The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(98)

The really absurd thing about that requirement was that astronauts barely flew anything. Sure, they had to go into outer space, but there was a reason that Chuck Yeager called it being “spam in a can.” Most of the systems were automated.

It would be different on the way to the moon, but even that would be nothing like flying a jet.

Meanwhile, the Sirius rocket that Bubbles had designed was ready for a launch test. All the static firings in the world wouldn’t count until we actually sent it into the air.

I tapped the trajectory pages together into a stack and tucked them into a folder. “Be right back. I’m going to run this down to Bubbles.”

Basira looked up from her desk with a pout. “Oh … let him come for them. He’s so adorable.”

“You should ask him out on a date.” I slid my chair back and stood.

She barked a laugh. “I’m pretty sure he’s supposed to ask me.”

“That would involve him realizing that the computers are women.”

“A man who asks for a ‘computress’ doesn’t know that?” She snorted and turned back to her pages. “Please. I just think he doesn’t know what to do with us.”

“Which is why you should ask him out…” I winked and headed for the door. “Should I tell him you asked about him?”

“Don’t you dare!” She flung a wadded-up piece of paper after me, and hit Myrtle by mistake. Which set the whole room to giggling.

Still laughing, I headed down the hall to the engineering wing. The practical labs, which is where Bubbles usually worked, were in a different building from us, because they tended to blow things up. Thank heavens for the “gerbil tubes” that connected our buildings. Otherwise, I would have to step into the heat to run the report over.

I opened the door to the stairwell up to the sky bridge.

Down a floor, a conversation cut off. “. … told you, I’m fine—Sh.”

That hush echoed up the stairwell. It took a second to identify the voice, only because I’d never heard Stetson Parker sound stressed. Not even when there was a bomber on the IAC campus.

I leaned over the railing and looked down. He sat on the bottom step with one leg stretched out in front of him. Halim Malouf stood over him, hands on his hips.

“Y’all need any help?”

At the sound of my voice, Parker’s head jerked up and around. “Everything is fine.”

“Are you sure?” It was tempting to leave him, but the lines of his face were drawn tight. “I can get a medic.”

“No!” His voice echoed up to the top of the stairwell and back down again. Parker closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. “No. Thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

“I think maybe it is.” Malouf rubbed the back of his neck. “Stetson … it’s been getting worse.”

“Don’t you say another word.” Parker jabbed a finger up at him, then glared at me. “And you. I don’t want to hear a peep about this from you.”

Pulled down the stairs by their gravity, my heels clicked against the concrete steps. “If there’s nothing wrong, then there’s nothing for me to tell.”

“You really like pushing things, don’t you, York?” Parker grabbed the railing and hauled himself upright. His left leg hung loose under him.

“What happened?” I stopped on the stairs, clutching the trajectory folder as a shield between us.

“Nothing happened. I just slipped on the stairs, that’s all.” He took a limping step away from the stairs and his left leg buckled under him.

“Oh, hell!” Malouf caught him, easing Parker to the ground.

I ran down the stairs to try to help. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“You can’t stand!”

“I fucking know that!” Parker pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He held his breath for a moment. Then he blew it out and lowered his hand. “York. I’m going to ask you as a favor. One pilot to another. Please don’t say anything. You have the power, right now, to have me grounded. Please, please don’t.”

“Well … I’m sympathetic to fears of being grounded.”

“Please.”

I took another step closer. As much as I might have dreamed about Parker begging me for something, this wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be better than him. Winning because he was sick? No thank you. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. If I go to the flight surgeon, he’ll ground me.”

As well he should. A leg like that could jeopardize a mission. And for that matter, why hadn’t Malouf told anyone already? Maybe it was recent. My thoughts went to stories my parents told about when Hershel got sick. It had started with a weakness in his leg. “Have you had a fever?”

“It’s not polio.”

I pulled back, a little startled that his thoughts went there too. “How do you—”

“I know what polio looks like. All right?” He scowled at me. “Why are you still here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be scampering off to report this to the newspaper?”

Behind his back, Malouf made a subtle shooing motion, but not unkindly. “I think everything is under control, Dr. York.”