Chapter 3
📚 Need to catch up? Here’s Chapter 1 and Chapter 2.
The Alternate
Dr. Boulder leans back, the chair groaning as she shifts her weight.
“Her sharp eyes narrow as they roam over her datapad screen, deliberate and unhurried. The soft tick… tick… tick of an antique clock fills the room. For the first time, Adam notices the faint scar cuts across her face, from her left eyebrow to her cheekbone—a reminder, he assumes, of her past encounters during 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, how have you been sleeping lately?”
He lies before he even thinks about it. “Good.”
“That’s not what SARA reports.”
He snorts. “Didn’t know my quarters had become an extension of your office.”
“This mission costs close to one fifth of global GDP,” she replies. “And you were merely a contingency in it—a footnote. But that’s changed, hasn’t it? Central Governance calls the monitoring… due diligence.”
“Heartless much?” he mutters under his breath.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Heartless, maybe. But necessary. When the future of humanity hangs in the balance, sentiment and privacy take a backseat to order and predictability. You, Adam, are part of that order.”
He forces a shrug, but the comment stings. “Fair enough. What’d SARA report?”
“Irregular sleep patterns. Increased restlessness. Elevated heart rate during REM cycles.” She pauses. “You’ve been talking in your sleep.”
Adam freezes, his fingers stopping mid-tap. “Talking? About what?”
“Mostly gibberish. Except this morning.”
A knot tightens in his stomach, but he keeps his expression neutral. “And?”
She leans forward, her voice softening just enough to sound concerned. “Have you found yourself avoiding certain memories lately? Unpleasant ones?”
“Like what?” he asks, defensive.
“Ones that might make you question why you’re here. Why you were chosen for this mission.”
Adam leans back in his seat, putting space between them. “If you want to talk the bombing, just ask. Quit circling it.”
She lets the tension settle for a moment before responding. “Let’s talk about it then.”
He exhales through his nose, his fingers curling around the armrests. “What do you want to know?”
“What do you want to share?”
Nothing, of course. But this moment has been waiting for him, circling like a vulture. It was inevitable.
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 part of the plan.
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.
In the line of succession, the Secretary of Education doesn’t seriously think they’ll one day wake up President.
Dr. Boulder studies him. Her eyes are relentless, but patient.
Adam sighs. “Do you remember where you were when you first heard about it?”
“I do.”
His gaze drifts to the window. The Kibotos gleams in the distance, the ever-present, always watching, unasked-for burden.
“You always think those things happen to other people. You read about them, hear about them. But you don’t…” His voice falters. “You don’t expect to watch it happen. Right in front of you.”
“Tell me about that night, Adam.”
He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. “I was running late. Stupid late.” A bitter laugh escapes. “Working on some errors in a training sim they were supposed to run the next day. I was going to meet them at the Lark.”
“Meet with her,” Dr. Boulder 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, curious. She knows she’s hit something.
“Meet with ‘them’? 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… never mind.”
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. “Almost the whole crew. Commander Hana Linsi. Greg Pitts, her co-pilot. McNeil, the Chief Science Officer—first name was Jordan… no, Gordon. Didn’t really get to know him. Some of the engineers. Ops. Logistics. All of them, just… people blowing off steam.” His voice tightens. “And Yuki. Dr. Ito. He was there, too.”
Dr. Boulder leans forward. “Yuki was a friend, wasn’t he?”
Adam nods, a faint smile breaking through the tension. “Yeah. Knew him since the Academy. He was a brilliant astrobiologist. Had this way of breaking things down, making you feel like you understood the most complicated things—even if you didn’t.” His smile fades. “He was supposed to be the one. Their eyes and ears on Prime in case they found anything weird or... I don’t know, alien... Yuki would’ve been the one to figure it out. And now he’s been replaced by his own robot. Tartar.”
His voice grows bitter. “And everyone acts like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s no big deal. But it is. He’s not replaceable. Tartar’s just… a thing.”
Dr. Boulder’s voice is gentle but insistent. “What happened next?”
He takes a deep breath, his fingers digging into the armrests. “I was late, like I said. The rain was coming down—cold rain. I could see the Lark through the drizzle. Yuki...” His voice cracks. “Yuki saw me through the window. He was waving. I had just lifted my hand to wave back and then—”
He stops, jaw clenching. “That’s when the world went white.”
The words hang heavy in the air.
Adam presses a hand to his temple, as if trying to contain the memory. “The blast knocked me off my feet. My head hit the pavement. There was fire. Smoke. Burning metal. And the smell… God, the smell. Flesh.”
Dr. Boulder waits, giving him space to continue.
“I tried to help. I had to. Even with my head spinning, my ears ringing… I had to do something. But it didn’t matter. Most of them were already…” His voice cracks. “…gone.”
The room feels colder.
“And Yuki?” She prompts gently.
Adam’s hands tighten on the armrests, his knuckles white. “He was alive. Barely. His face… it was ash and blood. He was gasping, choking. I told him help was coming. That he’d be okay.” He exhales shakily. “But it was a lie. I knew he wouldn’t make it. And he didn’t.”
The room falls silent as Adam finishes his story. His eyes drift down to his hands, death gripping the armrests.
“It should have been me,” he whispers.
Adam inhales once, slow and shaky, steadying his breath. His fingers uncurl from the armrests. He can feel them throbbing, but the pain is distant, almost irrelevant.
Dr. Boulder studies him, her expression unreadable. She waits, giving him space to speak, but she’s not letting him off that easily. “What happened next?”
He knows what she’s doing—keeping him talking, moving him through it, like pulling a splinter out one careful inch at a time.
“Umm,” he begins, running a hand through his hair, “the investigation, I guess. 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. 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 were doing was right, but it wasn’t. They’re murderers.”
“Well, 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.”
A faint smirk forms on his face. “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, the silence stretching 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… awful 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. The guy who ran sims is now running the show.”
“What did you think in that moment?”
Adam shakes his head. “That I didn’t have a choice. It didn’t matter if I wasn’t prepared or even wanted it. There was no one else left.” His voice tightens, but he forces himself to continue. “It wasn’t about me being the right person. It was about me being the only option.”
“Did you feel like you could walk away?”
“Of course not,” Adam says quickly. “How could I? After everything. Saying no wasn’t an option—it never was.”
“And how does that sit with you?”
He exhales, his shoulders sagging. “Mom used to say, ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’” He pauses. “What happens when the teacher’s all that’s left?”
She regards him silently, mulling something over. After a moment, she sets her stylus down and leans forward.
“You know, Adam,” she says, 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, 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 leave for the first time in over a year. 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 a bit more.
“They took his license after a child died.”
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, letting her words sink deeper.
“We can’t control who lives and who dies. 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.
Silence stretches between them, heavy and unbroken, until 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. 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 sounds 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. And now, 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. How do you see yourself handling it all? 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.”
Her eyes narrow. “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 says, jotting down a note. “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, caught off guard. “What about her?”
Dr. Boulder scrolls through the screen.
“Two things. First, your previous relationship with her. And second, her family background. There are some concerns—”
“Well, first, that’s ancient history,” he interrupts, defensive. “We dated years ago. It ended. We’re professionals. I thought we went over this already.”
“Not about her upbringing.”
Adam’s posture stiffens. He can feel the heat rising in his chest. “Lilith’s not her parents. She can’t help who raised her.”
“I understand your loyalty, Adam, but—”
“It’s not about loyalty,” he interrupts again, 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… discriminatory.”
She 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’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap,” he says, more controlled. “It’s just... I trust Lilith with my life.”
She doesn’t respond, only making another note.
“Next. 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, people aging faster than they could reproduce. Humanity began to tilt, 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 for.
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 permission to marry, 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 doesn’t push.
Not on that.
“Adam?” she asks, pulling him back to the moment.
He blinks, pulling 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.
Finally, he speaks again. “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.”
Her fingers dart across her datapad. Each tap sounds like a nail being driven into the coffin of whatever life he thought he might’ve had.
A soft ding punctuates the moment.
“I’ve submitted my report to Central Governance. You’ll be cleared for duty.”
There it is. Final.
He’s no longer Training Chief Elwin. Now he’s…
“Congratulations, Commander Elwin,” she says, her smile burdened.
It’s official now.
Commander.
No going back.
The word lands heavily, too real to ignore.
But it doesn’t matter.
He must bear it.
“Thanks.”
The finality of his new role settles in, resting on his shoulders like a beast of burden’s yoke. He thought it would bring relief, but instead, the weight presses down on him even harder.
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.
“Dr. Boulder,” he says after a beat, 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, smiling warmly. “Funny you should ask,” she says, glancing 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. It’s a small moment of levity, and for the first time all session, the tension eases a bit.
She stands, signaling the end of their session. “Take care of yourself, Commander. The world is looking to you.”
Adam rises slowly, the invisible yoke of his new title pressing down on him.
He nods once and whispers, “Thanks,” as he steps into the hallway.
The door slides shut behind him with a hiss, sealing him into the corridor.
He stands alone for a moment, not moving. His shoulders sag as he exhales, letting some of the tension leave his chest.
But it’s not gone. Not really.
He squares his shoulders, forces himself to straighten. Something stirs in his chest, pulling him forward, toward the hanger, to see the ship.
His ship now.
He walks down the corridor, the sound of his footsteps trailing along 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 stretches longer than usual, or maybe he’s moving slower. His mind drifts—replaying the conversation with Dr. Boulder, memories of the bombing, his new title weighing on him like a physical burden.
Commander.
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. A smiling couple cradles a baby beneath bold text: “Secure humanity’s future! Register for Preferred Fertility testing today!”
The banner feels out of place here, where people look to the stars above for salvation, not to the broken planet below.
It’s the first time he’s realized that.
He steps out into the cool morning air. It smells of dry earth, sunbaked and withered—a reminder of the world he’s about to leave behind forever. 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 it’s different to him now.
For years, the ship was just an objection of simulation to him, a mission he trained others for. But now, in the cold light of morning, reality sinks in.
It’s his responsibility.
He takes a deep breath, cool air filling his lungs. He stares at the ship, the thing he’s grown to fear over the past weeks. The usual anxiety is there, of course, but it’s mixed with something else now. Something new
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.
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,” repeating his mantra. “My Jiji drilled it into me: ‘Be strong and of 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 find that same strength and courage somehow.
He exhales, releasing the tension, releasing the doubts. They don’t vanish entirely, but their grip loosens, 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’s lips form a faint smile, almost imperceptible.
It’s not much, but it’s real.
“Good morning, Kib.” The name slips out naturally, as if he’s greeting an old friend.
Maybe in a way, he is.