Noumenon Infinity

She glanced down, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “I’m wearing pumps. Oh, was that a joke?”

“Humor eases tension and is often used to suppress anxieties. If that witticism was not sufficiently alleviating I can find another one.”

She pushed the phone back into its pocket and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I’m good, thank you. Sleep now, C.”

Shoving through the swinging door, she stopped dead and was nearly smacked in the face by the springback. In the hall, outside the presentation room, sat Dr. Kaufman. But he wasn’t alone. A young man in an overly baggy suit—an aide, maybe, or an intern—stood nearby, stopped by Kaufman’s grip on the bottom of the boy’s jacket. The kid looked nervous, stack of files in hand, body taut like he wanted to run away. Kaufman’s hold wasn’t restrictive, just … intrusive.

Calmly, Kaufman spoke in low tones, nodding regularly while the young man listened.

After a moment, Kaufman pulled a wad of bills out of his breast pocket. The aide glanced furtively over his shoulder, this way and that, before snapping up the cash and handing Dr. Kaufman a folder from his stack.

With a flourished lick of the thumb, Kaufman began flipping through the contents, taking mostly cursory glances at the pages. He hadn’t had the file for sixty seconds before he handed it back. Looking around once more, the boy slipped it into the center of his pile, exchanged a few quick words with the doctor, then shuffled off around a corner.

It was blatant, it was careless, and though Vanhi was decently scandalized, she wasn’t surprised in the least.

“What was that?” she demanded, stomping up next to her former advisor.

He glanced up, lips pursed. “What was what?”

“I saw you pay that kid for something.”

“We shared a cab this morning. He insisted on paying then, and I insisted I compensate him now.”

Most people would have bought that explanation outright. But Vanhi knew better. She dropped heavily into the chair next to him. “Try again.”

He threw up his hands, melodramatic as ever. “I can’t convince you of the truth if you’re not having it.”

This was the brilliance of Dr. Kaufman’s schemes. He played innocent so well; seemed so put upon. He was the sort of person to play the fiddle with one hand and throw a dime with the other. And people who picked up on his braggadocious nature always found a way to dismiss it as well earned. After all, “He’s done a lot for SD research.”

Only those actually in SD research knew how overblown his claims were. His contributions had been important, but he made it sound like he’d discovered SD travel all on his own. He hadn’t. No single person could have.

But the general public didn’t know that.

People tended to like the “single genius” answer, no matter how inaccurate.

Grad students who’d complained he’d put his name on research he’d had no involvement in were labeled “ungrateful.” Academic partners he didn’t get along with often had their dirty laundry publicly aired by anonymous tipsters. Projects he found no value in were sometimes abruptly unfunded.

But no one could ever trace lines of fault back to Kaufman. Things just always seemed to go his way.

Vanhi saw through the bullshit. She called him on the bullshit. It was the only way she’d held on long enough to come away with her Ph.D.

Unfortunately, earning her degree under his tutelage gave him claim to her future accomplishments—according to him and society at large, anyway. She could never be free of his overbearing, rights-grabbing, self-aggrandizing shadow.

So the least he could do was tell her the truth about a stupid fistfull of bills in a halogen-lit hallway.

“What did you pay him for?”

“Sexual favors.”

“What did you pay him for?”

“Burning his bad tie.”

“What did you pay him for?”

“A cab, Vanhi. I told you. A cab.”

She would keep at it until he confessed. “What did you—?”

The door to the main chambers opened, revealing a gentleman in a suit jacket and kilt. “They’re ready for you,” he said, gesturing for them to enter.

“After you,” Kaufman said, smiling at the escape it provided.

As much as she wanted to argue with him, now was not the time. She walked in.

Most of the large auditorium lay in darkness, except for the high balcony at the front of the room which seated the eight consortium members chosen for today’s evaluations. A gentle spotlight slowly dawned over two chairs at a desk midroom. The space felt more like a courtroom than anything.

It stole Vanhi’s breath away, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. She had a strange sense of déjà vu, like she’d stood below the high-seated members of the consortium before. Steely eyes waiting to be impressed, firm mouths set in straight-lined judgment.

“Please, sit,” said Madame Chair from the center of the balcony. Her voice was flat, businesslike, and it fit her image: perfectly tailored black suit, gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, nails short and perfectly manicured. Her attire, along with her German accent and dark eyes, all made for a formidable persona. “Let the record show that Doctor McKenzie Kaufman and Doctor Vanhi Kapoor have entered. Before us we have their formal statements on why subdimensional research should be the replacement study for the Planet United Mission designated to Convoy Twelve. We are here to have the consortium’s questions and concerns addressed, so that we may be fully informed when making our final decision.”

Her statement was clearly practiced and even-toned. But there was restrained passion in her voice. She cared about these missions, this wasn’t simply a prestigious assignment for her.

The other seven consortium members present constituted individuals from around the globe. Representatives from Singapore, Malta, Iran, and Cameroon flanked Madame Chair on the left, while members from Zambia, Argentina, and Tasmania presided on her right. The entirety of the consortium board represented one hundred and eighty-eight of the world’s two hundred and seven countries, including states that had only gained sovereignty in the past three decades.

The Planet United Missions were nothing if not aptly named.

And Vanhi understood her place here was special. Everyone involved in the missions was under a gag order not to talk about the cancelation until a new mission for Convoy Twelve had been chosen. Only scientists with previously considered proposals were contacted about the new vacancy, and in turn sworn to secrecy.

Vanhi’s was a singular case. She had had no previous involvement in the P.U.M.s on account of her age, and Kaufman on account of his arrogance—he’d originally called the idea of a worldwide space effort a “pipe dream” and “ludicrous.” Vanhi wasn’t part of the inner circle, shouldn’t be one of those “in the know.” And yet they’d agreed to include her, to consider her proposal.

She was grateful to them, and even to Kaufman, for the opportunity, but the insidious sense she didn’t fully belong, that they somehow resented her presence—as though they were loath to make the exception—crept up her spine.

It was a sick, familiar feeling. One that had haunted her all too often, especially in her youth.

When she and Kaufman had taken their seats, Madame Chair turned to her left and said, “Doctor Ndi of Cameroon has the first question.”

He cleared his throat and glanced at his notes, bow tie blazing red against his black skin in the harsh spotlighting. He looked young—perhaps younger than Vanhi. She wondered if he was the second individual to hold the seat for Cameroon. Many of the distinguished scientists who’d been given the honor of a consortium seat were getting on in years now, and others had already passed away.

“In your proposal,” he began, “you outline the types of vessels and crew that would constitute this new convoy. You are aware that the majority of the ships for Convoy Twelve are already nearing completion, and insist you would be able to repurpose them. While we applaud that—applaud all of the proposals that have stated such, which is the majority—we are concerned by your request for approximately two hundred shuttles in addition to the existing ships.”

Vanhi’s heart leapt, she wanted to interrupt, to swiftly correct the misreading, but forced herself to keep quiet.

“We’d like you to justify this request.”

Straightening her jacket, Vanhi stood. “Thank you, Doctor Ndi, for your question. The additional spacecraft we are requesting are not shuttles, not in the sense you mean. Like all of the convoys, ours would require specialty equipment in order to perform the mission’s research. These shuttles are actually referred to in the proposal—if I’m not mistaken—as ‘pods.’ Each pod would house dozens of individual experiments and one small SD drive designed to breach a new subdimension we’ve never attempted to crack before.”

“And why can’t these experiments be performed on the preexisting science ship designed for Convoy Twelve?” asked Dr. Ndi.