Chapter 2
📚 Need to catch up? Here’s Chapter 1
The Alternate
Dr. Boulder leans back, her chair creaking softly.
She studies Adam with eyes nestled in a web of fine lines. A scar runs from her left eyebrow to her cheekbone—a relic from her brush with The Sorrows, perhaps.
Adam’s leg bounces involuntarily as his hand drums a staccato rhythm on the armrest—government-issue, designed to mimic comfortable textures but failing miserably.
Finally, she breaks this silence.
“So, Adam, catch me up. How have you been sleeping lately?”
“Fine.”
“That’s not what your AURA reports.”
He snorts. “Didn’t know my quarters had become an extension of your office.”
“This project has cost nearly a fifth of global GDP. Until last month, you were just a footnote in it. Let’s call it... Central Governance's due diligence.”
“Fair enough, I suppose,” he concedes. “What did AURA pick up?”
“Irregular sleep patterns. Increased restlessness. Elevated heart rate during REM cycles.”
She pauses. “And you’ve been talking in your sleep.”
He tenses slightly. “Talking. About what?”
“Hard to say. It’s mostly gibberish. Except this morning.”
He remains silent, fidgeting with his eyebrow.
“Have you found yourself avoiding any particular thoughts or memories recently?”
“Like what?”
“Like… unpleasant ones. Ones that may cause you to second guess the reason you’re sitting in that chair being assess for this command.
He leans back in his seat, away from her question.
“Look, if you’re trying to ask about the bombing, just do it. No need to beat around the bush.”
“I’d like to talk about that.”
“Well, what do you want to know?”
“What do you want to share?”
Nothing, Adam thinks to himself, but he knows he can’t avoid this conversation any longer.
He’d never imagined himself in this position.
Not long ago, he was Chief of Training, running simulations and preparing others for a mission he never expected to join. His expertise as a former military pilot made him perfect for crafting hyper-realistic training scenarios, but command? That had never been part of the plan.
He remembers the day they designated him the alternate co-pilot’s alternate. It had seemed like a formality then, a box checked for the sake of redundancy.
In the line of succession, the Secretary of Education doesn’t seriously think they’ll one day wake up president.
But there he sits across from the mission psych, the weight of command pressing down on his shoulders. The room that once felt spacious during routine evaluations now seems to close in around him, Dr. Boulder’s gaze more penetrating than ever before.
He takes a deep breath, his hand instinctively moving to smooth his uniform.
“You remember first hearing about it?”
“I do," she replies.
Adam's gaze drifts to the window, staring at the Kibotos, a responsibility he never asked for.
Not like this.
“You always assume you’ll hear about these things after the fact. On the news, or from a friend. Not..."
The life drains from his words.
“…not by being there, watching it happen right in front of you."
The assassination shocked the world. Such an atrocity hadn’t occurred since The Sorrows.
It happened on an ordinary evening at a popular pub in the heart of the Capital, close to mission headquarters. The place buzzed with conversations about colonizing Hybris Prime, a beacon of hope for a future away from their dying planet.
“I was supposed to meet with them,” he begins.
“Meet with her,” she says.
Adam’s world tilts on its axis. His head snaps up, eyes narrowing, pulse quickening. His ComSpec chirps softly—elevated stress detected.
“W…what?" He quickly covers the device with his other hand, but not before Boulder's eyes flick towards it.
Her brow furrows slightly, confused by his sudden change in demeanor.
“Meet with who?” she repeats. “Who did you meet with at the pub?”
He blinks. Once. Twice.
“Right, sorry,” he mumbles, pulling his sleeve over his ComSpec, clamping the fabric in his fist.
“I thought you said… uh… nevermind.”
She says, “Take your time.”
He swallows hard, fighting back the lump forming in his throat.
“Who was there?” he rephrases the question.
“Let’s see, uh, there was… Linsi, of course, Mission Commander. And Pitts, the co-pilot, he was there, too. And his alternate. Uh, the science officer… forgot his name—Jordan… Gordon, maybe? Never got to know him. Some of the system engineers, I didn’t really know them either. A handful of ops and logistics folks. All just blowing off steam. We were getting so close to launch after so long, you know?"
Adam takes a deep breath, steadying himself.
“And, um, Yuki, Dr. Ito. He was there, too. Amazing astrobiologist. And... and a good friend.”
The doctor leans forward, eyes encouraging.
“Ki and I, we’d known each other since the Academy,” a ghost of a smile flickers across his face.
“He was... man, he was brilliant. He had this way of breaking things down, making the most complex theories sound simple. He’d explain it to you like you were a kid, you know? But not in a condescending way. Just... clear. Simple.”
Adam’s gaze drifts to a point beyond the psychologist
“He was going to be their eyes and ears out there. On Prime. If they found anything weird or... I don't know, alien, I guess... Yuki would've been the one to figure it out. Now they’ve replaced him with his own robot—Tartar.”
“And you know what the worst part is?” he scoffs. “Everyone acts like it’s no big deal. Like Tartar’s just another crew member. But it's not. It's just this... thing..."
He trails off.
“What happened next, Adam?"
He breathes in deeply, gazing a thousand yards, unfocused. The scene unfolds in his memory: the pub bustling with activity, filled with members of the primary and alternate crews .
“I was running late. Just a few minutes, but... it changed everything. I was almost there, could see the pub. Yuki waved at me through the window, and I waved back. Then the world just…"
“…exploded.”
The memory hits him like a physical blow. The shockwave had slammed him to the ground. His head cracked against the pavement. The acrid stench of smoke and burning flesh had filled his nostrils, making him gag.
“The ringing in my ears... it made every sound so far away. But then it faded, and I could hear the screams, the sobs. I blinked, and..."
Adam’s voice falters.
“Where the pub stood, there was just... a smoking crater. Twisted metal, shattered glass. The heat from the flames, the smoke... I could barely breathe."
Boulder asks, “What did you do?”
“I got up. I had to. People needed help. Even with my head spinning and my ears ringing, all I could think was: ‘I have to do something. I have to save them. I can’t lose friends, not again.’”
His tone flattens. “But I couldn’t save them. I saw... I saw them. Colleagues. Friends. Some were… in pieces. Others were burned so badly I could barely recognize them."
He pauses, his eyes reddening.
“And then... I found Yuki."
His voice is barely audible now.
“His face was... it was ashen, streaked with blood. Each breath was this wet, gurgling sound. I held him, felt his pulse getting weaker. Told him help was coming. Everything would be okay.”
He swallows hard, voice laced with shame. “I lied. I knew... I knew it was too late."
The room falls silent as Adam finishes his account. His gaze drops to his hands, now clenched tightly in his lap.
“It should have been me,” he whispers.
Adam inhales once, steadying his breath. His fingers uncurl slowly from his palms, leaving half-moon indentations in the skin.
After she studies him for a moment, Boulder asks, “What happened next?”
“Umm,” he pauses, running his hand through his hair. “The investigation, I suppose. That’s when we found out it was the Ecocentrics. They thought the Prime mission was, uh… ‘betraying our duty to heal our ravaged home world.’ Can you believe that tosh?” he huffs.
She asks, “How did that make you feel, learning about their motivations?”
His jaw clenches. “Angry. Confused. We’re trying to save humanity, and they... they question our right to even exist?”
His head shakes in disbelief.
“I mean, how hypocritical can they be? Those Dirt Worshippers claim they want to save lives, but then they take them?"
“It’s hard to understand that logic,” she replies.
“I don’t know... I guess it kind of backfired on them. There was this surge of support for the mission. Like, ‘We’re not gonna let these fanatics stop us.’ That sort of thing."
A moment passes.
“Anyway, after the funerals, no one had to tell me I was the last piece on the board. I saw an org chart. It looked like a sick game of tic-tac-toe. Names were crossed out in these… these red slashes—Linsi, Pitts, Gordon, Ito.”
He sighs. “There, in the bottom right corner, was my name. Not slashed—circled. The guy who headed up sims is now heading up the whole mission.”
“What did you think in that moment?”
His brow furrows. “Mom used to say, ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’ But what happens when the teacher’s all that’s left?"
Dr. Boulder regards him silently, mulling something over. After a moment, she sets her stylus down and leans forward slightly.
“You know, Adam,” she begins, rearranging a few items on her desk, “this reminds me of a client I had years ago, during The Sorrows.”
He stares through her with bleary eyes.
“A surgeon. Brilliant. Saved lives others couldn’t. Then a bomb hit his hospital while he was on vacation. Most colleagues didn't make it.”
She leans back.
“Survivor’s guilt ate at him. He hesitated, second-guessed. His caution put patients at risk.
Her voice softens slightly.
“They took his license after a child died.”
She sighs.
“In the end, his guilt and self-doubt caused him to lose people. People he could have saved, if he'd only trusted himself and his abilities."
She leans forward, her voice gentle but firm.
“We can't control who lives and who dies, Adam. We can only mourn when fate takes them and persevere where fate takes us.”
He meets her gaze, absorbing her words. A heavy silence fills the room for a moment.
Dr. Boulder leans back, her eyes softening.
“Look, Adam, I know we’ve been through a lot in our sessions together. But it’s time we come to the crux of the matter. Forgive me if this next part feels a bit… clinical.”
She adjusts her position, her tone shifting subtly. “You know as well as I do that command isn’t just about technical skills or experience. It’s about mental resilience, emotional stability.”
She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
“You’ve weathered more than most—The Sorrows, the bombing, losing family and colleagues. That’s quite a burden. And now you’re staring down the barrel of enormous pressure and responsibility.”
She picks up her stylus again, her voice taking on a more focused edge.
“I need to be direct now, Adam. How do you see yourself handling that? When you’re out there, light-years from here, and a crisis hits—can you make clear-headed decisions? Can you lead without second-guessing every choice?”
His crosses his arms, stare fixed on her eyes.
“I’m not looking for bravado here. I need honesty. Can you fill this role?”
His breath catches, shoulders tensing as scenarios—past and imagined—flash through his mind. He takes a deep breath, pushing the doubts down.
“I think I’ll be fine.”
Her gaze sharpens. “I need a clear answer here, Adam. Yes or no?”
He meets her eyes, forcing conviction into his voice.
“Yes.”
“Even without the meds?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Okay,” she notes.
“And the crew. Any concerns there that I should be aware of?”
He opens his mouth, then hesitates. Voicing any doubts about the crew could jeopardize the entire mission, or at least Zoe and Aron’s places in it. He can’t bear the thought of leaving her behind with him.
“No, nothing significant,” he lies.
“Not even regarding Dr. Athalya?”
Adam blinks, caught off guard. His hands reach for the armrests.
“What about her?”
Dr. Boulder scrolls slowly as she reads.
“Two things. First, your previous relationship with her. And second, her family background.
“Well, first, that’s ancient history and none of your business,” he says firmly, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “It ended years ago. We’re professionals.”
“And her upbringing?” the psychologist probes.
His posture stiffens. “Lilith is not her parents. She can’t help who raised her.”
“I understand your loyalty, Adam, but—"
“It’s not about loyalty,” he interrupts, leaning forward. “It’s about facts. She’s undergone the same screenings as everyone else. Her work is impeccable, her integrity is unquestionable. Questioning her place on this mission because of her parents is not just unfair, it’s… it’s discriminatory.”
Boulder holds up a hand.
“I'm not questioning her place, Adam. I’m assessing potential team dynamics.”
“You know how I feel about Dirt Worshippers. She’s not one of them, okay?"
“Okay,” she says, noting his response.
Adam catches himself, realizing he’s been too defensive. He takes a measured breath, his posture relaxing slightly.
“I didn’t mean to snap,” he says, his tone more controlled. “It’s just... I trust Lilith with my life.”
She doesn’t comment.
“Do you feel any hint of regret assuming command?”
He shifts in his chair, ready to give the right answer before eyeing something new in her office.
It’s a simple framed photo on a shelf behind her desk. Boulder with her family—husband, two kids. They’re at some kind of outdoor event, all wearing casual clothes, easy smiles.
A flicker of longing crosses his face.
No one knew what caused the Great Fertility Crisis, only that once it started, there was no way to reverse it. Plummeting birth rates, an aging population, humanity teetering on the brink.
Central Governance’s answer? The ‘Preferred Fertility’ program, a euphemism for who the government said could reproduce, ostensibly for humanity’s survival.
Adam’s hand unconsciously reaches for his collar, touching the phantom ‘PF’ pin he no longer wears. The small, silver badge had once marked him as part of the 'Preferred Fertility' program—a coveted status in a world ravaged by infertility. It granted access to genetic matching services, a privilege denied to most.
The photo reminds him of what he’s giving up. A family. A future. His PF status, once a source of hope, now seems like a cruel joke.
She follows his gaze, then turns back, her expression neutral.
“Adam?”
He blinks, refocusing.
“Sorry, I... no, no regret,” he claims.
A moment passes before he speaks again.
“Besides, it doesn’t really matter what I want, does it? I know what needs to be done. For everyone."
She studies him for a moment, then nods.
“That’s what I needed to hear.”
A few quick taps on her datapad, and it’s done.
“I’ve submitted my report to Central Governance. You’ll been cleared for duty,” she says, her tone professional.
“Congratulations, Commander Elwin.”
There it is again. Commander.
The title feels heavy, a yoke he’s not sure he's ready to bear. Not just for the mission, for the lives of its crew.
But it doesn’t matter now. It’s official.
He must bear it.
“Thanks.”
The finality of his new role leaves him feeling untethered, and he finds himself grasping for reassurance, however indirect.
“Dr. Boulder, that surgeon.... What ever happened to him?”
Her gaze softens as she considers his question. She leans back in her chair, a wistful smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Funny you should ask," she says, her eyes drifting to the family portrait.
“He ended up with his therapist.”
She chuckles softly, turning back to face Adam.
“Sometimes, fate challenges us so that we can discover who we’re meant to lean on.”
She stands, signaling the end of their session.
"Take care of yourself, Commander. The world is looking to you."
He stands, and with a final thanks, steps into the hallway, the door closing with a soft hiss.
For a moment, he doesn’t move, shoulders sagging as he exhales. Then, squaring them, he heads down the corridor. His footsteps echo in the empty space, each one bringing him closer to a future he never expected nor wants, but one he’s determined to face head-on.
He walks along the corridor, passing dark offices, an empty conference room, the quiet mess hall, a deserted gym. The walk to the hangar bay feels longer than usual, or maybe he’s just slower. Adam’s mind drifts, cycling through the conversation, the memories of his past, the anxieties of his future.
Commander.
The title stalks him like an unwanted shadow. Persistent. Inescapable.
He reaches the end of the corridor and presses his palm against the biometric scanner. The doors slide open, revealing the vast hangar bay beyond. He nods at the weary security guard, who returns the gesture.
The air hums with subdued activity as the night shift winds down and the day crew trickles in. Muted conversations and the occasional clink of tools echo in the cavernous space. The smell of coffee mingles with the ever-present scent of ozone and metal. Overhead, some of the massive floodlights are dimmed, creating a patchwork of light and shadow around the bay.
He makes his way across the floor, exchanging nods with bleary-eyed night shift workers heading out and fresh-faced day crew arriving. A few of the new arrivals straighten up as they see him, some even offering a salute. Word travels fast.
He walks past a public service banner strung across the wall:
“Secure humanity’s future! Register for genetic matching today!”
It’s odd to him the government chose to hang that banner there. These men and women weren’t looking around for salvation; they were looking up. To the stars.
It’s the first time he’s had that realization.
He approaches the open hangar doors, feeling a rush of cool air against his face. The crisp autumn breeze carries with it the scent of sun-baked earth and withered grass, a poignant reminder of the once-fertile farmland that used to stretch across this now arid expanse.
In the distance, the Kibotos stands on the launch pad, its gleaming hull catching the morning light, nose defiantly pointing away from this dying planet upward to the promise of a new and living one.
His eyes follow the familiar lines of the hull, taking in details he’s studied for years.
That’s when he notices a subtle change in his perception.
The starship, once just a project he simulated countless times, now stands before him as something more tangible—a concrete representation of his new responsibilities.
A quiet sense of purpose stirs within him. The anxiety is still there, but it’s… different. Less fear, more anticipation.
It’s not a dramatic transformation, but it’s a start. A small step forward. A chance to reconcile the man he needs to be with the person he is—and has been
A breeze brushes across Adam’s face, encouraging him to close his eyes. He draws in a deep breath.
A memory surfaces—Yuki’s voice, excited about the possibilities that await them on Hybris Prime.
Just think, he had said, we’re getting a chance to start over on a new world. To do it right this time.
Adam lets go of his breath, his uncertainty. His eyes open, the Kibotos in full view.
“Good morning, Kib,” he says with a smirk.