worth of energy would it cost him?

His eyes went over the cabin, at the books, plates, trays, tablets and clothes scattered about. It was neater than it had been last night. Oh god, had he gotten up to see Elliot off? He couldn’t remember.

But the fact that it was tidier suggested that Elliot had cleaned a little before he’d left.

Looking to the partly-eaten ration roll, he felt a stab of guilt that seemed to drain him of even more strength. His son was having to fend for himself, and he could do nothing to help.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying. It was all he could do to present himself as being marginally recovering when his superiors checked up on him. And that was surely achieving little, as they could see all the rest of his biometrics.

If only he could at least keep the place clean. In a sudden fit, he dropped to the floor, on his knees, and began to gather up things, shoveling them into his arms.

But once he had, he did not know what to do with them. There was a book . . . he pulled it out, dropping other things, and closed it. His eyes unfocused as he tried to read the title.

He couldn’t focus.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He didn’t even remember dropping it or sitting down, but he found himself in his chair again. The mess of the room was now mostly in a pile, and he couldn’t even spare the thought to figure out if that was better or worse.

He had no energy.

“System, get me an energy pill,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” it replied cheerfully. “You have reached the maximum daily dosage of energy-enhancing caplets.”

He’d never reached his cap before. One stim was enough to make a man run long past the point of exhaustion, and the limit was . . . was it three or four?

Damn it, this was basic stuff!

He slammed a fist into the arm of his chair, and to his surprise it broke.

The sound of shattering startled him, and he peeled back the cover to look at the frame. Part of the plastic had cracked, sharp pieces falling to the floor.

That was impossible. This stuff wasn’t brittle, it was tough and he wasn’t so strong that he could break it.

A panel opened, and a drone slipped into the room. It was a cleaning model, and he hated them. Always underfoot.

It swept up the pieces and he got an alert in his HUD that a new generic chair could be delivered in only four minutes or a custom replica of this one in an hour.

He hit the delay option. He didn’t feel like even taking in a box.

Something hit his foot, and he looked down.

The drone was there. It wasn’t even alone. There were four of the little drones around him. Just . . sitting in a semi-cirlce.

Staring.

“Leave,” he ordered.

One moved an inch, but then stopped. The rest did not budge.

“Get out!” he yelled.

They zoomed back slightly, and he found himself on his feet in a rage, ready to stomp one of the machines.

They scattered and were gone, faster than he even believed possible.

Oh god, he’d almost just stomped a drone. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would get him in serious trouble, but it was never considered good.

And his snapping temper . . . what if he lost it on Elliot?

Arms wrapping around himself, feeling suddenly cold, he decided he had no choice.

“Contact Zeela Cann,” he said. “Tell her . . . tell her I need to talk to her about the . . . the drones in here. There’s something wrong with them.”

He wasn’t sure why he wanted to talk to Zeela. She was busy; very busy with the recall election of the Captain, on top of every other brush fire she put out.

But he didn’t think Jaya Yaepanaya could understand his mental state. Cann was . . . well, she was friendly. She solved problems in the normal parts of life.

And she’d always looked out for the Response people. He’d never needed her help, but she’d done a lot for others on his team who suffered burnout. Who broke down.

Like he was experiencing now.

----------------------------------------

The door did not open automatically for Zeela Cann, even after her third request for entry.

“Iago, are you in there?” she messaged again. “I’m here about your request!”

There was still no answer after several long heartbeats.

Iago Caraval had never asked for her help before, only for some others in the Response Teams who were having a hard time. And calling her over some malfunctioning drones made little sense.

It only made sense if he was having difficulties himself. Which made sense; while she was not privy to all that he’d gone through on his last mission – even if she had been, she did not want to deal with this weird stuff any more than she had to, honestly – she knew both officially and unofficially that he had been having a hard time.

After some initial recovery, seeming to be getting better rapidly, a lot of people crashed. They mistook basic recovery for total convalescence, while their body was still trying to process the shock of what they had experienced.

And it was affecting his son Elliot, too . . . Professor Browning had messaged her with his concerns after talking to the boy several times. He would not open up, not even to his teacher, but his behavior still indicated the boy was having a very difficult time.

Zeela really did not want to have to override the door. It was a terrible invasion of privacy, and thus far in her career she had never had to do it outside of a medical emergency, which Caraval’s system did not indicate.

Perhaps she should message Elliot . . .

Even as she thought that, though, the door opened, and the boy was standing there. His eyes were sullen and wary, watching her with the suspicion of a child who thought he was in trouble.

“Hello Elliot,” she said cheerfully, which did nothing to dispel his suspicions. “Is your father here?”

“Yeah,” he said, even his voice dour. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not at all, dear,” she said, trying to give a sympathetic smile. “Your father just called, and so I’m here!”

Stars, she could still recall in her own life standing in his spot, looking up at an administrator who’d been too nice to be believed. The most memorable had been after the accidental melting of a large portion of a science room in a chemistry demonstration . . . Though, even in that case it had been ruled an accident and she got an award for her quick and effective clean-up procedures.

Ending her path towards being a chemist, but starting her down administration . . .

Somehow, she did not see that path for Elliot, despite knowing he was exceptionally bright. As the boy moved from the door to let her in, she saw the mess.

Perhaps there was a severe problem with the cleaning drones. It should never have gotten like this.

“Iago?” she called.

The room was dark, and before her eyes fully adjusted she saw a form move. It had been on the floor, near the bedroom door.

“Zeela,” the man said, his voice surprised. “You’re here.”

“You called me, dear,” she said, smiling.

“I . . . Oh, yeah. I . . . uh . . .”

“Elliot, dear, would you give me some time to talk to your father?” she asked the boy.

“Sure,” he said, heading for his room.

“You don’t have to go back to your room. Why not down to the gardens, hm? I have a drone that will meet you there, and bring you some dinner. Extra ice cream would be good, I think, how about you?”

The boy’s face perked up. She knew that the gardens were his favorite place – even if just because they were a good place for mischief. She felt confident that any trouble he could stir up would be easily dealt with.

“Can I have a mint sippy?” he asked, excitement building.

“That sounds fine to me!” she said. “Iago, are you okay with that?”

“Yeah,” the man said, forcing his enthusiasm. “Have fun, bud! I’ll see you in a bit!”

Elliot went excitedly to the door, but stopped to look back. His eyes went to his father, and she saw hesitation there, a worry that hurt her heart.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get things sorted here,” she vowed.

“Okay,” he said, and disappeared.