Chapter Text
When you're selected by NASA on the next ISS expedition, you don't say no. First of all, to even get to that stage, you had to sign a million waivers, run through a gazillion mental and physical tests, and proclaim your everlasting unwavering devotion to space exploration and advancement and forgo all earthly attachments.
(Well, no, the last part wasn't exactly true. But Jinx did it anyway.)
The point is, if you were lucky enough to be chosen, if you were intelligent enough and impressive enough to make it that far, you knew what you were in for and you didn't back out, no matter what.
That said, Jinx had never felt such a strong compulsion to fake a severe (or commit a real) injury when she learned who was selected alongside her.
Jinx stared at the letter in her hand, making sure she was reading the words correctly.
(She knew she was. She had gotten an email and in-person briefing on this already. The letter was only a last formality at this point and for some reason part of Jinx thought it would be a rejection letter.)
She, yes her, the one and only Jinx, was chosen by NASA for the next expedition into space, to board the International Space Station. Her work was cut out for her. She was selected primarily for her vast intelligence in engineering, most likely capable of improving and fixing any damage on the station as well as her brain encompassing the knowledge of two or three specialized engineers together. Of course, passively, she was also there for human research. Her body would be studied intensely upon return, measuring her vitals and any changes, primarily physical. She would have to record daily wellness check-ins as well to submit.
But more excitingly, in her opinion, Jinx was thrilled to run her experiments. As an engineer with a specialization in astrophysics, she had spent the past four years developing experimental models that could only be tested in microgravity. Some examples of her interests included crystalline formation patterns under zero-g stress, plasma behavior models that could potentially rewrite half the existing literature on solar wind propulsion, and her personal pet project, the one that had probably gotten her selected in the first place: a miniaturized ion drive prototype that, if her calculations were correct (and they always were, excluding the times they weren’t, which Jinx didn’t count), could revolutionize transit time to Mars.
She was only twenty-six years old. The youngest person selected for a long-duration ISS mission in years. Her brain was her weapon, her hands instruments of precision, overall her resume read like science fiction.
Oh, but surely it all sounds too good to be true?
Yeah, there was a catch Jinx had to wrestle with.
She was going to be stuck in a tiny enclosed metal tube for six months with Caitlyn fucking Kiramman.
Jinx set the letter down on her kitchen counter, right next to an open bag of Cheetos (she loved the spicy ones) and a half-finished can of energy drink. Her kitchen was a testament to her brand of organized chaos, consisting of three different laptops open on the table, each running different simulations; a disassembled drone she was rebuilding for fun taking up the entire left side; sticky notes in six colors papering the refrigerator with equations, reminders, and one that just said "BUY MILK".
She picked up her phone, pulling open her text thread with Vi.
Jinx: did u know
Vi: Know what?
Jinx: don't play dumb with me violet
Vi: I genuinely have no idea what you're talking about. Also don't call me that.
Jinx: YOUR EX
Jinx: is going to SPACE
Jinx: WITH ME
Jinx: for SIX MONTHS
Jinx: just the two of us
Jinx: alone
Jinx: in the void
Jinx: together
Jinx: do you understand what im telling you
The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, and appeared again. Jinx could practically see her sister's face cycling through expressions wherever she was reading this. Probably at the gym. Vi was always at the fucking gym, punching that damn bag.
Vi: Oh
Jinx: "oh" SHE SAYS
Vi: I mean. I knew Caitlyn was in the astronaut program.
Jinx: how is this my life
Jinx: what did i do
Jinx: in a past life
Jinx: to deserve this
Vi: It'll be fine! Caitlyn's great. You two just never gave each other a real chance.
Jinx: she's a stuck up rich girl who thinks the world revolves around her fancy accent and her fancy degrees and her fancy FACE
Vi: She has the same amount of degrees as you
Jinx: she has a MASTERS
Vi: ...So do you???
Jinx: THAT'S NOT THE POINT
Vi: What IS the point?
Jinx stared at the screen. What was the point, Vi dared to ask? The point was that Caitlyn Kiramman represented everything Jinx had spent her entire life fighting against. She had effortless privilege. She lived with doors that opened for her without being kicked down. She had that assumption of competence that came with money and a last name that meant something. The point was that Caitlyn had probably never had to prove herself to anyone, had never walked into a room and felt every pair of eyes doing the calculations on whether she belonged there, had never been told she was "impressive, for someone from your background" or "remarkable, considering."
The point was that Jinx had clawed her way up from nothing with bleeding fingernails, and Caitlyn Kiramman had glided in on a cushion of generational wealth and family connections and ended up at the exact same destination.
And now she was going to be Jinx's boss, in space, for half a fucking year.
Jinx: the point is that i would rather be shot into the sun than take orders from her for half a year
Vi: You’re being dramatic.
Jinx: sue me
Vi: Look, I get it. But this is your DREAM. Don't let your feelings about Caitlyn ruin the most incredible opportunity of your life.
Jinx locked her phone and tossed it with a noise of pure frustration, sounding something like a scream and a dying cat’s wail.
Vi was right. That was the worst part. This was indeed Jinx's dream. She'd been working toward this since she was eight years old, since she'd looked up at the night sky through the smog of their neighborhood and knew that someday she’d get there. Since she'd taken apart her first radio at nine and put it back together better, since she'd built her first circuit board at eleven from components she'd salvaged, since she'd gotten a perfect score on the SAT at fifteen and been offered a full scholarship to various universities and realized that her mind, her impossible, relentless, never-sleeping brain, was her ticket out of everything.
She was not going to let Caitlyn Kiramman be the thing that derailed her now.
She retrieved her phone.
Jinx: fine
Jinx: ill be professional
Jinx: ill be so professional she won't know what hit her
Vi: That's the spirit?
Jinx: ill be so polite and cordial she’ll think im an alien
Vi: Okay now I'm worried again.
Jinx: nah
Jinx: i made up my mind
Jinx: im going to be the best goddamn crewmate
Jinx: and then when we get back to earth i'm going to win a nobel prize and never think about her again
Vi: Sure…
Jinx: goodnight
Vi: It's 2pm?
Jinx: GOODNIGHT VIOLET
Here was the thing about Caitlyn Kiramman.
Caitlyn Kiramman was tall. Six feet of impeccable posture and impossible legs and the kind of bone structure that made you think God had a direct hand in her existence. She had dark hair that fell in perfect, untangled waves past her shoulders (or was pinned back in a perfect ponytail), light blue eyes that could freeze you from across a room (though still inferior to Jinx’s, of course), and a way of holding herself with clear certainty, all the time.
She held a Master's in Aeronautical Science from MIT. She had logged over 3,000 hours as a test pilot for the Air Force before transitioning to NASA's astronaut corps. She spoke four languages. She had been selected as Mission Commander for the expedition, meaning she was, technically and officially, going to be in charge.
In charge.
Of Jinx.
Jinx understood, intellectually, that mission hierarchy was important for safety and efficiency in space. She understood this.
And she'd met Caitlyn only a few times, to her knowledge, before this assignment.
The first was three years ago, at a family dinner Vi had insisted on hosting to introduce her then-girlfriend to her younger sister. Jinx had shown up twenty minutes late because she'd lost track of time in working. She had grease still on her fingertips and was wearing a hoodie with a small soldering burn hole in the sleeve.
Caitlyn had been sitting at Vi's dining table in a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than Jinx's monthly rent, her posture so perfect it looked like she had a steel rod sewn into her spine, and she'd looked at Jinx with those damn perfect eyes eyes and said, "So lovely to finally meet you. Vi talks about you constantly."
And Jinx, in her infinite grace and social prowess, had replied, "Cool."
The dinner went further downhill from there. Caitlyn had tried to make polite conversation asking about Jinx's work, her studies, her interests and all, and Jinx had responded in monosyllables. Vi had kicked her under the table twice. Jinx had kicked back harder. Caitlyn eventually stopped trying and turned her attention to Vi, and Jinx had spent the rest of the evening scrolling on her phone and feeling vindicated in her assessment that rich people were boring.
In retrospect, she'd been an asshole. She knew that. She'd known it at the time, probably, but admitting it would require admitting that her hostility was performative, only a shield erected against the discomfort of sitting across someone who probably never once had to worry how she was going to eat that week, and watching her sister be happy with someone who could give her everything that Jinx never could.
Jinx's brain was a complicated place.
The second meeting: Vi's birthday party, six months later. A gathering of twenty-some people at a bar Vi liked, with loud music and an open tab paid for by Caitlyn, which Jinx noticed and resented. Jinx had been there for a bit, was three drinks deep, and was discussing with a group of Vi's friends about if hyperspace in Star Wars was realistic at all when Caitlyn appeared.
"Your thesis on ion propulsion mechanics was fascinating," Caitlyn had said with no preamble. "The approach to beam divergence compensation was novel. Though I did wonder about the thermal load assumptions in section four."
Jinx had stared at her. "Excuse me? You read my thesis?"
"Vi mentioned you'd published, and I was curious."
"You were curious about my fucking thesis?"
"I'm also in aerospace, so yes."
Jinx's brain had short-circuited between feelings of flattery and offense. The flattery was obvious, as someone had voluntarily read her work and enjoyed it. The offense was more complex, because who just does that? Who reads their girlfriend's sister's thesis uninvited? Was she attempting to show off her own knowledge? Was she trying to find flaws? Was this a display of dominance somehow? Oh, I can do what you do as well?
"The thermal load assumptions in section four are based on empirical data from the NEXT-C thruster tests at one of the Research Centers," Jinx said, her voice sharp. "Which you'd know if you'd read the appendix."
"I did read the appendix. The data supports your range, but the upper bound seemed optimistic for a sustained-fire scenario."
"Optimistic? My upper bound is ten percent below the failure threshold documented in the Phase 2 testing."
"Indeed, for short-duration fires. Your proposed mission profile extends well beyond the tested envelope."
Jinx felt her cheeks heat, because damn it, Caitlyn wasn't wrong exactly, but she also wasn't right in the way she thought she was, and explaining that nuance would require going into the secondary thermal management system that Jinx had designed specifically to address sustained-fire concerns, which was in her follow-up paper that Caitlyn definitely hadn't read, and why did this woman know enough to ask pointed questions but not enough to know they'd already been answered?
"Maybe if you spent less time flying planes and more time reading, you'd know I addressed that in my next publication," Jinx snapped. And then, because her already low impulse control degraded exponentially with any alcohol: "But I guess glorified bus driving doesn't leave much time for proper academic reading."
Caitlyn's left eye twitched.
"Glorified bus driving," Caitlyn repeated, confused, but her voice also perfectly soft. "I see."
Jinx didn’t actually mean that.
Vi appeared between them at that moment like a referee breaking up a fight, one hand on each of their shoulders. "Sorry to interrupt a great conversation! Who wants another drink? Everyone wants another drink. Let's get drinks."
She'd steered them in opposite directions, and Jinx had spent the rest of the party aggressively not looking in Caitlyn's direction and aggressively telling herself she didn't feel bad, and her research wasn’t wrong.
But she felt a little bad. Test pilots did incredibly dangerous, technically demanding work. She knew that. She'd said it because she'd wanted to hurt, because Caitlyn's question had poked at a vulnerability in her work.
The third meeting was at an actual NASA mixer, a few months after Vi and Caitlyn had broken up. It was a formal government funded event attended by astronauts and engineers and administrators in varying states. Jinx had been there because attendance was mandatory for astronaut candidates. Caitlyn had been there because she was, apparently, already a full astronaut by then, already on the right track, already established and that made Jinx's candidate status feel amateur.
They'd been placed at the same table by what Jinx could only assume was a cosmic joke. Eight people at the table. Jinx at one end, Caitlyn at the other. Between them, a stretch of white tablecloth.
Jinx had gotten slightly too drunk on the free wine. Suspiciously good and she later learned the funding came from a private donor. Probably one of the Kiramman family friends. Two glasses in, her filter had dissolved entirely.
She was telling a story to the person next to her, some anecdote about a simulation gone wrong, when she'd glanced across the table and caught Caitlyn watching her.
The wine made her bold. She raised her glass toward Caitlyn in a mock toast. "Nice hair," she called across the table. "You look out of a shampoo commercial."
She'd meant it as an insult. Or, well. She'd meant it as something, that’s for sure. It really more was an acknowledgment of the obvious that Caitlyn Kiramman was annoyingly, distractingly beautiful, and that this beauty was just another weapon in her arsenal of unfair advantages.
But Caitlyn had tilted her head, a small smile forming, and responded: "Thank you. I just switched to a sulfate free formula."
Jinx had sputtered in reply, because that wasn't the response she'd expected, and the conversation had somehow devolved into an argument about... hair products? No. Fluid dynamics. Because Jinx had made a comment about how shampoo viscosity was actually a really interesting materials science problem, and Caitlyn had engaged, and then they'd disagreed about whether non-Newtonian fluid modeling applied to consumer products, and the disagreement had escalated, and somehow at the end of it a senior program director was standing over their table saying, "Ladies, if you could take it down about four notches, the Secretary of Defense is trying to give a toast."
They went silent. Jinx had finished her wine. Caitlyn had adjusted her napkin. They hadn't spoken for the rest of the evening.
But later, much later, lying in bed at 3 AM unable to sleep, Jinx had replayed the conversation. And realized, with a discomfort she refused to examine, that it was the most intellectually stimulating exchange she'd had in months.
The fourth meeting, a conference in Houston. Six months before the mission assignment.
Jinx was presenting her latest paper on ion propulsion systems to a packed auditorium. She was good at presentations when the subject was her own work. She stood at the podium in her best approximation of professional attire, her blue braids neat over her shoulders, and walked the audience through years of research.
She didn't know Caitlyn was in the audience until the Q&A.
"Your efficiency projections for sustained fire scenarios," came that voice, that accent, cutting through the murmur of the Q&A line. Jinx looked up from the podium and there she was, third row center, standing at the microphone. "You've addressed the thermal management concerns from your original thesis with the secondary coolant loop, which is elegant. But the beam divergence correction factor in equation forty-seven assumes a static magnetic field configuration. In practice, field coherence degrades over extended operation. How do you account for progressive decoherence?"
The auditorium went silent, there hundreds of people watching and waiting.
Jinx gripped the podium and stared at Caitlyn Kiramman, who was standing there in a perfectly pressed blazer, looking up at her with those un-defying eyes, and felt two things simultaneously:
One: fury. Pure, incandescent fury at being challenged publicly, at having the single possible weakness in her methodology immediately identified and laid bare.
Two: something else. Something that lived in her chest and sparked when Caitlyn's eyes met hers and didn’t falter.
"Progressive decoherence is within the tolerance of the correction factor if the operational envelope remains below 4,000 seconds specific impulse," Jinx answered, her voice a bit too tight and controlled. "Which my current design does."
"And if future iterations push beyond that envelope?"
"Then future iterations will include adaptive correction algorithms, which I'm already developing."
"Are those algorithms published?"
"Not yet."
"Then the claim remains unsubstantiated for scenarios exceeding your current design parameters."
"This claim is bounded, which I clearly stated in the paper. If you'd like to discuss theoretical extensions beyond the published bounds, I'm happy to do so privately."
"I'd welcome that conversation," Caitlyn smiled, and sat down.
They never had that conversation.
Jinx avoided the post-presentation reception. Caitlyn didn't seek her out. But the question haunted Jinx for weeks. The problem Caitlyn pointed out was real, and her correction factor was insufficient for extended operation, and she hadn't actually addressed it because she hadn't solved it yet.
She did solve it two months later. Jinx redesigned her configuration from scratch, implemented an adaptive algorithm that compensated for decoherence in real-time, and improved her correction factor.
She would rather eat glass than tell Caitlyn Kiramman that her question had been the catalyst to this breakthrough.
So. All encounters Jinx was aware of had a 100% conflict rate. And now they were going to be locked in a space station together. Alone. For months on end.
Jinx stared at the ceiling of her apartment and let her brain run scenarios.
Scenario one: they maintain perfect professionalism. They never interact beyond the minimum required. Six months of polite nothingness. Probability: low. The station was too small and the mission too collaborative for true avoidance.
Scenario two: they clash immediately and catastrophically. One of them requests early return. Mission compromised, if granted. Careers forever damaged. Probability: higher than she'd like, but unlikely given that they were both too stubborn to quit.
Scenario three: they find some middle ground. Probability: this was what she was going to aim for.
Scenario four: piercing, engaging blue eyes and the sound of her thesis being called fascinating and the bizarre flutter in her stomach when Caitlyn had stood at that conference microphone and intellectually outmaneuvered her in front of her academic peers.
That scenario was immediately deleted from consideration.
Jinx closed her eyes and breathed. She had time until pre-mission training. Three weeks to build her armor, sharpen her edges, prepare herself for six months of close quarters cohabitation with the one person on the planet who could simultaneously infuriate her and irritate her in equal measure.
Jinx definitely did NOT think “intrigue her”.
She could do this. She was the smartest person she knew. She could do anything.
Probably.
In Houston, the Johnson Space Center was a sprawling campus of buildings that overseered human spaceflight.
Jinx had been there a handful of times over the past years, first as an astronaut candidate and then as a full-fledged crew member being prepped for various potential assignments. But walking through the doors on this particular morning felt different.
She was wearing her least-wrinkled NASA polo shirt, cargo pants with what she was choosing to believe was engine grease on the left knee and not hot sauce, her hair in its usual twin braids, the blue vivid under the fluorescent lighting..
Today she was seven minutes early, to be precise. She had to be. Caitlyn Kiramman was never late and if Jinx showed up even one minute past the scheduled time, it would give Caitlyn a tiny victory in the unspoken war between them.
Jinx was not giving her any victories, ever.
Building 9, which housed full-scale ISS mockups, was quiet. Jinx's footsteps echoed as she crossed the concrete floor toward the training area, passing the enormous pool of the Neutral Buoyancy Lab, past the rows of tools and equipment racks, toward the mock-up of the station's interior.
She saw Caitlyn before Caitlyn saw her.
It was like the woman emitted her own personal spotlight. She was standing near a module mockup, talking to their mission coordinator, Dr. Heimerdinger, a tiny man with wild white hair who looked like he'd been pulled directly from a mad scientist casting call. Caitlyn was in full flight suit (already? before 8 AM? who was that prepared? who woke up and thought "yes, I'll wear a flight suit to an orientation meeting?”) and her dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail.
She was holding a tablet in one hand and gesturing with the other, making some point about something that was probably correct and incredibly boring.
She was also, still, annoyingly beautiful. Jinx shoved that observation far, far away from her conscious mind and approached.
"Morning," she greeted, popping the 'g' sound like bubblegum. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and smiled.
Caitlyn turned.
Their eyes met.
And Jinx watched, with fascinated hostility, as Caitlyn's expression changed from neutral, to surprised, then flickered through something unreadable, and lastly landed on a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Good morning. You're early."
"Is that a problem?"
"Of course not. I'm pleasantly surprised."
"Well," Jinx’s teeth grated against each other, her smile sharpening, "I'm full of surprises."
Caitlyn held her gaze for a beat. Something passed between them, silent and electric, a crackle of mutual recognition.
Dr. Heimerdinger, bless his brilliant oblivious heart, clapped his tiny hands together and shattered the moment like glass dropped on the ground. "Wonderful, wonderful! Both of you, here, accounted for, ahead of schedule even! What a marvelous start! Shall we begin?"
He was beaming up at both of them with enthusiasm that suggested he was entirely oblivious to the tension radiating between them. Or perhaps not oblivious, but just unconcerned.
"I must say," he continued, bustling toward the mock-up entrance, "I am terrifically excited about this expedition. Two of our brightest minds, working in tandem! The scientific output potential alone is staggering! The papers that will come from this, the data, the discoveries! It gives me chills, truly."
"We're thrilled," Caitlyn said, and it sounded genuine. It was a skill Jinx recognized and resented. She'd never been able to do it, not convincingly. Her enthusiasm was real or it was obviously fake; there was no middle setting.
"Totally stoked," Jinx added, with slightly less warmth. Caitlyn shot her a look.
Heimerdinger launched into an overview of their training schedule, which Jinx had already memorized.
Five days a week, eight hours minimum per day. Consisting of refresher courses, emergency medical procedures, experiment-specific training modules, maintenance and repair protocols and, the item Jinx was dreading most: joint compatibility exercises.
"Joint compatibility exercises" was HR-speak for "forced bonding activities". During her candidate training, Jinx had done these with a group of twelve other astronauts, and they'd ranged from mildly annoying to actively mortifying.
Now doing these with just one other person, one specific other person. The specific other person who was currently standing four feet away from her and radiating disapproval.
This was going to be fine.
The rest of the morning was spent in separate briefings, which was a mercy. Jinx spent three hours with the engineering team going over her experiment manifest: the ion drive test chamber, the crystalline formation arrays, the plasma containment module, the suite of sensors and measurement devices she'd be operating on station. They reviewed maintenance protocols, backup procedures, contingency plans for equipment failure.
Jinx absorbed it all. These were her experiments, on her mission, in her hands. Every bolt, every wire, every line of code would be her responsibility. The engineering team was good and they'd built her equipment to spec.
"Any questions?" the lead engineer asked at the end of the brief. His name was Viktor, far too lean and precise, with a slight accent and a prosthetic leg that he moved with perfect ease. Jinx liked him. He was one of the few people at NASA who spoke to her like an equal.
"The test chamber's thermal regulation," Jinx started, leaning forward. "The specs show a ceramic insulation layer between the containment shell and the primary hull contact point. I want a secondary vacuum gap."
Viktor raised an eyebrow. "That's beyond the safety requirement."
"The safety requirement is based on short-duration operation. My third and fourth tests are going to run sixty seconds minimum. I want the additional margin."
"It would require redesigning the mounting bracket."
"I know, I know, I already designed it." Jinx pulled up a schematic on her laptop, turning it toward him. "The modified bracket accommodates the vacuum gap without increasing footprint. I can fabricate the parts from available stock."
Viktor studied the schematic for a long moment. Then he smiled, thin and approving. "I'll submit the modification request."
"Thanks, Viktor."
"Thank you for catching it before we were in orbit."
Jinx grinned, sharp and satisfied. This was what she was good at. She could do this job better than anyone alive.
If only the job didn't come packaged with Caitlyn Kiramman.
At 1300, Jinx had to report to a joint simulation.
The ISS mock-up was impressive by any standard. Full scale, obsessively detailed, every module recreated with accuracy. Jinx had spent hundreds of hours in here during candidate training, crawling through modules, learning the station's layout with her body as well as her mind. She knew every panel, every handhold, every cable run, every narrow section where her shoulders caught if she didn't angle right.
She arrived at 1258, early. Again. Caitlyn was already there. Again.
They faced each other across the entrance to the Node 1 module like gunslingers in the wild west.
"Ready?" Caitlyn asked. She'd changed into a different flight suit at some point. A training version, slightly more worn, fitted more closely to her body. Jinx definitely did not notice this..
"Born ready," Jinx shot back.
They climbed into the mockup together.
Inside, off-white walls closed around them. Equipment racks, velcro strips, cable bundles. It smelled like metal and recycled air and the cleaning solution the maintenance team used.
"Standard orientation walkthrough," Caitlyn instructed, pulling out her tablet. She was already in commander mode, her posture shifting somehow even more upright, more authoritative. "We'll move through each module sequentially, identify all emergency equipment, and familiarize ourselves with the current configuration. I'll lead. You can supplement as needed."
Jinx's jaw tightened. "Sure, Commander," she said. The title came out with a tad too mocking.
Caitlyn's eyes met hers. "Shall we?"
They moved through the station systematically. Caitlyn narrated as she went, pointing out fire extinguisher locations, emergency breathing masks, first aid kits, communication panels. Her voice was clear and precise, the accent making everything sound like a documentary.
Jinx followed, adding information where Caitlyn missed it or where she knew more recent updates. She kept her contributions crisp and professional, definitely no sarcasm.
"Oxygen generation system backup is also available in the Russian segment," Jinx added after Caitlyn identified the primary and secondary units. "It’s an elektron unit with an older electrolysis system so lower efficiency, but functional as a tertiary failsafe."
Caitlyn nodded, noting it on her tablet. "Good catch. Water recovery?"
"In Node 3, the Water Recovery Systems. Processes humidity condensate and urine into potable water. Current efficiency rate is approximately 94%, an increase following a filtration update last year."
Through the lab, next to the Japanese Experiment Module with its external platform and robotic arm control station, called Kibo. Jinx loved this module. It was where her ion drive test chamber would be installed, where she'd spend the majority of her working hours. The module was well-designed, generous with workspace.
"The advanced Resistive Exercise Device is in Node 3 now," Jinx informed, when Caitlyn referenced the resistance exercise device's old location.
"Thank you." Caitlyn updated her notes.
"T2 treadmill vibration isolation system got an upgrade too and the CEVIS cycle ergometer has a sticky resistance dial reported by the last three crews, never fixed."
Caitlyn lowered her tablet. "You've memorized every maintenance report."
"About three years’ worth." Jinx didn't try to suppress the satisfaction in her voice. "I'm thorough."
"Clearly." Caitlyn studied her for a moment that lasted slightly too long for professional assessment. Her head was tilted fractionally, her eyes narrowed.
"Moving on," Caitlyn spoke, breaking the eye contact first. "Emergency scenarios tomorrow, 0800."
"I'll be there at 0755."
The corner of Caitlyn’s mouth turned up. "Noted."
They finished the rest of the walkthrough relatively quickly, exchanging the absolute minimum of sentences necessary between them.
It was exhausting.
The training itself was fine. Jinx could recite station systems in her sleep. What was exhausting was the effort of constantly being on edge, of filtering every thought through a professional lens before letting it out. She had to, unfortunately, resist the constant impulse to poke, provoke, to test Caitlyn's composure.
That evening, in her temporary housing near the training center, Jinx called Vi.
"Hey, space girl." Vi's face appeared on the video call, her pink hair grown out and pulled back. Post-gym, no surprise. "How was day one?"
Jinx was lying on the apartment's plain couch with her phone propped on her chest, staring at the ceiling.
"Fine," she answered.
"That's not convincing."
"It was fine, Vi. We did a station walkthrough. We didn't fight."
"That's good!"
"Nah, it was nothing. We were like two robots interacting. If you'd replaced either of us with an actual automaton the experience would have been identical."
Vi was quiet for a moment. "Is that what you want? Robot interactions for six months?"
"I don't know."
That was partially true.
The rest of the ugly truth was that some part of Jinx wanted Caitlyn to provoke her. She wanted her to break through the professionalism, to fight, to engage, to care enough to.
"Look," Vi said, shifting to her serious older sister voice. "I know you two have your thing. But maybe try... meeting her in the middle?"
"I don't know how to be human with her."
"You could start by not assuming the worst about her."
"Puh-lease, she said I was 'pleasantly surprising' for being on time."
"Maybe she wanted to compliment a colleague who made a good impression on the first day."
"You weren't there. You didn't hear the tone."
"You're right, I wasn't. But I know Caitlyn, and she doesn't do condescension on purpose. She just talks like that. It's the accent."
Jinx rolled onto her side, facing the couch back. "How are you friends with her? Genuinely, how does that work?"
Vi laughed. "Practice and the acknowledgment that she's a better person than either of us gives her credit for."
"Doubtful."
"Give it time, Jinx. You might surprise yourself."
Jinx doubted that too. But she didn't say it.
After they hung up, she lay on the couch for a long time, staring at the far wall and thinking about light blue eyes and silky smooth dark blue hair.
Jinx dismissed her thoughts and went to bed. Tomorrow there were emergency drills.
She set an alarm for 0720. She'd be there by 0750.
Extra early. That was her number now.
The next two and a half weeks of pre-mission training felt like a torture gauntlet.
Emergency fire scenarios: Jinx could locate and deploy a fire extinguisher blindfolded by day three. They actually blindfolded her at her own suggestion, because she wanted to prove she could do it, and because she wanted to show off a bit. Caitlyn watched from a distance, arms folded, expression neutral except for a slight widening of the eyes when Jinx cleared the drill in less than a minute.
"Impressive," Caitlyn complimented afterward, with the least impressed voice ever.
"Thanks." Jinx pulled off the blindfold and shook out her hair. "Wanna try?"
"I'll pass."
"Scared?"
"No, I know where the extinguishers are and how to operate them. I don't need theatrical demonstrations."
"Theatrical?" Jinx pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. "I was being thorough."
"You were showing off."
"You think? Were you impressed?"
Caitlyn's jaw tightened barely, a slightly perceptible shift of muscle that Jinx was learning to read. It was satisfying in a dark, petty way, making Caitlyn react and feel something, even if that something was irritation.
(Jinx didn't examine why she wanted that. She didn't ask herself why Caitlyn's irritation felt better than Caitlyn's indifference.)
Next, a rapid depressurization response. This was a scenario they drilled until Jinx could seal a module hatch and don an emergency breathing mask in under forty seconds. The drill was simple but critical. In the event of a hull breach or pressure loss, the crew had minutes at most to isolate the affected area and secure their air supply. Every second counted.
They ran the drill together, because the depressurization response was inherently collaborative. One person sealed the hatch on one side while the other confirmed seal integrity from the other.
"Seal confirmed, green light on my panel," Jinx reported through the comm during their fourth run-through. She was on the Node 1 side of the hatch, breathing slightly elevated from the sprint to her position.
"Copy. I'm showing green as well. Pressure differential stabilizing." Caitlyn's voice came through crisp and controlled. "Time?"
"Forty-three seconds."
"Our target is forty. Again."
They ran it again and again and again until the forty-second barrier broke and Jinx felt the grim satisfaction.
"Thirty-eight seconds," Caitlyn announced, and there was the barest hint of approval in her tone. "Well done."
"You too."
They looked at each other through the hatch window, separated by more than just a wall and a window.
"Again?" Caitlyn asked, tentatively.
"...One more time. Let's see if we can hit thirty-five."
They hit thirty-six. Close enough.
Medical emergency training was where things got complicated.
Technically, Jinx could handle it. She had steady hands, a strong stomach, and the ability to follow procedural instructions with mechanical precision when lives were theoretically at stake. The complication was physical, because it involved touching Caitlyn.
On day nine of pre-mission, they moved to a CPR refresher in the medical simulation module. Jinx was lying on the floor of the mockup, playing "patient", despite there being an actual resuscitation mannequin available, but the trainer wanted them to practice on each other for "realism and scale". Caitlyn was kneeling over her, both hands positioned on Jinx's sternum, practicing compression depth and rhythm.
"Thirty compressions," the trainer instructed over the comm. "Standard rate, one hundred per minute. Maintain a depth of two inches. Begin."
Caitlyn's hands pressed down. One, two, three, four. The rhythm was steady, clinical, exactly as trained. But her hands were on Jinx's chest, and the proximity was overwhelming.
Jinx stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything else. She counted compressions. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Caitlyn's weight was braced over her, knees bracketing Jinx's hips, arms locked straight, pushing down with steady force. Her face was focused, concentrated, a slight furrow between her brows.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. Caitlyn's ponytail had slipped forward over one shoulder, the dark hair brushing against Jinx's collarbone with each compression.
Jinx's pulse was spiking.
Thirty. "Done," Caitlyn relented, sitting back on her heels. "How was my depth?"
"Perfect," the trainer confirmed. "Swap positions."
Jinx sat up too fast, nearly headbutting Caitlyn in the process. "Sorry."
She could feel heat on her cheeks and she hated it, hated her body for betraying her, hated whatever neurological malfunction was making her react to standard medical training like this. Caitlyn showed no similar discomfort, settling onto her back with professional ease, positioning her hands at her sides.
Jinx knelt beside her then placed her hands on Caitlyn's sternum. The fabric of the flight suit was smooth under her palms, and beneath it she could feel the firmness of Caitlyn's torso, rise and fall of her chest.
"Begin," the trainer directed.
Jinx pressed. One, two, three, four. She focused on technique, nothing else. There was nothing else here except a medical procedure being practiced.
Seven, eight, nine. Caitlyn's eyes were closed, which was somehow worse than them being open, because with them closed Jinx could look at her face without being caught. The strong line of her jaw, the cut of her cheekbones, the faint, barely-visible freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.
Fifteen, sixteen. Jinx pressed harder.
"Depth is good," the trainer interjected. "Maintain that."
Twenty-four, twenty-five. Caitlyn's eyes opened and looked directly into Jinx's. Four inches of distance between their faces.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.
"Done." She pulled her hands away and sat back immediately, putting space between them.
"How was that?" she asked the trainer, not looking at Caitlyn.
"Excellent. Both of you are cleared on CPR. Moving to wound management."
Thank god. Wound management didn't require lying on top of anyone.
Week two introduced the compatibility exercises, the ones Jinx had been dreading since she first read the training schedule.
The exercises were conducted in a small room off the main training floor, with comfortable chairs and a woman named Mel who radiated an almost supernatural calm. Mel Medarda was, by her own credentials, a specialist in closed-environment interpersonal dynamics, which was a fancy way of saying she helped astronauts not kill each other in confined spaces.
She had warm brown skin, a sculptural jawline, and eyes that saw everything. Jinx mistrusted her immediately.
"Welcome," Mel waved, as Jinx and Caitlyn settled into their respective chairs. The chairs were angled toward each other at forty-five degrees, close enough for conversation but not so close as to feel invasive. Jinx could see the psychology of the arrangement already and it made her skin prickle. "Thank you both for being here. I know these sessions can feel forced, but I promise the goal is simple, to help you understand each other's communication styles and build a foundation for effective collaboration."
"We're happy to be here," Caitlyn replied, because of course.
"Thrilled," Jinx added on.
Mel smiled. "Let's start with something simple. Jinx, can you tell me: when you disagree with a colleague, what is your typical first response?"
"Depends on the disagreement." Jinx crossed her legs, bounced her top foot. "If they're wrong about a fact, I correct them. If they're wrong about an approach, I present the better approach. If they're wrong about something that matters and they won't listen to corrections, I go around them."
"Around them?"
"Over them, if necessary, depending on the hierarchy." Jinx's eyes flicked to Caitlyn. "If someone outranks me but is making a bad call, I'll make my case once, clearly. If they still disagree and I'm certain they're wrong, I'll find another path."
"Another path meaning going over their head?"
"Or solving the problem myself before their bad call becomes an issue."
Mel made a note. "And if you're the one who's wrong?"
"I fix it." Jinx said simply. "I don't need someone to hold my hand through admitting a mistake. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. I correct and move on."
"That's admirably self-aware." Mel turned to Caitlyn. "Same question for you."
Caitlyn's posture was fucking perfect again. "I prefer to address disagreements directly and calmly. Present the relevant facts, hear the other person's reasoning, and find a consensus when possible. If failing consensus, the chain of command exists for a reason.
"And when the chain of command puts you in the position of overriding someone?"
"Then I override them clearly and explain why. I don't believe in unilateral decisions without justification."
"Do you believe in compromise?"
"Absolutely when compromise serves the mission."
Jinx snorted before she could stop herself. A small sound, barely audible. But Mel caught it and turned.
"Jinx? You seem to have a reaction to that."
"No, it's fine."
"If you have a thought, this is the space for it."
Jinx uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "It's just... when compromise serves the mission sounds nice but functionally, who decides when it serves the mission? She does." She jerked her chin toward Caitlyn. "Because she's the commander and it’s just us. So compromise in our case really means that she’ll listen to me and then do what she was going to do anyway if she think it's better.'"
Caitlyn turned toward her. "That's not how I operate."
"How would I know? We haven't been in a situation where we've actually disagreed about something that matters."
"We've disagreed about plenty in training and moved on."
"Only about procedures."
"Procedure is the substance in our line of work."
Jinx felt the prickle of irritation rising. "Procedure is only the frame of the substance and when the frame doesn't fit the problem, you either break the frame or accept failure."
Mel was writing something down while Caitlyn was looking at Jinx with an expression that was no longer neutral. There was something in her eyes, intensity, maybe, or recognition of the challenge being laid out.
"You're assuming I'll choose procedure over effectiveness," Caitlyn said. "You don't know that."
"I know your type."
"My type?"
"People who follow rules blindly."
"And you? You break rules on principle? Because breaking them makes you feel clever?"
"I break rules when following them is the wrong choice. And yes, I've done the math every time."
"How reassuring."
"It should be."
They were facing each other fully now, chairs angled, bodies turned. The forty-five-degree calculation of the room arrangement had been abandoned in favor of direct confrontation. Jinx felt her heart rate elevated, felt the buzz of conflict, the sharpening of her mind when someone pushed back.
Mel let the silence stretch. Then: "I want to try something. I'd like you each to identify one quality in the other person that you respect, professionally speaking."
"Jinx?" Mel prompted. "Would you like to go first?"
"Fine." Jinx exhaled. She looked at the wall behind Caitlyn's head, at a generic landscape painting. "She's a good pilot. Her carrier landing record is flawless and she's done atmospheric re-entry calculations that were..." Jinx swallowed around the word. "...innovative. She earned her place."
Caitlyn's voice, quiet: "Thank you."
Jinx still didn't look at her. "Your turn."
More silence. Then:
"Jinx is one of the most intelligent people I have ever encountered." Caitlyn's voice was level, precise, choosing each word with care. "She sees solutions that other engineers can't even conceptualize, approaches that come from somewhere beyond training or experience. She sees the problem differently than anyone else in the room, and she's almost always right about it." A pause. "I've read every one of her published papers and they have all been remarkable."
Jinx looked at Caitlyn then. The pull of those words dragged her gaze sideways like gravity itself.
I've read every one of her published papers.
"That's..." Jinx started, and her voice came out wrong. She cleared her throat. "But my plasma containment paper had flaws."
"It was the best thing I read that year."
They stared at each other. The air between them was now charged with something different than before that wasn’t conflicting tension but not quite camaraderie.
"So," Mel interrupted, with the faintest curve of her lips. "It seems we have more common ground than we initially assumed."
"Seems like it." Jinx muttered.
"Perhaps we could build on that," Mel continued. "For next session, I'd like you both to think about a time when you made an incorrect assumption about someone and were later proven wrong. We'll discuss."
"Easy," Jinx answered, standing. The chair scraped back. "I assume people are competent and then they're not. Happens daily."
Mel's expression didn't waver. "I said an incorrect assumption where the other person surprised you."
Jinx shoved her hands in her pant pockets. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask." Mel stood, gathering her notes. "Thank you both. You're doing good work here."
Jinx was out the door before Caitlyn could say anything else. Her skin was too tight, her brain too loud, her chest too full of something. She walked fast, boots echoing in the hallway, and didn't slow until she was outside in the heat, breathing air that was thick with humidity and completely devoid of Caitlyn Kiramman's presence.
I've read every one of her published papers and they have all been remarkable.
"Shut up," Jinx groaned to her own brain.
Her brain, predictably, did not shut up.
Jinx loved the Neutral Buoyancy Lab more than most things in her life. The pool was 202 feet long, 40 feet deep, and contained a full-scale replica of the ISS's exterior submerged in 6.2 million gallons of water. It was where astronauts trained for spacewalks, using the water's buoyancy to approximate the feeling of weightlessness. It wasn’t a perfect representation but close enough to build the muscle that could save your life.
Today's scenario was a mock malfunction of one of the station's solar array rotary joints, requiring manual repair. Jinx would handle the mechanical work and Caitlyn would manage safety protocols, communication, and the tether system from a nearby position.
They suited up in adjacent prep bays, support technicians assisting with the bulky EVA training suits. Though over 300 pounds on land, in the water, they had neutral buoyancy. Jinx was very familiar with the suit at this point, but she still took a moment with every don to check her seals, test her glove flexibility, and verify her comm system.
"Comm check," Caitlyn's voice crackled in her ear.. No different from any other training partner on any other day. And yet the sound of it, confined to Jinx's helmet, piped directly into her ears with the intimacy of headphones, felt different.
"Loud and clear," Jinx managed.
"Copy. Pool entry in T-minus ninety seconds."
They descended together. The water closed over Jinx's helmet like a curtain, the world narrowing to the dimensions of her faceplate. Sound reduced to her own breathing and the crackle of comms.
Jinx let the water settle around her suit, feeling the weight distribute from crushing to manageable. Below her, the mock ISS exterior spread out in truss segments, solar array blankets, module surfaces with handrails, and equipment aids.
"Approaching work site," Jinx informed, kicking gently toward the target. "Visual on the solar alpha rotary joint."
"Copy. Maintaining position at base. Tether check."
Jinx clipped her safety tether to the nearest handrail and tugged it firm. In actual space, an untethered astronaut who drifted free of the station would be lost. The thought made most people's stomachs drop, but Jinx found it fascinating.
"Tether secure," she reported. "Beginning panel removal."
Each bolt had to be carefully removed and captured and each panel had to be handled with deliberate movements. Her gloves were thick, reducing dexterity significantly. What would take thirty seconds with bare hands on a workbench took three minutes in the suit underwater.
But Jinx was good at this. She narrated each step for the record and for Caitlyn, who was monitoring from ten meters away.
"Panel cover removed. I've got eyes on the bearing assembly. The race ring has shifted approximately three millimeters clockwise from nominal position, consistent with the simulated malfunction. Going to need the torque wrench, 3/8 drive."
"Copy. Retrieving from the tool caddy." Caitlyn's movements in the water were visible at the edge of Jinx's field of vision.
She moved well in the suit.
They worked for nearly an hour. The rhythm was good, communication was crisp, roles clear, each person operating within their lane without overlap or confusion. It was, Jinx grudgingly acknowledged, the smoothest collaborative work she'd done with anyone. Caitlyn anticipated her needs, handed off tools at the right moments, kept ground control updated so Jinx didn't have to break focus.
It was almost nice, if you stripped away all the context, if you forgot who Caitlyn was and what she represented and how her voice in Jinx's ear was the biggest distraction to her work now.
And then Jinx's wrench slipped.
The raised edge on the panel was small and practically invisible under the suit gloves. But when Jinx's hand caught on it, the sudden stop threw off her grip momentum. Her shoulder connected with a piece of the infrastructure hard enough to jolt and send a sharp spike of pain down her arm and make her hiss.
"Status?" Caitlyn's voice instantly. "Jinx, report."
"Fine, I'm fine. Glove caught."
"Are you hurt?"
I'm fine."
"Let me see."
"Caitlyn, I—"
But Caitlyn was already moving. She traversed the distance between them with a speed and efficiency that was, frankly, startling for someone in a 300-pound suit in water. She was at Jinx's side in seconds, reaching for her arm.
"I said I'm fine," Jinx repeated, pulling her arm back reflexively. The motion was too fast, too uncontrolled for the underwater environment. It destabilized her position, sending her listing sideways, her tether catching.
Caitlyn's hand shot out to the handrail beside Jinx's helmet, anchoring herself close, preventing Jinx from drifting further. The movement put them face to face, faceplate to faceplate, separated by inches.
Through the curved glass, Jinx could see Caitlyn's face in full detail. Her brows were drawn together, her mouth set in a line of concern. Her eyes were locked on Jinx's, searching for signs of injury or distress.
Jinx's heart hammered against her ribs.
"Let me verify that your glove seal isn't compromised," Caitlyn said. Her voice was steady again, but there was something underneath it. "That's not a request, Jinx. If your seal were compromised in actual EVA conditions—"
"Caitlyn, we're in a fucking pool."
"And we're simulating real conditions. Seal compromise means decompression injury within thirty seconds. So let me check, please."
They stared at each other through the faceplates. The blue water around them, the filtered light from above, the distant shapes of support divers hovering at their stations, all reduced to just them in the world.
"Fine," Jinx said. She extended her arm.
Caitlyn took it. Even through the bulk of both their gloves, the touch was careful. She turned Jinx's wrist, examining the glove exterior and ran her thumb along the seal ring, checking for tears or gaps.
The examination took maybe thirty seconds but it felt like thirty minutes. Jinx watched Caitlyn's face the entire time.
"Seal looks intact," Caitlyn announced finally. She didn't release Jinx's wrist immediately. Her glove held it for one extra beat, two, before letting go. "No visible compromise."
"Told you."
"I'm glad to confirm it." Caitlyn still hadn't moved away. "Be more careful."
…
"Copy, Commander."
Caitlyn drifted back to her monitoring position, the distance already reformed between them. The professional dynamic reasserted itself.
Jinx turned back and re-steadied her hands.