(in which it becomes disgustingly clear who these “original” characters are based on)
Stillbend's office was uncomfortably tidy. The walls were hung with awards, placed in neat and even rows. Her bookshelves were exactly full, all of the books in excellent condition, even the ones with colorful sticky-notes poking out of the tops. Her L-shaped desk was clear of clutter and, in fact, almost anything that might have leant it personality. There were three framed photos on it; one was of Tobias, sharp and crisp in his Commander's uniform; another was of Leighton, looking massively uncomfortable in their spaceman's jumpsuit. The third photograph was of a teenage boy, dark of hair and eye, standing in one of the observation decks with Rhodea looming bright behind him. He was grinning and giving the camera a double-thumbs up, even though the picture was professional quality, as though he simply hadn't been able to contain his delight.
Stillbend herself was sitting at the long end of the L, hard at work on something or other. She was even paler than Tobias, mayonnaise-white, with dark hair that was graying strand by strand. Her suit jacket was off, the sleeves of her dress shirt neatly rolled up to the elbows. Her tie was hideous and slightly askew.
Emma, with her head already poking into the office, knocked on the open door with one knuckle. Stillbend looked up, taking the wireframe glasses off the end of her nose and tucking them into her breast pocket.
"Ah, Dr. Wan," she said. "Come in, sit down. You're three minutes late."
"Sorry," said Emma. She sat in the chair on the near side of the desk. Stillbend swiveled her own chair to face her.
"It's fine, it's fine," said Stillbend, waving a hand. She got out her tablet and a stylus and poked around for a bit, opening her file for Emma's work. "It'd be better if you weren't late at all, but I'll accept minimal tardiness as an improvement over the usual."
"Thanks," Emma said dryly. She tugged on the hem of her cheongsam and shifted in her chair, puffing out her chest.
"Okay, so," Stillbend sighed. "How's it coming?"
"Pretty good," Emma said. "It's buggy, but it's getting there. Some of the data you sent me works like a charm—about, uhhh, probably a quarter of it? The rest is way off. I did some statistics on it, and at the worst it's predicting surface ocean temperatures ten degrees higher than anything we've observed."
"Hm," said Stillbend, making a note. "Did you correct for eccentricity?"
"Yours, or the planet's?" Emma said, before she could stop herself.
Stillbend fixed her with a diamond-hard look. Emma dropped her eyes and tucked her hair behind her ear.
"Sorry," she mumbled. "No, I . . . haven't done anything with eccentricity."
Stillbend let her stew in silence for another five seconds before saying anything.
"You might try talking to Cameesha over on the Ochoa ring," Stillbend said, as though the interruption simply hadn't happened. "She's very good with orbital dynamics, she should be able to help you get it right."
"I'll do that, then," said Emma. "Uh, also, I. . . ."
Received a message from someone pretending to be your dead son, her brain supplied. Emma pinched herself in the leg, choking back the words. Stillbend raised an eyebrow at her.
"I—uh—wanted to go ahead and ask what, uh, what the overall, like, message of the paper is going to be," Emma went on. "So I know how to, like, present the data, and everything."
"That's really not your concern," said Stillbend. "Your job is to make a climatological model that will tell us what Akaste's sea-surface temperatures have been like for the past three billion years, and what they will be like for the foreseeable future. Which job, may I point out, you've had five months to work on and haven't done."
"If it were easy, you'd be doing it," Emma retorted, and had to resist the urge to punch herself in the leg.
"So, presumably, would you," Stillbend said coldly. "If you feel the project is beyond your capabilities, I'll give it to someone else."
"No. No! I can do it, it just takes a while," said Emma, heat rising to her cheeks. "Climatology is wickedly complex, you said so yourself, like, a billion times!"
"Hardly a billion," said Stillbend. "At this point, Dr. Wan, you're holding up the work. I need that model done. If you can't do it by, let's say, the end of the month, I'm taking the project away from you and giving it to someone competent."
Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you, Emma thought at her, as loudly as she could. Her hands were clenched on the hem of her cheongsam.
"Yes, ma'am," she said through gritted teeth.
"I'm glad you understand," Stillbend said, the ghost of a smile curling the corner of her thin mouth. "If you need any help with the model, my door is usually open."
"I will keep that in mind," Emma said, enunciating every word clearly to prevent herself from blurting out anything stupid.
"Good," said Stillbend. "Oh, and whenever you get around to finishing it, I'll also need a brief description of your methods written up to put in the paper. Two pages should be sufficient."
"Also by the end of the month?" Emma said, her voice floating high on a lake of rage.
"Sooner, if possible," said Stillbend. "It may cut slightly into your slacking-off time, for which I sincerely apologize."
Go take a long walk out a short airlock, Emma snarled internally.
"Not a problem, ma'am," Emma said, unable to keep the resentment out of her voice.
"Good!" said Stillbend, her eyes sparkling. "I'm glad to hear it."
Emma ground her teeth, pinning in a sharp retort. Stillbend looked at her watch.
"Short meeting, I guess," she said. "Unless there's anything else?"
I got an encoded message from a ghost telling us all to go home, she thought.
"Nothing else," she said.
Stillbend regarded her for just a heartbeat too long.
"All right," she said, putting her tablet to sleep and setting the stylus aside. "I'll see you again same time next week to discuss your progress."
"Okay, sure, sounds good," said Emma, already getting out of the chair.
"Before you go," Stillbend said. Emma shut her eyes to keep Stillbend from seeing them rolling.
"Yes?" said Emma.
"On a more personal note," Stillbend went on. "How is Leighton doing?"
"They seem fine," Emma said carefully. She had not sat back down, hoping to keep this conversation short.
"By your standards, I'm sure that's true," said Stillbend.
"Well, my standards are the only ones I have to measure by," Emma said. "If you want to judge by your standards, I don't know why you'd ask me."
"A fair point," Stillbend said. "In that case, have a good weekend, and I'll see you next Friday."
"Yep," said Emma. She hurried out before Stillbend could say anything else to prolong the meeting.
