Ambush by Sigmund Brouwer

knew that Dad was holding the headset, which he had already removed. It had been blocking all sound from reaching my ears. Arms at my side, I was still strapped to the laboratory bed and needed him to remove the blindfold and straps.
    â€œOn the trip to Earth—I mean the real trip to Earth—the chances of hitting an asteroid are one in billions, right?” I said defensively. “And then the chances of a puncture near the fuel tank are … are …”
    Dad removed my blindfold, and I blinked a couple of times. His smiling face loomed down at me. He had dark blond hair, like mine, and a large frame. I only hope that someday I’ll grow up to be as big as he is.
    â€œTyce,” he answered, his face now serious, “that’s the whole point of these virtual-reality training programs. To prepare you for any situation, no matter how unlikely. If for some reason you are called for any duty, you can’t afford mistakes.”
    He unstrapped me from the bed. I sat up.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. I meant it. Dad was 100 percent correct. After all, he had to be. He was the Moon Racer ’s pilot, the one we all trusted with our lives. “Could you let me try another run this afternoon?”
    His smile returned. “That would take you away from your mathematics, wouldn’t it?”
    â€œMuch more important to know how to save a spaceship than it is to deal with logarithmic derivatives and triple integrals.”
    â€œPerhaps.” Dad’s grin grew wider. “But I was thinking of Ashley. I was getting the impression that she enjoyed the chance to do schoolwork with you.”
    I coughed. “She just needs a little help, that’s all.”
    Dad laughed.
    I pushed off the bed and began to float in the weightlessness. This was one thing I loved about space travel. I didn’t need my wheelchair.
    â€œDon’t let her fool you. I’ve seen the background report on her. The worst grade she ever got in math was a 95 percent.” Dad rubbed my hair. “And your best grade has been … ?”
    â€œSo I don’t like math that much,” I said.
    I reached for my comp-board. It was floating beside the bed, where I had left it before the virtual-reality robot session. Dad had asked me to bring it but hadn’t told me why yet.
    Comp-board was the term used for keyboard-computer, a portable computer with the screen attached directly to the back of the keyboard. The hard drive was embedded in the left-hand side of the keyboard, with discports on the right-hand side. When I was finished with the computer, all I had to do was fold the keyboard in half, then fold that against the back of the screen, and it would become a small rectangle about the size of a book. Smaller ones were available, but most people preferred a decent-size screen. Under the dome, the comp-board actually docked into my desktop computer, letting me access the comp-board hard drive but giving me access to a bigger screen.
    â€œShe’s really that good in math?” I asked.
    â€œUh-huh,” Dad said. “So maybe you should figure out why she always asks you to help her.”
    To give me free use of my hands, I attached the folded-up comp-board to a latch on my belt. I grabbed a handhold—they were placed all through the ship to give passengers a way to travel in the weightlessness—and followed Dad out of the robot lab. We traveled down the inner corridor of the Moon Racer .
    â€œWhere are we headed?” I asked.
    â€œI need to tweak some of the autopilot controls,” Dad answered. “Our mainframe computer has been a little cranky lately. But we need to make a quick stop first.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œI know you’re trying to change the subject.” He laughed. “Let’s get back to math.”
    â€œMath?” I tried to sound innocent.
    â€œAshley wants you to learn the math better,” Dad answered. “Whatever