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As the newest trainees, Ross and Smith found themselves at a bit of a disadvantage. The program was relatively small, with very few recruits; only one or two every few years. Ross and Smith were the newest additions, and if the brutal training wasn’t enough alone, they found themselves a little…ostracized.
It wasn’t a conscious choice by the others, of course. The few conversations they had with the other astronauts in the program were pleasant enough, but everyone who had already completed their training seemed so busy. And everything they had to say was related to stuff Ross and Smith didn’t know about yet; the weather on some far-off planet, some anecdote with allusions and nuanced references to past events that flew right over their heads. So it was only natural the two quickly banded together, their friendship cemented by their shared status as The Outsiders.
Over the course of the weeks following their acceptance into the program, they swapped stories over harsh trials through different tests, difficulty with their fitness regimes, and even a shared experience of both having put on their VR test headsets upside down the first time. So when they finally graduated their training, they were thankful when they were assigned the same mission.
“You’re commanding officer will be Trott,” Duncan, their lead mission scientist, explained, leading them through the hallway to the briefing room, a clipboard in his hands. “The commander’s got a lot of experience with piloting and engineering, so it’d probably be best to just take your orders.” He was silent for a few moments before adding, “Though a bit harsh. I’d advise you just keep your head down and try to keep a cool head.”
Ross and Smith exchanged glances, saying nothing. They had both swapped stories about how they had felt like giants most of their life up until they joined the program; practically everyone they encountered was at least six feet tall. They didn’t have to speak to know they were both thinking the same thing–whoever this Trott was, they both were picturing a strong, tough man, maybe with a few scars or bullet wounds.
When they reached the briefing room, Duncan held the door open for them, ushering them in. At first, they were a little confused, as the room appeared empty besides a short woman who was pouring herself a cup of coffee. She had thick, silky walnut brown hair, cut in a sidecut, her left side of her head shaved to a quarter of an inch, while the right fell in a smooth waterfall from the top, the tips brushing against her shoulder. Her skin was a smooth creamy oak, warm and rich in color, and her eyes were an ebony so dark it was nearly black. They had seen her a few times before, carrying stacks of binders and furiously scribbling notes, her expression perpetual resting bitch face.
However, when Duncan didn’t say anything, and she turned around expectantly, they realized that this was commander.
“Ah, er,” Smith said, clearing his throat. “I take it you’re Trott?”
She didn’t say anything, her mouth twisting up and her eyes scrutinizing. After a moment, she looked to Duncan. “These are the trainees?”
“Yes siree,” Duncan said with a smile.
“They certainly didn’t lie when they said you two wolf down your food,” she said evenly, sipping at her coffee.
It took a moment before Ross finally caught the insult, directed at the chubbiness they both still carried in their bellies despite weeks of crunches and sit-ups. “Hey, space is cold; could use a little extra padding,” he said simply, hoping he was striking the right balance between respectful and joking.
She only hummed in thought, stirring at her coffee with a coffee stirrer. “We better get started, I suppose.”
Duncan slapped a pat on each of the boys’ backs. “Well, I’ll get going then. Drop by if you have any more questions that the commander can’t answer,” he said with a grin, before leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Ross and Smith exchanged glances, before taking their seats at the table. Trott sat down as well, her place at the table already filled up with papers and charts, scattered in a semicircle in front of her. She sipped at her coffee more, holding it in both hands, skim-reading the papers in front of her, before finally setting her coffee down and clasping her hands in front of her.
“Alright,” she began, “let’s begin with the basics. Do you think you’re capable of getting along well with each other for a prolonged period of time?”
“Well, ma'am,” Ross began, before Trott swiftly interrupted.
“You can call me sir,” Trott said evenly, his tone dry and blank.
Ross’ mouth immediately clamped shut, uncertain how to respond, his face burning bright red at already somehow offending his commanding officer. Smith’s expression was a blank, wide-eyed stare, as if someone had just placed in front of him a crossword puzzle in a foreign language, with orders to finish it without the use of a translator.
“I believe I asked you a question,” Trott said, breaking eye contact to look down as he began straightening out the papers in front of him.
“Er, well, sir,” Ross said carefully. “Me and Smith have been really each other’s only company the past few weeks. Everyone else has been pretty busy, so I’d say we’re pretty good friends.”
“And even for the sake of the mission,” Smith added, “if we did have a falling out or anything of the sort, we could still keep it professional.”
Trott hummed in thought again. “Alright, and what about me?” He scooped up a pen, clicking at it idly. Click. Click. Click. “Do you think you would be able to get along well with me as your commanding officer?”
Click. Click.
“Of course,” he added, “you can be perfectly honest with me. It wouldn’t be a complete disaster if you two wanted to wait for a different mission with a different officer. Other astronauts behind you on the waiting list will just be bumped ahead to your slot.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Though, of course, that means you won’t go up into space until a different slot opens up for you. The waiting time is usually on average about a year.”
Smith wasn’t sure if Trott’s tone was intended to be so passive aggressive. “Well, Commander, I don’t personally know you, but you seem like you’re a perfectly pleasant…guy, to be around.”
Smith was hesitant to use the word, uncertain how he was supposed to gender Trott. However, Trott didn’t correct him, so Smith figured he had gotten it correct.
“Good then,” Trott said finally, though his tone didn’t sound exactly ecstatic. He marked something down on one of the charts, before saying, “Let’s get into the more technical stuff, then, shall we?”
-
When the briefing was finally over and the three of them parted ways, Smith and Ross immediately began the trek to Duncan’s office, mutual anxious expressions on their faces.
“That was the most terrifying experience in my life,” Smith admitted nervously.
“Christ,” Ross exclaimed, “I thought he was going to lunge across the table and stab us with that pen.”
“Every time he clicked it, I visualized him jabbing it right into my eye,” Smith breathed out, his face twisted up in worry. “They wouldn’t let a killer into space, right?”
“That’s why they have all those mental health screenings, isn’t it?” Ross mused, his tone worried, reaching up to anxiously run his fingers through his hair.
They reached Duncan’s office, then, and Smith hesitantly knocked. Duncan pulled the door open only moments later, as if he had been expecting them.
“I see your briefing with Trott is over,” he said, a wide smile on his face.
“Felt like it lasted bloody ages,” Ross said immediately.
“What’s his deal, mate?” Smith asked, his brow furrowing up.
Duncan hummed in thought, leaning against the doorjamb. “Well, I assume you called him a girl at some point.”
“Yup,” Ross groaned, reaching up to hold his face. “Snapped at me for it.”
“Well, did you use the right pronouns after that?”
“Of course. If nothing else, because he would’ve clawed me to death with his nails,” Ross bemoaned.
“You could’ve given us a heads up,” Smith complained.
“Well, that’s one of his little tests, innit?” Duncan said, with a wide grin as if the punchline of a lengthy joke had just landed.
Ross and Smith looked between each other, but it seemed both of them hadn’t quite caught what he was getting at.
“He asked if you would get along with him, yeah?” Duncan asked. “You can say whatever you want to his face, but Trott is the kind of guy who thinks actions speak louder than words. It’s one thing to be handed all the information you need to get along with him, and it’s another for you to just get along with him naturally on your own.”
Realization dawned on their faces, and immediately they both felt relieved. “That’s better than him having a grudge against us, I guess,” Ross finally said.
“And he was doing the annoying clicking thing, right?” Duncan asked, miming the clicking motion of an imaginary pen. “I bet you said something about how you could ‘remain professional’ even in a 'hostile work environment,’ yeah?”
“Something along those lines,” Smith sheepishly admitted.
“Did you remain professional in that hostile work environment?”
“I suppose we did, yeah,” Ross answered.
Duncan held up his hands in a little show of celebration. “Then congratulations, boys. If you want to go to space, you’ve probably been approved.”