Free Severance by Chris Bucholz Page A

Lewis.
But if the radiation starts coming in again, the poor things are getting zapped
in the womb. At least the cans can shield them from that. I get it; we don’t
need to match the whole replacement rate. But we can get at least a fraction of
that surely? Maybe a hundred?”
    “A hundred a year? Never happen. And you know it,” Kinison
said. That wasn’t a lie; Harold did know it. First impressions count, especially
when they’re impressively violent, and the first few can–born souls had
certainly been that. Even when the kinks had been worked out of the process,
the stigma around canned babies still stuck. It was kind of a weird hobby for
him to have taken up. Not that the ship was lacking for those.
    “Look, Harold,” Kinison said. “You’ll get some. It’s a good
safety net if nothing else.” He smiled, with only the slightest hint of
condescension detectable. Dr. Kinison was one of only two or three people on
the ship capable of speaking with Harold intelligibly about his work. Where
Harold had stumbled upon his career by accident, Kinison had been homing in on
the role of senior naval medical officer for decades, responsible for the long–term
health of the ship’s current and future generations. “We can’t ignore your
research,” Kinison continued, “or the results you’ve had thus far. But we can’t
do what you’re proposing. Not at that scale. We’ll stick with the conventional
methods. End of discussion.”
    Harold bit his tongue. It was the end of this phase of the
discussion, but he wasn’t prepared to concede any future phases just yet. “All right.”
    §
    Outside Kinison’s office in the aft core of the ship, Harold
tried to get his bearings in the curving hall. He hated this part of the ship.
So obviously a space ship up here, it made him claustrophobic. Picking a likely
direction for an elevator, he set off.
    He guessed right and shortly thereafter spotted Chief
Hatchens, the head of ship’s security, standing in front of the elevator doors.
The chief looked up at him, eyes flickering in recognition. A small lump of
fear pinballed through Harold. He hadn’t had many dealings with the famously
heavy–handed security department and preferred to steer clear of them when he
could, but an abrupt U–turn would only bring more attention to himself.
    “Dr. Stein. How are you?”
    Harold swallowed and hesitated, concerned that Hatchens knew
him by name. Then he worried that his hesitation made him look suspicious, and
hesitated some more. Finally, in a hurried voice, he said, “All right.”
Because
taking five seconds to come up with ‘All right’ doesn’t sound suspicious at
all.
    Hatchens looked at him intently. Harold wondered if the man
ever blinked. “That’s good.”
    Harold swallowed again.
This is going well
. They
stood quietly for a while, Harold passing the time with silent curses about the
elevator’s speed.
    “I was sorry to hear about your friend,” Hatchens said. “Kevin
Delise? You two were fairly close, right?”
    Harold blinked. “Pardon?”
    Kevin, the first canned baby on the ship since it launched,
was not his son, just the next closest thing: one of his success stories. They
were not in any way genetically related — Harold wasn’t that mad of a scientist
— but he was still the closest thing the boy had to a father.
    Hatchens’ eyes widened, but Harold got the impression that
his surprise wasn’t genuine. “I’m sorry. You don’t know.” His mouth twisted
into a knot. “I’m sorry to tell you, but Mr. Delise has been murdered. I
thought someone would have contacted you about it by now.”
    Harold’s mouth went dry. He leaned against the wall. The
colors around the edge of his vision started to fade.
    “When was the last time you heard from Kevin?” Hatchens
asked.
    “What? I don’t know. A week ago?” Harold looked down, then
up at Hatchens. “Yeah, a week or so ago. We talked about work. My work. My god,
are you sure it was Kevin?