who always gave her that pitying look that said, “You poor thing. Your father and sister dead. You poor, poor child.”
I am not a child, Edimar wanted to scream at them. I do not need your pity. I do not want your sympathy. Stop professing that you “know” what I’m going through or that you “know” what it feels like it or that you “know” how hard this must be for me. You don’t know anything. Was it your father who was ripped open by an hormiga and left to bleed to death? Was it your sister who had likely been blown to bits or had the air sucked from her lungs? No, it wasn’t. So stop pretending that you’re some fountain of emotional wisdom who understands everyone’s grief and pain. Because you don’t. You don’t know a thing about me. And you can jump in a black hole, for all I care.
She didn’t mean it. Not that last part anyway. But she did hate the sympathetic looks and the mournful sighs they gave on her behalf, as if all life was hopeless now, as if nothing mattered in the world and she was resigned to spend the rest of her life wallowing in misery.
The single most infuriating moment had been when her aunt Henrika had told her, “It’s all right, Edimar. You can cry.” As if Edimar needed permission from this woman. As if Edimar had been damming back all of her emotion and was just waiting for some grown-up to cue her to open the floodgates. Oh thank you, Aunt. Thank you. How kind of you to grant me the right to cry in front of you and humiliate myself just so I can prove to you and your snotty, gossiping sisters that I am in fact sad. Happy, Auntie? Look, here’s a tear, dropped from my very own eye. Take note. Spread the word. Edimar is sad.
It was so hurtful and demeaning and presumptive when her aunt had said it that Edimar almost had cried, right then and there in front of everyone in what would have been a burst of immediate tears. She had come so close. She could feel herself there at the precipice, so close to sobbing that the tiniest change in her breathing or the slightest tightening of her throat would have pushed her over the edge into uncontrollable sobs.
Yet fortunately, in some miraculous display of willpower, Edimar had kept her face a mask and not betrayed the horror and shock and pain she felt at Aunt Henrika’s words. How could people, in an effort to be helpful, be so clueless of heart, so thoughtless and cruel?
It was especially infuriating because Edimar did cry. Every day. Sometimes for an hour at a time. Always alone in the darkness of the crow’s nest where no one could see or hear her tears.
Yet apparently for the likes of Aunt Henrika, unless you’re crying in front of everyone, unless you wore your grief on your sleeve and paraded your tears for all the world to see, you had no tears to shed.
Edimar turned a corner and pushed off a wall, shooting up the corridor. She knew she shouldn’t be so petulant. No one was feigning sympathy. They all had her best interests in mind. Even Aunt Henrika, in her sad, condescending way. The problem was, the people who should shut up were the ones talking the most. It made Edimar grateful for people like Segundo and Rena and Concepcion, people who didn’t baby her or even broach the subject of Father’s and Alejandra’s deaths but who simply asked her about her work and told her about theirs. That’s all Edimar wanted: to be treated like a person who could handle her situation instead of being expected to act like a sad, blubbery sack.
Dreo was waiting for her outside the dining hall. They had agreed to meet here before going on to Concepcion’s office to give their report. After Father’s death, Concepcion had asked Dreo to assist Edimar with the Eye whenever she needed it, and Dreo, like the eager commander he was, had relished this new authority. Edimar didn’t need his help and certainly didn’t want it, but Dreo still found opportunities to insert himself into her work. For propriety’s sake, Dreo wasn’t to visit Edimar in the crow’s nest without another adult with him, and fortunately this had mostly kept Dreo away. Which was best. He knew next to nothing about how the Eye worked or how to interpret its data. He understood the operating system and nothing more. But just because you know how an oven works doesn’t mean you can bake a souffle.
“Did you bring your holopad?” Dreo asked.
So he was going to treat her like a child again. She kept her face expressionless and held up the holopad for him to see.
“Good. Is the presentation on it?”
Did he really think her an idiot? Or was Dreo this patronizing with everyone? Aloud she said, “You’re welcome to look at it if you want.”
He waved the idea away. “If there are flaws, I’ll talk through them. Let’s go.” He turned and moved for the helm, expecting her to follow.
How kind of you, thought Edimar. You’ll talk through my “flaws.” What a team player you are, Dreo. Good thing we have your great intellect to rescue us from my flawed presentation.
Edimar sighed. She was being bratty again. So what if Dreo is a pain. So what if he takes all the credit. The world could be coming to an end. There are more important matters than me getting my feelings stung.
They reached Concepcion’s office and were invited inside. Concepcion wasn’t alone. Segundo, Bahzim, and Selmo were also present as well.
“I’ve asked a few of the Council to join us,” said Concepcion. “I want their input on this. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” said Dreo. “We prefer it.”
It annoyed Edimar that Dreo would presume to speak for her. He was right of course; she did prefer more input. But Edimar hadn’t expressed that to him, and she didn’t like him making assumptions about her.
“We now know what the hormiga ship looks like,” said Dreo. “It’s close enough and moving slow enough for the Eye to create an accurate rendering. I’ll let Edimar give the presentation, and I’ll clarify points where necessary.”
Oh, he’ll “let” me give the presentation, thought Edimar. How kind. As if Dreo could give the presentation himself but was merely humoring a child, as if he knew the material better than she did, when in fact it was Edimar who had done ninety-five percent of the work. And he would clarify points? What points exactly? What did he know about the ship that she didn’t?
She didn’t look at him, worried that she might let her annoyance show. Instead she busied herself with the holopad, anchoring it to Concepcion’s desk and raising the various antennae. When it was ready, she turned on the holo. A computer-rendered image of the hormiga ship appeared in front of them.
The room went quiet. As Edimar had expected, everyone had the same slightly baffled expression. The ship was unlike anything humans had ever conceived. It was a large, bulgy teardrop shape, seemingly smooth as glass, with its pointy end facing in the direction it was traveling. Near the front was a wide-mouthed opening that faced forward and completely encircled the tip.
“To give you a sense of scale,” said Edimar, “here’s what El Cavador would look like beside it.” A rendering of El Cavador appeared next to the hormiga ship. It was like holding a grape next to a cantaloupe.
“How can a ship that big move that fast?” said Bahzim.
“It doesn’t even look like a ship at all,” said Selmo. “It’s circular. There’s no up or down. It looks more like a satellite.”
“It’s too big to be a satellite,” said Segundo. “Besides, we know the pod came from inside the ship. How it left the ship at such a high speed is anyone’s guess, but it must have. What stumps me is that I can’t see any obvious entrances or exit points.”
“What about this wide opening here at the front?” said Bahzim, pointing.
Segundo shook his head. “If I had to guess, I’d say that was a ram drive. Victor suspected the pod was powered by one, and this looks like a similar design. The ship scoops up hydrogen atoms, which at near-lightspeed would be gamma radiation, then the rockets shoot this gamma plasma out the back for thrust. It would be a brilliant propulsive system because you’d have an infinite amount of fuel, and the faster you move, the more hydrogen you’d pick up and therefore the more acceleration and thrust you’d generate.”
“Scoop-field propulsion,” said Concepcion.
“Is that even possible?” asked Bahzim.
“Theoretically,” said Segundo. “It would only work on a ship built in space and intended for interstellar travel, though. You couldn’t use a propulsion system like that to exit a planet or atmosphere. Too much G-force. You’d die instantly. But in a vacuum, you could accelerate quickly, safely. I wouldn’t exactly call it a clean form of propulsion, though. It would be putting out massive amounts of radiation. You wouldn’t want to fly behind it. Even at a great distance. If it’s powered by gamma plasma, the plasma would likely interfere with electronics and sensors as far back as, say, a million kilometers or so. Stay in its propulsion wake too long, and it would cause tearing on the surface of the ship. And at closer distances, you’d probably get a lethal dose of radiation. Be right behind it, and
