Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Johnson Space Center, Houston, Texas

Six months ago

I am surprised by how much the email hurts, because it’s a lot.

Not that I expected to be happy about it. It’s a well-established fact that hearing that your project has been denied funding is as pleasant as plunging a toilet. But rejections are the bread and butter of all academic journeys, and since starting my Ph.D. I’ve had approximately twelve hundred fantabillions of them. In the past five years, I’ve been denied publications, conference presentations, fellowships, scholarships, memberships. I even failed at getting into Bruegger’s unlimited-drinks program—a devastating setback, considering my love for iced teas.

The good thing is, the more rejections you get, the easier they are to swallow. What had me punching pillows and plotting murder in the first year of my Ph.D. barely fazed me in the last. Progress in Aerospace Sciences saying that my dissertation wasn’t worthy of gracing their pages? Fine. National Science Foundation declining to sponsor my postdoctoral studies? Okay. Mara insisting that the Rice Krispies Treats I made for her birthday tasted like toilet paper? Eh. I’ll live.

This specific rejection, though, cuts deep. Because I really, really need the grant money for what I’m planning to do.

Most of NASA funding is tied to specific projects, but every year there is a discretionary pot that’s up for grabs, usually for junior scientists who come up with research ideas that seem worth exploring. And mine, I think, is pretty worthy. I’ve been at NASA for over six months. I spent nearly all of them in Norway, at the best Mars analogue on Earth, knee-deep in intense fieldwork, equipment testing, sampling exercises. For the past couple of weeks, ever since returning to Houston, I’ve taken my place with the A & PE team, and it’s been really, really cool. Ian was right: best team ever.

But. Every break. Every free second. Every weekend. Every scrap of time I could find, I focused on finalizing the proposal for my project, believing that it was a fucking great idea. And now that proposal has been rejected. Which feels like being stabbed with a santoku knife.

“Did something happen?” Karl, my office mate, asks from across the desk. “You look like you’re about to cry. Or maybe throw something out of the window, I can’t tell.”

I don’t bother to glance at him. “Haven’t made up my mind, but I’ll keep you updated.” I stare at the monitor of my computer, skimming the feedback letters from the internal reviewers.

As we all know, in early 2010, the rover Spirit became stuck in a sand trap, was unable to reorient its solar panels toward the sun, and froze to death as a consequence of its lack of power. Something very similar happened eight years later to Opportunity, which went into hibernation when a maelstrom blocked sunlight and prevented it from recharging its batteries. Obviously, the risk of losing control of rovers because of extreme weather events is high. To address this, Dr. Arroyo has designed a promising internal system that is less likely to fail in the case of unpredictable meteorological situations. She proposes to build a model and test its efficacy on the next expedition at the Arctic Mars Analog in Svalbard (AMASE)—

Dr. Arroyo’s project is a brilliant addition to NASA’s current roster, and it should be approved for further study. Dr. Arroyo’s vitae is impressive, and she has accumulated enough experience to carry out the proposed work—

If successful, this proposal will do something critical for NASA’s space exploration program: decrease the experience of low-power faults, mission clock faults, and up-loss timer faults in future Mars Exploration missions—

Here is the issue: the reviews are?.?.?. positive. Overwhelmingly positive. Even from a crowd of scientists that, I am well aware, feeds on being mean and scathing. The science doesn’t seem to be a problem, the relevance to NASA’s mission is there, my CV is good enough, and?.?.?. it doesn’t add up. Which is why I’m not going to sit here and take this bullshit.

I slam my laptop closed, aggressively stand from my desk, and march right out of my office.

“Hannah? Where are you—”

I ignore Karl and make my way through the hallways till I find the office I’m looking for.

“Come in,” a voice says after my knock.

I met Dr. Merel because he was my direct superior during AMASE, and he is?.?.?. an odd duck, honestly. Very stiff. Very hard-core. NASA is full of ambitious people, but he seems to be almost obsessed with results, publications, the kind of sexy science that makes big splashy news. Initially I wasn’t a fan, but I must admit that as a supervisor he’s been nothing but supportive. He’s the one who selected me for the expedition to begin with, and he encouraged me to apply for funding once I went to him with my project idea.

“Hannah. How nice to see you.”

“Do you have a minute to talk?” He’s probably in his forties, but there is something old-school about him. Maybe the sweater-vests, or the fact that he’s literally the only person I’ve met at NASA who doesn’t go by his first name. He takes off his metal-rimmed glasses, sets them on his desk, then he steeples his fingers to give me a long look. “It’s about your proposal, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t offer me a seat, and I don’t take one. But I do close the door behind me. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and cross my arms on my chest, hoping I won’t sound the way I feel, i.e., homicidal. “I just got the rejection email, and I was wondering if you have any?.?.?. insight. The reviews didn’t highlight areas needing improvement, so—”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says dismissively.

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“It’s inconsequential.”

“I?.?.?. Is it?”

“Yes. Of course it would have been convenient if you’d had those funds at your disposal, but I’ve already discussed it with two of my colleagues who agree that your work is meritorious. They are in control of other funds that Floyd won’t be able to veto, so—”

“Floyd?” I raise my finger. I must have misheard. “Hold up, did you say Floyd? Ian Floyd?” I try to recall if I’ve heard of other Floyds working here. It’s a common last name, but?.?.?.

Merel’s face doesn’t hide much. It’s obvious that he was referring to Ian, and it’s obvious that he wasn’t supposed to bring him up, fucked up by doing it anyway, and now has no choice but to explain to me what he hinted at.

I have exactly zero intention of letting him off the hook.

“This is, of course, confidential,” he says after a brief hesitation.

“Okay,” I agree hurriedly.

“The review process should remain anonymous. Floyd cannot know.”

“He won’t,” I lie. I have no plan at the moment, but part of me already knows that I’m lying. I’m not exactly the nonconfrontational type.

“Very well.” Merel nods. “Floyd was part of the committee that screened your application, and he was the one who decided to veto your project.”

He?.?.?. what?

He what?

No way.

“This doesn’t sound right. Ian isn’t even here in Houston.” I know this because a couple of days after coming back from Norway, I went looking for him. Looked him up on the NASA directory, bought a cup of coffee and one of tea from the cafeteria, then went to his office with only vague ideas of what I’d say, feeling almost nervous, and?.?.?.

I found it locked. “He’s at JPL,” someone with a South African accent told me when they noticed me idling in the hallway.

“Oh. Okay.” I turned around. Took two steps away. Then turned back to ask, “When will he be back?”

“Hard to tell. He’s been there for a month or so to work on the sampling tool for Serendipity.”

“I see.” I thanked the woman, and this time I left for real.

It’s been a little over a week since then, and I’ve been to his office?.?.?. in a number of instances. I’m not even sure why. And it doesn’t really matter, because the door was closed every single time. Which is how I know that: “Ian is at JPL. He’s not here.”

“You are mistaken,” Merel says. “He’s back.”

I stiffen. “As of when?”

“That, I could not tell you, but he was present when the committee met to discuss your proposal. And like I said, he was the one who vetoed it.”

This is impossible. Nonsensical. “Are you sure it was him?”

Merel gives me an annoyed look and I swallow, feeling oddly?.?.?. exposed, standing the way I am in this office while being told that Ian—Ian? Really?—is the reason I didn’t get my funding. It seems like a lie. But would Merel lie? He’s way too straitlaced for that. I doubt he has the imagination.

“Can he do that? Veto a project that’s otherwise well received?”

“Considering his position and seniority, yes.”

“Why, though?”

He sighs. “It could be anything. Perhaps he is jealous of a brilliant proposal, or he’d rather the funding go to someone else. Some of his close collaborators have applied, I hear.” A pause. “Something he said made me suspect that?.?.?.”

“What?”

“That he didn’t believe you capable of doing the work.”

I stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“He didn’t seem to find faults in the proposal. But he did talk about your role in it in less-than-flattering tones. Of course, I tried to push back.”

I close my eyes, suddenly nauseous. I cannot believe Ian would do this. I cannot believe he’d be such a backstabbing, miserable dick. Maybe we’re not close friends, but after our last meeting, I thought he?.?.?. I don’t know. I have no idea. I think maybe I had expectations of something, but this puts a swift end to them. “I’m going to appeal.”

“There is no reason to do that, Hannah.”

“There are plenty of reasons. If Ian thinks that I’m not good enough despite my CV, I—”

“Do you know him?” Merel interrupts me.

“What?”

“I was wondering if you two know each other?”

“No. No, I?.?.?.” Once humped his leg. It was fantastic. “Barely. Just in passing.”

“I see. I was just curious. It would explain why he was so determined about denying your project. I’d never seen him quite so?.?.?. adamant that a proposal not get accepted.” He waves his hand, like this is not important. “But you shouldn’t concern yourself with this, because I have already secured alternative funding for your project.”

Oh. Now this I did not expect. “Alternative funding?”

“I reached out to a few team leaders who owed me favors. I asked them if they had any budget surplus they might want to dedicate to your project, and I was able to put together enough to send you back to Norway.”

I half gasp, half laugh. “Really?”

“Indeed.”

“On the next AMASE?”

“The one that leaves in February of next year, yes.”

“What about the help I asked for? I will need one other person to help me build the mini-rover and to be in the field. And I’ll have to travel quite a way from home base, which might be dangerous on my own.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to finance another expedition member.”

I press my lips together and think about it. I can probably do most of the prep work on my own. If I don’t sleep for the next few months, which?.?.?. I’ve done it before. I’ll be fine. The problem would be when I get to Svalbard. It’s too risky to—

“I’ll be there, out in the field with you, of course,” Dr. Merel says. I’m a little surprised. In the months we were in Norway, I saw him do very little sample collecting and snow plodding. I’ve always thought of him as more of a coordinator. But if he offered, he must mean it, and?.?.?. I smile. “Perfect, then. Thank you.”

I slip out of the room, and for about two weeks I’m high enough on the knowledge that my project will be happening that I manage to do just that: not let anyone know. I don’t even tell Mara and Sadie when we FaceTime, because?.?.?. because to explain the degree of Ian’s betrayal, I’d have to admit to the lie I told them years ago. Because I feel like a total idiot for trusting someone who deserves nothing from me. Because being honest with them would first require me to be honest with myself, and I’m too angry, tired, disappointed for that. In my rants, Ian becomes a faceless, anonymous figure, and there is something freeing in that. In not letting myself remember that I used to think of him fondly, and by name.

Then, exactly seventeen days later, I meet Ian Floyd in the stairwell. And that’s when everything goes to shit.

---

?????????I spot him before he sees me—because of the red, and the general largeness, and the fact that he’s climbing up while I’m going down. There are about five elevators here, and I’m not sure why anyone would willingly choose to subject their bodies to the stress of upward stairs, but I’m too shocked that Ian is the one doing it. It’s the kind of glory-less overachieving I’ve come to expect from him.

My first instinct is to push him and watch him fall to his death. Except I’m almost sure it’s a felony. Plus, Ian is considerably stronger than me, which means it might not be feasible. Abort mission, I tell myself. Just squeeze by. Ignore him. Not worth your time.

The problems start when he looks up and notices me. He stops exactly two steps below, which should put him at a disadvantage but, depressingly, unfairly, tragically, doesn’t. We are at eye level when his eyes widen and his lips curve in a pleased smile. He says, “Hannah,” a touch of something in his voice that I recognize but instantly reject, and I have no choice but to acknowledge him.

The staircase is deserted, and sound carries far. His “I came looking for you” is deep and low and vibrates right through me. “Last week. Some guy in your office said you don’t work there much, but—”

“Fuck off.”

The words crash out of me. My temper has always been reckless, one hundred miles per hour, and?.?.?. well. Still is, I guess.

Ian’s reaction is too baffled to be confused. He stares at me like he’s not sure what he just heard, and it’s the perfect chance for me to walk away before I say something I regret. But seeing his face makes me remember Merel’s words, and that?.?.?. that is really not good.

He didn’t believe you capable of doing the work.

The worst part, the one that actually hurts, is how thoroughly I misjudged Ian. I actually thought he was a good guy. I liked him a lot, when I never let myself like anyone, and?.?.?. how dare he? How dare he stab me in the back and then address me as though he’s my friend?

“What exactly is it that you have a problem with, Ian?” I square my shoulders to make myself bigger. I want him to look at me and think of a cruiser tank. I want him to be scared I’m going to pillage him. “Is it that you hate good science? Or is it purely personal?”

He frowns. He has the audacity to frown. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You can cut it. I know about the proposal.”

For a second he is absolutely still. Then his gaze hardens, and he asks, “Who told you?”

At least he’s not pretending not to know what I’m referring to. “Really?” I snort. “Who told me? That’s what seems relevant?”

His expression is stony. “Proceedings regarding the disbursement of internal funding are not public. An anonymous internal peer review is necessary to guarantee—”

“—to guarantee your ability to allocate funding to your close collaborators and fuck up the careers of the ones you have no use for. Right?” He jerks back. Not the reaction I expected, but it fills me with joy nonetheless. “Unless the reason was personal. And you vetoed my proposal because I didn’t sleep with you, what, five years ago.”

He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t scream that I’m insane. His eyes narrow to blue slits and he asks, “It was Merel, wasn’t it?”

“Why do you care? You did veto my project, so—”

“Did he also tell you why I vetoed it?”

“I never said that it was Merel who—”

“Because he was there when I explained my objections, at length and in detail. Did he omit that?” I press my lips together. Which he seems to interpret as an opening. “Hannah.” He leans closer. We’re nose to nose, I smell his skin and his aftershave, and I hate every second of this. “Your project is too dangerous. It specifically asks that you travel to a remote location to drop off equipment at a time of the year in which the weather is volatile and often totally unpredictable. I’ve been in Longyearbyen in February, and avalanches develop out of the blue. It’s only gotten worse in the last few—”

“How many times?”

He blinks at me. “What?”

“How many times have you been to Longyearbyen?”

“I’ve been on two expeditions—”

“Then you’ll understand why I take the opinion of someone who has been on a dozen missions over yours. Plus, we both know what the real reason of the veto was.”

Ian opens, then closes his mouth. His jaw hardens, and I’m finally sure of it: he’s mad. Pissed. I see it in the way he clenches his fist. The flare of his nostrils. His big body is just inches from mine, glowing with anger. “Hannah, Merel is not always trustworthy. There have been incidents under his watch that—”

“What incidents?”

A pause. “It’s not my information to disclose. But you shouldn’t trust him with your—”

“Right.” I scoff. “Of course I should take the word of the guy who went behind my back over the word of the guy who went to bat for me and made sure my project was funded anyway. Very hard choice to make.”

His hand lifts to close around my upper arm, at once gentle and urgent. I refuse to care enough to pull away from his touch. “What did you just say?”

I roll my eyes. “I said a bunch of things, Ian, but the gist of it was fuck off. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“What do you mean, Merel made sure that your project was funded anyway?” His grip tightens.

“I mean exactly what I said.” I lean in, eyes locked with his, and for a split second the familiar feeling of being close, here, near him crashes over me like a wave. But it washes away just as quickly, and all that is left is an odd combination of vengeful sadness. I have my project, which means that I won. But I also?.?.?. Yeah. I did like him. And while he was always just in the periphery of my life, I think maybe I’d hoped?.?.?.

Well. No matter now. “He found an alternative, Ian,” I tell him. “Me and my inability to carry out the project are going to Norway, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

He closes his eyes. Then he opens them and mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like fuck, followed by my name and other hurried explanations that I don’t care to listen to. I free my arm from his fingers, meet his eyes one last time, and walk away swearing to myself that this is it.

I will never think of Ian Floyd again.