Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(25)

“It’s a good list,” I say. “Some very useful items here. I think we’ll have to take some of what you describe. The arm, for one. However, I’d like us to entertain an alternative for the bulk of the equipment.”

Chandler leans back in his chair and exhales.

I continue. “I don’t favor taking pre-built items that aren’t ready-made for our task. Drones, for example. They may get the job done, but it’s a long shot. And we’ll have no support—their creators are going to be twenty million miles away. No answers when we need them. We probably won’t even be able to figure out how to repair them. That would be fine if we had unlimited cargo capacity, but of course we don’t—and this list would add up to a lot of unnecessary weight.”

Fowler cocks his head. I think he knows where I’m going.

Chandler clearly doesn’t. “Well, we launch in twenty-four hours, so we have to take something, and we can’t wait for new equipment to be built. This manifest is the best we can do.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Necessarily, it is.” Chandler motions to his assistant. “We’ve done the research.”

“But you haven’t considered the alternative.”

He glares at me like an animal ready to pounce. He wants nothing more than to rip me apart. I don’t react. I’m sure that angers him even more.

“After launch,” I say casually, “we have four months’ travel time to the Alpha artifact. Each ship has a roboticist and a software engineer. If we launch with the right raw components, we can build what we need while en route. We turn each ship into a robotics lab.”

Chandler scoffs. “Ridiculous.”

“It will halve the weight that would be required for all this equipment. And when we arrive, we’ll have better tools—tools that we understand completely. And can repair. And repurpose if needed.”

“I like this idea,” Grigory says.

Lina nods. “So do I. I can take some base code and frameworks and write the software. No problem.”

Chandler actually looks scared now. “It’s… well, frankly…” His voice falters. “Look, what if you take the wrong components? Or you’re missing a part?” He has his stride back now, the TV debate skills kicking in. “And as you so eloquently reminded us, Doctor Sinclair, Earth is twenty million miles away. You can’t order what you don’t have. And there’s no tech support on what you do have.”

“Why would you need tech support to help you with something you built yourself? And if you don’t have a part, you simply design around it. Build whatever you can with whatever you have available.”

Chandler looks into the pit at Fowler. “I can’t avoid this any longer. I have to formally protest James Sinclair’s involvement in this mission. He’s reckless and careless. He has bad judgment. Judgment bad enough to land him in prison.” He looks at the rest of the crew. “And on this mission, that could get us all killed—or prevent us from learning what the artifact is, which I consider worse.”

Around the room, eyes glance at me and then down and away, as if they’ve just seen a kid getting beat up on the school playground and know they can’t help. That’s about what I feel like. I have a bloody nose, and I’m down, but I’m not out. I’m boiling with rage.

It’s all I can do not to shout my response. “Your problem is very simple, Dr. Chandler: you can’t do the work. Out there, we’re going to have to build what we need, and repair it. You might have been able to do it twenty years ago, maybe even ten, but since then you’ve been doing nothing but giving TV interviews and delivering paid lectures. That won’t do us any good where we’re going.”

Chandler stands and points at me. “I was inventing things when you were still crapping your pants—”

Fowler holds up his hands.

“Gentlemen, please. We don’t have time for this.” He eyes Chandler for a long moment. “Dr. Chandler, NASA has never sent anyone into space under protest.” He points at the door, which an assistant opens. “We’re not about to start now. Please follow me.”





When the door closes behind Fowler and Chandler, you could hear a pin drop in the room.

My heart is beating like a drum. I was geared up for a fight, and I can’t seem to unwind myself. My hands are even shaking.

Grigory leans back in his chair, getting my attention. “How much weight for your components?” His tone is nonchalant, as if nothing of note just happened.

“Don’t know yet,” I mutter.

He squints at me. “What do you need in order to know?”

“Answers. For example, once we reach the artifact, could we cannibalize parts of the ship without compromising our ability to complete the mission or get back home?”

“Possibly…” His head tilts back and he stares at the ceiling, as if taking a mental inventory of the ships. “Which parts are you interested in?”





Fowler returns with another roboticist—Dr. Harry Andrews. I’ve met him a couple of times at conferences, years ago. He’s smart. And most importantly, he’s a working roboticist. Last I heard, he was in the private sector, at a conglomerate that let him tinker in his lab and avoid meetings and management. He’s perfect for this.