Unconscious for the duration. When you wake up you might feel a bit weary and slimy, but otherwise you'll be fine. Not quite the stasis chambers you see in science fiction movies, but they get the job done."
"Will we age?" Robert asked.
"Sure will," Harris said. "Three months out and three months back. We're all about to have six months shaved off our lives. But honestly, anyone who doesn't think loosing six months of their life to get a front row seat of Jupiter is crazy."
Striding quickly, Choi walked to the door, opened it and motioned for the others to leave. "If you don't mind," she said, "we have much more to cover today and a very tight schedule."
Harris headed for the door, followed by Willard and Peterson. Robert lingered behind with Connelly. They looked back at the chair.
"Unbelievable," Robert said before the left.
Sitting alone at the center of the room was the impact chair. A silver hump at the center of the chair continued to rise and fall as Lucy continued to breathe in her liquid metal womb.
* * * * *
Beads of sweat rolled down Connelly's forehead and stung her eyes. She'd been pounding the punching bag for fifteen minutes—her daily routine—and was only now beginning to tire. Her white tank top was wet around the collar and her grey sweatpants clung uncomfortably to the slick skin of her legs.
She'd taken up slugging a punching bag fourteen years ago as a way to relieve stress and anxiety. It made her feel strong, and when she was done, strangely enough, it made her feel more feminine. At the end of every session, Connelly would build her intensity, swinging harder and faster, unleashing tension she wasn't even aware existed. She was surprised that today's workout was one of her fiercest ever. She wasn't sure why.
The day had been normal enough, as normal as possible. The morning was filled with classes on subjects ranging from astrophysics, to space flight, to preparing space meals. She'd had a quick lunch with Peterson, which was pleasant, and then went through several last minute physicals.
Connelly's punches grew stronger. The bag swung wildly with each hit and her knuckles began to burn. Maybe it was that in two days she was going to be launched into space, travel across the solar system in search of life on a moon where risks were high and chance of a rescue, if something should go wrong, was nil. That would make sense, but Connelly knew something else was eating at her.
With a mighty punch, Connelly hammered the bag, sending it in a long swinging arc. Then the bag stopped in midair—caught. Peterson stepped out from behind the bag. He was shirtless, glistening with sweat and smiling his Michael Peterson smile. "Whoa there, killer. Working out some frustrations?"
"A girl can't stay in shape?"
"You're pretty fierce is all I'm saying. Wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those punches. Can't say I mind your shape though."
Connelly did her best not to smirk. "Keep talking like that and you'll find out what one of my punches feels like." Connelly looked at Peterson's slick torso and chuckled. "You get all oiled up to come talk to me?"
Peterson smiled. "I was running. But you're right, the sweat does bring out some of my better features." Peterson jokingly hung on the punching bag so that the majority of muscles in his upper body flexed.
Connelly raised an eyebrow and smiled.
"So I've been meaning to ask you something."
Connelly tensed at the new tone in his voice.
"Call it a hunch, but I've got the impression you don't necessarily want to be here."
"Good hunch," Connelly said. " Can I be honest with you?"
"I won't tell a soul."
"We're going to a moon, in space, with no atmosphere. The chance of us finding life-forms beyond microbes is remote in the grandest sense. And the chance of any microbes we do find being beneficial to the human race is even slimmer. We should be putting our money and interest into understanding our own planet before
"Will we age?" Robert asked.
"Sure will," Harris said. "Three months out and three months back. We're all about to have six months shaved off our lives. But honestly, anyone who doesn't think loosing six months of their life to get a front row seat of Jupiter is crazy."
Striding quickly, Choi walked to the door, opened it and motioned for the others to leave. "If you don't mind," she said, "we have much more to cover today and a very tight schedule."
Harris headed for the door, followed by Willard and Peterson. Robert lingered behind with Connelly. They looked back at the chair.
"Unbelievable," Robert said before the left.
Sitting alone at the center of the room was the impact chair. A silver hump at the center of the chair continued to rise and fall as Lucy continued to breathe in her liquid metal womb.
* * * * *
Beads of sweat rolled down Connelly's forehead and stung her eyes. She'd been pounding the punching bag for fifteen minutes—her daily routine—and was only now beginning to tire. Her white tank top was wet around the collar and her grey sweatpants clung uncomfortably to the slick skin of her legs.
She'd taken up slugging a punching bag fourteen years ago as a way to relieve stress and anxiety. It made her feel strong, and when she was done, strangely enough, it made her feel more feminine. At the end of every session, Connelly would build her intensity, swinging harder and faster, unleashing tension she wasn't even aware existed. She was surprised that today's workout was one of her fiercest ever. She wasn't sure why.
The day had been normal enough, as normal as possible. The morning was filled with classes on subjects ranging from astrophysics, to space flight, to preparing space meals. She'd had a quick lunch with Peterson, which was pleasant, and then went through several last minute physicals.
Connelly's punches grew stronger. The bag swung wildly with each hit and her knuckles began to burn. Maybe it was that in two days she was going to be launched into space, travel across the solar system in search of life on a moon where risks were high and chance of a rescue, if something should go wrong, was nil. That would make sense, but Connelly knew something else was eating at her.
With a mighty punch, Connelly hammered the bag, sending it in a long swinging arc. Then the bag stopped in midair—caught. Peterson stepped out from behind the bag. He was shirtless, glistening with sweat and smiling his Michael Peterson smile. "Whoa there, killer. Working out some frustrations?"
"A girl can't stay in shape?"
"You're pretty fierce is all I'm saying. Wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those punches. Can't say I mind your shape though."
Connelly did her best not to smirk. "Keep talking like that and you'll find out what one of my punches feels like." Connelly looked at Peterson's slick torso and chuckled. "You get all oiled up to come talk to me?"
Peterson smiled. "I was running. But you're right, the sweat does bring out some of my better features." Peterson jokingly hung on the punching bag so that the majority of muscles in his upper body flexed.
Connelly raised an eyebrow and smiled.
"So I've been meaning to ask you something."
Connelly tensed at the new tone in his voice.
"Call it a hunch, but I've got the impression you don't necessarily want to be here."
"Good hunch," Connelly said. " Can I be honest with you?"
"I won't tell a soul."
"We're going to a moon, in space, with no atmosphere. The chance of us finding life-forms beyond microbes is remote in the grandest sense. And the chance of any microbes we do find being beneficial to the human race is even slimmer. We should be putting our money and interest into understanding our own planet before
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