Last Plane to Heaven by Jay Lake

though everyone else had long since realized he didn’t play their games.
    Trusting that no one had hacked the entire tracking system, he cycled the lock and stepped into the passageway beyond. Glancing back at Tiede 1 as the lock irised shut, Maduabuchi saw another green flash.
    He fought back a surge of irritation. The star was not mocking him.
    *   *   *
    Peridot Smith was in the Survey Suite when Maduabuchi cycled the lock there. Radiation-tanned from some melanin-deficient base hue of skin; lean, with her hair follicles removed and her scalp tattooed in an intricate mandala using magnetically sensitive ink; the captain was an arresting sight at any time. At the moment, she was glaring at him, her eyes flashing a strange, flat silver indicating serious tech integrated into the tissues. “Mr. St. Macaria.” She gave him a terse nod. “How are the weapons systems?”
    Ironically, of all the bloody-minded engineers and analysts and navigators aboard, he was the weapons officer.
    â€œCapped and sealed per orders, ma’am,” he replied. “Test circuits warm and green.” Inclined Plane carried a modest mix of hardware, generalized for unknown threats rather than optimized for antipiracy or planetary blockade duty, for example. Missiles, field projectors, electron strippers, flechettes, even foggers and a sandcaster. Most of which he had no real idea about. They were icons in the control systems, each maintained by its own little armies of nanobots and workbots. All he had were status lights and strat-tac displays. Decisions were made by specialized subsystems.
    It was the rankest makework, but Maduabuchi didn’t mind. He’d volunteered for the Howard Institute program because of the most basic human motivation—tourism. Seeing what was over the next hill had trumped even sex as the driving force in human evolution. He was happy to be a walking, talking selection mechanism.
    Everything else, including this tour of duty, was just something to do while the years slid past.
    â€œWhat did you need, Mr. St. Macaria?”
    â€œI was going to take a closer look at Tiede 1, ma’am.”
    â€œThat is what we’re here for.”
    He looked for humor in her dry voice, and did not find it. “Ma’am, yes ma’am. I … I just think I saw something.”
    â€œOh, really?” Her eyes flashed, reminding Maduabuchi uncomfortably of blades.
    Embarrassed, he turned back to the passageway.
    â€œWhat did you see?” she asked from behind him. Now her voice was edged as well.
    â€œNothing, ma’am. Nothing at all.”
    Back in the passageway, Maduabuchi fled toward his cabin. Several of the crew laughed from sickbay, their voices rising over the whine of the bone-knitter. Someone had gone down hard.
    Not him. Not even at the hands—or eyes—of Captain Smith.
    *   *   *
    An hour later, after checking the locations of the crew again with the ship’s AI, he ventured back to the Survey Suite. Chillicothe Xiang nodded to him in the passageway, almost friendly, as she headed aft for a half shift monitoring the power plants in Engineering.
    â€œHey,” Maduabuchi said in return. She didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to notice he’d spoken. All these years, all the surgeries and nano injections and training, and somehow he was still the odd kid out on the playground.
    Being a Howard Immortal was supposed to be different . And it was, when he wasn’t around other Howard Immortals.
    The Survey Suite was empty, as advertised. Ultra-def screens wrapped the walls, along with a variety of control inputs, from classical keypads to haptics and gestural zones. Maduabuchi slipped into the observer’s seat and swept his hand to open the primary sensor routines.
    Captain Smith had left her last data run parked in the core sandbox.
    His fingers hovered over the purge, then pulled back. What had she been