Origins by Jamie Sawyer Page B

faster-than-light flight, with the most sophisticated quantum-space disruption drive ever installed in a ship of this size.”
    I fought to see the gathered crew. Everyone wore the same deep-blue vac-suit, carrying black boxes on hoses connected to their chests. Again: part of the show. Parodies of earlier explorers, of the first astronauts that had probed the dark of outer space.
    â€œShe is, we’re told, equipped for any eventuality,” the reporter continued. “Made to counter whatever the Krell Collective have to throw at her. But we mustn’t forget that the
Endeavour
is one of several starships tasked with this mission. There are in fact sixteen ships on this expedition.”
    Their names were known all across Allied space: had already captured the public’s fickle imagination. The AFS
Lion’s Pride
, HMS
Britannic
, UAS
Ark Angel
… Many of the vessels were multi-nationals, each differently constructed, with a dedicated role on the expedition.
    â€œAnd here comes the crew!” the reporter gleefully squealed.
    I panicked. Here she was.
    This was a photo opportunity, and nothing more. There was no functional purpose in boarding the crew in this way. One by one, they climbed the scaffold towards the outer shuttle doors.
    â€œCommander Cook!” someone declared. “Christopher Cook is the expedition leader, as well as the captain of the
Endeavour
.”
    He turned, paused, waved at the crowd. His face – middle-aged, wise, smiling – appeared twenty-storeys high on the billboard. I felt like I knew the man already. I’d read multiple interviews in
Dispatches
, in the
Alliance Daily
. His face had been plastered over every publication that Psych Ops could put out.
    â€œOne of our own,” Vijay interrupted, nodding proudly. “He a Calican, you know.”
    Cook was a family man: three wives and sixteen kids. That was supposed to be some sort of reassurance to the public, a subliminal suggestion that the mission would be coming back – that he wouldn’t be abandoning his family.
    â€œCook’s second-in-command, Lieutenant Reji Ashwari!”
    Another familiar face, another cheer. Another practised walk up the gantry, into the waiting transport.
    â€œSergeant Thomas Stone!”
    The faces went on and on. Almost all of the crew had military, or pseudo-military, titles. That had been a deliberate conceit; to get the public onside. I’d already dug into the files, tested my sources. Only Stone had any actual military experience, and he’d been assigned a five-man simulant team to provide security.
    â€œYou a okay there, see?” Vijay said. “Look a pale.”
    I swallowed hard. “Five men for all those ships.”
    â€œDr Elena Marceau!”
    I leant into the rail. Waved a hand at her, shouted. Of course, my voice was drowned by the sea of noise around me: the jubilant, senseless, pointless cheering.
    Then Elena’s face appeared on the billboard and it took all of my strength not to pass out. I teetered on the edge as she took the walk towards the waiting transport. There was only a couple of hundred metres between us, but it may as well have been light-years. Soon, once she had commenced her mission into the Maelstrom, it would be.
    I’d never forget the way that she looked that day. The vac-suit was fitted, not as puffy as the older-style EVA gear, and her lean figure was evident as she strode the gantry. The French flag on one shoulder, the Alliance on the other. Because she was a pretty face for the cameras, Elena’s inner suit hood was lowered. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a semi-utilitarian style; her red lips glossed, cheeks blushed. She had never looked more beautiful.
    She paused at the end of the gantry. Framed by the open shuttle hatch. Scanned the crowd. None of the other crew had done that. Dallied at the access. Was she looking for me, or was that just my imagination?
    â€œShe’s