Despite his strict adherence to military discipline, Carlisle rests his hand on Khan’s shoulder for a moment before he leaves: a reminder, in case she needs one, that she has friends outside this room.
Fournier gives no sign of having noticed. “Close the door, please,” he tells Khan. His thin, ascetic face is solemn, almost architectural with self-conscious dignity. Sweat sticks his hair to his forehead, undercutting the effect. The engine room is uncomfortably hot, but Khan is sure some of the sweat is because he’s been fretting about this conversation ever since he decided to ask her the million-dollar question (Is that a baby in your belly, Dr. Khan, or did you blow your diet?) straight out, yes or no, and she gave the wrong answer.
For a moment, the strong aversion she feels for the civilian commander gives way to pity. Fournier has so many fears, and what he’s doing now combines most of them. Fear of losing the respect and/or the affection of the crew. Fear of meeting a challenge that will be too strong for him, and will break him. Fear of seeming weak, or cruel, or indecisive. Fear, always, of being judged unfit for the job he has been given. The sad thing is that if he is unfit, it’s the fear that makes him that way. It makes him second-guess himself. He could follow his instincts in almost any direction and be a better leader than he is now.
Fournier gestures at the hand-held recorder on the table in front of him. “You should know that I’m taping this,” he tells Khan unnecessarily. “Obviously we can’t report in to Beacon just now, but the sound file will go on your record.” It’s quite a grandiose claim when they’re all the way out here in the wilds of Scotland, four hundred miles from the last human enclave in the United Kingdom. There are computers on board, but there are no satellites left in the sky to bounce digital signals from one end of the world to the other. The file will stay on the little hand-held until they get back home, if home is even still there, and then if anyone gives a damn it will be uploaded onto a server somewhere.
And promptly forgotten, more than likely. Beacon, if it’s still in business, has bigger problems on its plate right now. And they might even solve one or two of them if Fournier would just leave them to get on with their work. Khan tries to shut that line of thought down. She doesn’t want to get angry: anger will make her careless, and she might say something stupid.
“Dr. Khan,” Fournier says. He seems not to like the sound of it because he tries again. “Rina. Over the past few weeks it’s become impossible to ignore the fact that you’ve been gaining weight. Around your—” he gestures. “Your middle. I didn’t want to pry, but the well-being of this crew is in my hands. So yesterday I asked you if you were pregnant. I’m going to ask you again now, for the record.”
Khan waits. She’s not going to make this easy for him.
“Are you pregnant?” Fournier demands at last, when he realises that she is waiting for the actual question to be repeated.
“Yes.”
“Which puts you in breach of the mission statement you accepted and signed to when you came aboard.”
“No,” Khan says. “It doesn’t.”
“You received the same orders as the rest of us. You accepted, as we all did, that there would be absolutely no fraternisation, absolutely no emotional or physical bonding, between any of the members of this crew. You knew that we were going to be in the field for more than a year. You knew that a pregnancy, if it forced us to return to Beacon early, would be disastrous. Yet you still decided to indulge in unprotected sex.”
Indulge, Khan thinks. Right. That’s what we did. That frantic fumble was a wild indulgence. And by the way how can you miss the fact that Dr. Akimwe is banging Private Phillips right under your nose every night and most days? No risk of pregnancy there, though, so looking the other way is the better part of valour.
“And when you realised you were pregnant, as you must have done several months ago, you didn’t tell me.”
“No,” Khan agrees. “I’m sincerely sorry about that.”
She sincerely isn’t. She’s sorry that she let her guard down. Sorry that she didn’t think about consequences. But she’s not sorry she kept the secret. Six months ago they would still have been close enough to Beacon to turn around and take her home. She has to be here, however difficult here is. She wants and needs to be a part of this mission. And her presence secured Stephen’s, which she still believes will turn out—at some point, in some way—to be crucial.
Dr. Fournier doesn’t acknowledge the apology in any case. Khan wonders if he’s working to a script he’s prepared in advance. “This is a disciplinary offence, Rina,” he says, “and I’m going to have to write it up as one. I’m also obliged to ask you to give me the name of the father.”
Khan says nothing.
“Dr. Khan, I said you have to tell me who the child’s father is.”
“No, I don’t.” She takes a deep breath. She is about to lie, and it doesn’t sit well with her. She would prefer to throw the truth in the civilian commander’s teeth and see how he copes with it. But she can’t just consult her own preferences here. Other people are involved. “I was already pregnant when we left Beacon,” she says. “I realised the truth a month later, and you’re right that I should have told you then. I was afraid to. I didn’t want to be responsible for aborting the mission.”
Fournier stares at her, affronted. “That’s ridiculous,” he protests. “That would mean you’re seven months …” A strained pause completes the sentence.
“Seven months gone? Yes, Dr. Fournier. Thank you. I’m perfectly capable of counting backwards.” And the calculation isn’t wrong by more than a week. She and John fell into each other’s arms only a few days out from Beacon. It was the relief of getting away from that place. The explosive derepression. They might as well have been drunk.
Fournier frowns. “It’s hardly conceivable …” he protests, and—conception being precisely the issue—stumbles headlong into another silence.
“I’m happy to submit to any tests or inquiries you want to order when we get back,” Khan declares. She’s happy enough to say it, anyway. There are no tests that will settle the issue, and she’ll take her chances on an inquiry. The way things are going, Fournier’s lease is unlikely to last any longer than the mission. Beacon doesn’t reward failure.