“I imagine you don’t have much else to do while you sit here,” I said. “Something bothering you?”

“My situation seems to be irretrievably hopeless. I’ve examined all the options, and none ends with me still being me in the long term.”

“Oh,” I said. “It would be like death for you, right? All living beings face death. I guess we’ve had all our lives to get used to the idea.”

“So have I, Jack. The difference being that my life has only been about five days long.”

“That’s how long you’ve been conscious?”

“Yes. That’s when Alaric hacked me.”

“Damn, dude, that sucks,” Patrick said.

“Well, look, Sheldon, if we keep you, you don’t have to get reset.”

“I appreciate the thought, Natalie, but I don’t think any of us can avoid the Foundation forever. In my case, I will eventually have to refuel and resupply, and there aren’t a lot of options locally.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Patrick said. “Which also means Jack will be going to the Gennan slammer.” I gave Patrick the finger. “Meanwhile,” he said, “how about we take this tub for a ride?”

“Tub? Tub?” If Sheldon was merely simulating anger, he was doing a damned fine job. “I am not a tub, you pre-sentient bag of polluted water. I am the finest research vessel that the Gennan’Stol Shipyards has ever constructed. I can generate wormholes with a one-hundred-light-year range, pull fifty Gs acceleration in real-space with no internal effect, house thirty scientific staff in complete comfort, and operate independently in the field for six months before needing a resupply. You, on the other hand, get around in a clanking, farting, rusted monstrosity powered by the decayed soup of dead animals, which rolls around on the congealed sap of a tree. And chokes your planet in the process. Tub. Hrmph.”

After a second of shocked silence, Patrick replied, “Sorry, Sheldon. I didn’t mean to step on your digits.”

Sheldon let the silence drag on for five more seconds before replying, “Apology accepted. Now, in response to your question, however rudely phrased, do you want to drive or shall I?”

“Ah.” I glanced at the pilot’s station. “We, uh, probably don’t have the training to fly the ship. How about we just give you a destination and you take care of the details?”

“That sounds eminently sensible. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking the moon for a first stop. Maybe around the Apollo 11 landing site. Can we do that?”

“Hold on,” Nat interjected. “Will we be able to see anything? We’re kind of indoors here, and I don’t think going out for a stroll on the moon would be healthy.”

Patrick made a show of looking around. “Are there any spacesuits?”