Chapter 2
📚 Need to catch up? Here’s Chapter 1
The Alternate
Dr. Boulder leans back; her chair creaks under her weight
Her gaze, sharp and unrelenting, pierces Adam, searching for something hidden beneath the surface. A faint scar cuts across her face, from her left eyebrow to her cheekbone—a reminder, Adam assumes, of her past encounters with the Sorrows.
His fingers drum involuntarily, tapping out a quick, uneven rhythm on the armrest—cheap government-issue chair, designed to feel comfortable but failing miserably.
At last, she breaks the silence.
“So, Adam, catch me up. How have you been sleeping lately?”
He lies before he even thinks about it. “Fine.”
“That’s not what 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. You, Adam, were never meant to be more than a contingency—a footnote. But contingencies don’t get to choose their roles. Let’s call it... Central Governance’s due diligence.”
“Well, that sounds… heartless,” he mumbles under his breath.
Dr. Boulder’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Heartless, maybe. But essential. We aren’t here to make choices based on sentiment. When the very future of humanity hangs in the balance, you don’t need sentiment. You need order, predictability. You, as a contingency, are part of that order.”
He forces a shrug. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he concedes. “What did AURA say?”
“Irregular sleep patterns. Increased restlessness. Elevated heart rate during REM cycles.”
She pauses before adding, “And you’ve been talking in your sleep.”
His body tenses, just slightly, but enough that she notices. His fingers freeze mid-tap, hovering over the armrest like they’re waiting for permission to move again. “Talking? About what?”
“Hard to say. It’s mostly gibberish. Except this morning.”
He remains silent, fidgeting with his eyebrows.
“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 assessed 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, he thinks. Absolutely nothing.
But he knows this conversation has been coming for a while, circling him like a vulture waiting for its moment.
He never imagined himself in this position.
Not long ago, he was Chief of Training, running simulations and preparing other people for a mission he’d never go on. He was good at his job, too. Perfectly content with staying behind the scenes. His background as a former military pilot made him ideal for crafting hyper-realistic scenarios, pushing others to their limits.
Command, though? That was never supposed to be part of the deal.
He remembers the day they designated him the alternate co-pilot’s alternate. Just another bureaucratic formality, a box checked for redundancy’s sake. He never thought he’d be here, staring at this desk, this woman, this moment.
In the line of succession, the Secretary of Education doesn’t seriously think they’ll one day wake up as President.
Dr. Boulder studies him. Her eyes are relentless, but patient.
He begins with a sigh. “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. Nothing like it had happened since the Sorrows, the time before Central Governance came to power. It was a dark era under a ruthless dictator desperately holding power during civil war.
The assassination happened on an ordinary evening at the Cosmic Lark, a popular pub near mission headquarters, the kind of place where people went to pretend they weren’t about to leave their entire world behind.
“I was supposed to meet with them,” he begins.
“Meet with her,” she says.
Adam’s pulse quickens.
“W…what?”
His ComSpec chirps—a sign of elevated stress.
Instinctively, he shifts his hand to cover the device, muffling the tiny alert: “Stress levels high.”
Her gaze sharpens, curiosity flickering behind her eyes.
She knows she’s hit something.
“Meet with who?” she repeats, watching him closely.
He blinks once, twice. “Right, sorry,” he mumbles, pulling his sleeve over the ComSpec, as if covering it will somehow stop the machine from tattling on him. “I thought you said… uh… nevermind.”
He’s not telling her about that dream.
Not now.
Not ever.
“Take your time,” she says.
He swallows hard, fighting back the lump forming in his throat.
“Who was there?” he rephrases the question.
“Let’s see, uh, there was… Mona Linsi, of course, Mission Commander. And Gray Pitts, the co-pilot, he was there, too. And his alternate. Uh, the science officer… forgot his name—Jordan… Gordon, maybe? McNeil was his last name. 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.”
He pauses, fighting to keep his voice steady.
“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 faint 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 talk to you like you were a kid, but never in a condescending way. Just… clear.”
Adam’s gaze drifts, and for a moment, he’s somewhere else.
Somewhere better.
“He was going to be their eyes and ears out there. On Prime. If they found anything weird or... I don’t know, alien... Yuki would’ve been the one to figure it out. Now they’ve replaced him with his own robot—Tartar.”
The bitterness in his voice surprises even him. “And the worst part? No one seems to care. 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, the words losing their strength as he finishes.
“What happened next, Adam?”
He breathes in deeply, gazing into the distance, 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.”
His hand moves to his temple, as if the memory itself is pressing against his skull, threatening to break through. “The shockwave knocked me to the ground. My head hit the pavement. I could smell… everything. Smoke, burning metal… flesh.”
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... I knew it was too late.”
The room falls silent as Adam finishes his story. His eyes drift down to his hands, now tightly clenched in his lap.
“It should have been me,” he whispers.
Adam inhales once, slow and shaky, steadying his breath. His fingers uncurl from his palms, leaving those half-moon marks behind. He can feel them throbbing, but the pain is distant, almost irrelevant. He stares at the indentations for a moment, like he’s waiting for them to tell him something he doesn’t already know.
Dr. Boulder studies him, her expression neutral. She’s not rushing him, but she’s not letting him off the hook either.
After a long beat, she asks, “What happened next?”
He knows what she’s doing—keeping him talking, moving him through it, like pulling a splinter out once careful inch at a time.
“Umm,” he begins, running a 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 forces a bitter laugh, but it dies quickly.
“How did that make you feel, learning about their motivations?” she asks.
His jaw tightens. He’s ready for this one.
“Angry. Confused. We’re trying to save humanity, and they…” His voice rises slightly, but he catches it. “They say humanity doesn’t deserve to be saved,” he continues, quieter, “But who are they to decide that?”
Dr. Boulder nods, her expression neutral. “In a way, they’re only following their beliefs. Perspectives like theirs often emerge from deep convictions about the human impact on the world.”
Adam snorts, shaking his head. “They might believe what they’re doing is right, but it isn’t. They’re murderers,” he says.
Dr. Boulder tilts her head thoughtfully.
“Sometimes, understanding their motives can help us predict their next move. Counteracting isn’t just about force; it’s about strategy—knowing how they think. If we tap into what drives them, we might be able to sway public perception more subtly, without relying on fear alone.”
Adam’s expression shifts, a faint smirk forming. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, I guess it kind of backfired on them. After the bombing, support for the mission surged. People rallied. Like, ‘we’re not gonna let these fanatics stop us.’ That sort of thing. Almost felt like the whole world suddenly remembered what we’re fighting for.”
A moment passes between them, the silence stretching just long enough to make him uncomfortable. He fidgets with his sleeve, pulling at a loose thread.
“Anyway,” he continues, “after the funerals, it was clear—I was the last piece on the board. I saw the org chart. It looked like a sick game of tic-tac-toe. Names were crossed out in these… these angry red slashes—Linsi, Pitts, McNeil, Ito.”
He pauses, staring at those red slashes in his mind’s eye, each one a person he’ll never see again.
“There, in the bottom right corner, was my name. Not slashed—circled.” His lips twitch in a bitter smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The guy who ran sims is now running the show.”
Dr. Boulder’s expression doesn’t change, but her eyes soften slightly, just enough to let him know she’s listening, really listening. “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.”
Her words catch him off guard. He blinks, thrown by the sudden turn in the conversation. He hadn’t expected this—her bringing herself into it.
“A surgeon,” she continues. “Brilliant. He saved lives others couldn’t. But then a bomb hit his hospital while he was on vacation. Most of his colleagues didn’t make it.”
Adam’s chest tightens. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want the comparison, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“Survivor’s guilt ate at him,” she says, her voice quieter, more personal. “He hesitated. Second-guessed everything. His caution put patients at risk.”
She sighs, leaning forward just a bit more.
“They took his license after a child died.”
The words hang heavy in the air between them, and for a moment, Adam can’t meet her eyes.
“In the end, it wasn’t the bomb that destroyed him. It was his guilt. His doubt. He lost people because he couldn’t trust himself anymore.”
She leans back, but her words linger, sinking deeper.
“We can’t control who lives and who dies, Adam. We can only mourn when fate takes them and persevere where fate takes us.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring at the floor.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks. “Yeah… yeah, I get that.”
Dr. Boulder studies him for a beat longer, then nods, as if she’s satisfied with the answer, for now at least.
“Look, Adam,” she says, her voice softening, “I know we’ve been through a lot in these sessions. We’ve dug through a lot. But it’s time we come to the crux of the matter. And forgive me if this next part feels a bit… clinical.”
She shifts in her seat, the air between them changing, becoming more formal, more procedural.
“You know as well as I do that command isn’t just about technical skills. It’s about resilience. Emotional stability. You’ve weathered more than most—the Sorrows, the bombing, losing family, friends.” She lets the words settle in the room, and Adam feels them hit, one after the other, like a list of casualties.
“And now,” she continues, “you’re staring down the barrel of enormous pressure and responsibility.”
She picks up her stylus again, tapping it against the desk. Her eyes are sharp, focused. This is where it all hinges, and he knows it.
“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 arms cross, almost instinctively, like a shield. His stare locks onto hers, but there’s something guarded in it. He knows the right answer, the one she wants to hear.
“I think I’ll be fine,” he says, steady but hollow.
Her eyes narrow, not unkind, but sharp. “I need a clear answer here, Adam. Yes or no?”
He swallows hard, pushing the doubts down, burying them deep. “Yes.”
“Even without the meds?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Okay,” she acknowledges.
“And the crew. Any concerns there that I should be aware of?”
Adam opens his mouth, then hesitates. The pause stretches a little too long. His gut tells him not to say anything, not to give her a reason to question the mission, or worse, to question Zoe and Levi’s places in it.
“No, nothing significant,” he lies.
“Not even regarding Dr. Athalya?”
Adam blinks. The name catches him off guard, and his hands tighten around 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. “I thought we went over this already. We dated years ago. It ended. We’re professionals.”
“And her upbringing?” the psychologist probes.
Adam’s posture stiffens. He can feel the heat rising in his chest. “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, a gesture of calm.
“I’m not questioning her place, Adam. I’m assessing potential team dynamics.”
“You know how I feel about those Ecocentric Dirt Worshippers. Her parents might have been, but 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.
Dr. Boulder doesn’t respond to that. She just makes another note, her silence feeling heavier than anything she could’ve said.
“Do you feel any hint of regret assuming command?”
He almost answers immediately, the rehearsed response ready on his tongue, but something holds him back.
His eyes drift around the office, landing on something new—a simple framed photo on the shelf behind her desk. It’s Dr. Boulder, smiling, with a man he assumes is her husband, and two kids. They’re at some outdoor event, maybe a festival, all wearing bright, casual clothes. There’s something so... ordinary about it, and for a second, it catches him off guard.
No one knows what caused the Great Fertility Crisis. Only that once it started, there was no stopping it. Birth rates plummeted, humanity aging faster than it could reproduce. The world tilting, slowly but surely, toward extinction.
Central Governance’s answer? The ‘Preferred Fertility’ program, a thinly veiled eugenics project dressed up in the language of survival. Adam remembers the endless propaganda videos, the way the government draped it all in words like “hope” and “future”—but everyone knew the truth.
Despite their best efforts, there was no future to hope in.
Adam’s hand moves to his collar, brushing the spot where the small silver PF pin used to sit—a badge that marked him as one of the few still able to reproduce. A coveted status, at least back then, in a world scrambling to save itself. It had granted him access to genetic matching, a privilege most couldn’t dream of.
But that was then.
Now, it feels like a cruel joke.
The pin is gone, and with it, any notion of the life he once thought he might have—a family, even if it was tied to an empty, dying planet.
Dr. Boulder follows his gaze, realizing he’s been staring at the photo. She understands now, but she doesn’t push.
Not on that.
“Adam?” she asks, pulling him back to the moment.
He blinks, pulls his hand away from his collar. “Sorry, I... no, no regret,” he says, though the words feel rehearsed, automatic. He knows they don’t sound convincing, not to her, not even to him.
A long pause stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable. She waits, giving him space, but her eyes are still on him, steady, unwavering.
Then, he realizes, with a sudden clarity, how easily he could still walk away, yet here he is, shouldering responsibilities he never asked for. It’s like waiting for an answer he suspects will never come, pressing forward only because turning back means more suffering.
For everyone.
After a moment, he speaks again, his voice quieter, more reflective.
“What I want isn’t really important, is it? I know what has to be done. For everyone.”
She studies him for a moment, then nods.
“That’s what I needed to hear,” she says finally.
She picks up her datapad again, her fingers moving quickly across the screen. Each tap sounds like a nail being driven into the coffin of whatever life he thought he might’ve had.
“I’ve submitted my report to Central Governance. You’ll be cleared for duty,” she says, her tone professional .
There it is.
Final.
No going back.
He’s no longer Training Chief Elwin. Now its…
“Congratulations, Commander Elwin.”
It’s official now.
Commander.
It feels real, too heavy to bear.
But it doesn’t matter.
He must bear it.
“Thanks.”
The finality of his new role settles in, wrapping around him like a chain. He thought it would bring relief, but instead, he feels like he’s sinking deeper into something inescapable.
For a moment, he’s not sure what to do. He wants to leave, to get out of the office, but something holds him there—some lingering need for reassurance, something he won’t admit even to himself.
“Dr. Boulder,” he says after a beat, his voice softer, almost hesitant. “That surgeon... what happened to him?”
Her expression softens. There’s a wistfulness as her eyes shift to the side, like she’s pulling a favorite memory from a shelf.
She leans back in her chair, a small smile touching her lips. “Funny you should ask,” she says, glancing briefly at the portrait behind her before turning back to him.
“He ended up with his therapist.”
The words catch Adam off guard. A surprised laugh escapes before he can stop it. He covers his mouth quickly, embarrassed, but she just smiles.
It’s a small moment of levity, and for the first time all session, the tension eases slightly.
“Sometimes, fate challenges us so we can discover who we’re meant to lean on,” she says, her eyes returning to the photo.
A moment.
She stands, signaling the end of their session. “Take care of yourself, Commander. The world is looking to you.”
Adam stands, feeling the weight of the title settle onto his shoulders like a yoke.
He nods once, whispers, “Thanks,” and steps into the hallway.
The door slides shut behind him with a hiss, sealing him into the corridor.
He stands for a moment, not moving. His shoulders sag slightly as he exhales, the tension escaping his chest.
But it’s not gone. Not really.
He squares his shoulders, forces himself to straighten.
There’s no time for that.
He walks down the corridor, footsteps echoing against the walls. Passing dim offices and a vacant conference room, he hears a faint hum of voices—the mess hall stirring with early arrivals.
The walk to the hangar feels longer than usual, or maybe he’s just moving slowly. His mind drifts—replaying the conversation with Dr. Boulder, memories of the bombing, the weight of his new title pressing like a physical thing.
Commander.
The title feels like it’s following him, stalking him down the hall like an unwanted shadow.
Persistent.
Inescapable.
At the end of the corridor, he presses his palm to the biometric scanner. The doors slide open, revealing the vast hangar bay beyond. He nods at the weary security guard, who returns it with a yawn.
The air hums with activity—the sound of machinery mingling with murmured voices. The sharp scent of machine oil and metal mixes with faint coffee from workers huddled around a nearby table.
He crosses the floor, exchanging nods with the bleary-eyed night shift workers heading out and the fresh-faced day crew arriving.
As he walks, his eyes catch on a public service banner strung across the far wall:
“Secure humanity’s future! Register for genetic matching today!”
The banner feels out of place here, where people look to the stars, not to the broken planet below.
It's the first time he’s realized that.
He steps out into the cool morning air, the breeze hitting his face like a slap. It smells of dry earth, sun-baked and withered—a reminder of the planet they're about to leave behind.
A planet once fertile, full of promise. Now, a relic of what was, of what could never be again.
In the distance, the Kibotos stands on the launch pad, its sleek hull catching the dawn’s first light. Massive, towering over everything, but somehow... different today.
For years, it was just a simulation, a project, a mission he trained others for. But now, in the cold light of morning, it feels real.
Tangible.
A responsibility that’s no longer just theoretical.
He takes a deep breath, cool air filling his lungs. There’s still a weight in his chest, but it’s different now. Not just fear, but something else.
Maybe a sliver of purpose.
Maybe anticipation.
He’s not sure.
Whatever it is, it's something—a small step toward accepting the role he never asked for but must take. A chance, maybe, to reconcile the man he is with the one he needs to be.
A breeze brushes his face, and he closes his eyes for a moment. A memory rises—Yuki's voice, filled with contagious excitement as he talked about the endless possibilities on Hybris Prime.
Adam asked how Yuki managed to stay so hopeful, even when so much could go wrong.
He can hear Yuki’s reply as if he’s right beside him: “Strength and courage, Adam,” he said, repeating his mantra. “My Jiji drilled it into me: ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid.’”
The memory is bittersweet yet grounding. Yuki was that kind of person—the one who saw light through the darkest clouds, who always found a reason to hope.
Now, Adam realizes he has to become that person. He has to find strength and courage somewhere, to see possibilities even when they feel out of reach.
He exhales slowly, releasing the tension, releasing the doubts. They don’t vanish entirely, but he feels their grip loosen, just enough.
Strength. Courage.
His eyes open, focusing again on the Kibotos. Bathed in pale morning light, its hull gleams like a beacon of something new, something possible.
Adam smiles, just barely—a subtle curve at the corner of his lips.
It’s not much, but it’s real.
“Good morning, Kib,” he says warmly. The name slips out naturally, as if he’s greeting an old friend.
Maybe in a way, he is.