Conference Room A occupied the northeast corner of OrionX's executive floor, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the launch complex where the Saturn probe waited in its protective gantry like a silver arrow nocked against the sky. The room's designer had clearly favored intimidation over comfort: a massive black table that could seat twenty, chairs that looked expensive but felt like instruments of corporate torture, and lighting that managed to be both harsh and insufficient.
Isabel Crowe sat at the far end of the table like a judge awaiting verdict, her silver hair pulled back in a style that suggested precision and control. Flanking her were two lawyers whose names Eli had forgotten but whose purpose was unmistakable: they were there to document whatever happened next.
"Eli, thank you for coming." Isabel's voice carried the kind of warmth that expensive hotels used in their marketing—professional, polished, and fundamentally artificial. "Please, sit."
Eli chose a chair halfway down the table, close enough to appear cooperative but far enough to maintain some psychological distance. Through the windows, he could see technicians running pre-flight checks on auxiliary systems, their movements choreographed by years of practice and the kind of precision that only came from knowing that mistakes could kill people.
"I understand you have concerns about the timeline," Eli said, cutting straight to the purpose of the meeting.
"Among other things." Isabel opened a tablet and consulted it with the air of someone reviewing a shopping list. "The board has been reviewing our public relations strategy, and we feel it's time to be more... proactive... about mission visibility."
One of the lawyers—Patterson, Eli remembered now—slid a folder across the table. Inside were contracts, release forms, and what looked like a detailed media schedule that stretched from now until launch day.
"CNN is just the beginning," Isabel continued. "We've arranged interviews with Scientific American, Wired, Popular Science, and three network morning shows. There's also a documentary crew that wants to follow you around for a week, and the Smithsonian has requested a lecture series."
Eli stared at the schedule, feeling like an astronaut who'd just been told the mission parameters had changed and he was now expected to perform Shakespeare while navigating orbital mechanics.
"This is..." He tried to find diplomatic language. "Extensive."
"OrionX has invested three billion dollars in this mission," the second lawyer—Harrison—said smoothly. "Our investors deserve to see a return on that investment, both scientifically and financially. Public engagement drives future funding."
"I understand the business necessity," Eli replied. "But this level of media exposure could be disruptive to final mission preparations. The team needs to focus—"
"The team will focus," Isabel interrupted. "You'll inspire them to focus by becoming the public face of human space exploration. You'll make people care about what we're doing here, which makes it easier to secure funding for future missions."
Eli glanced at the contracts again. The legal language was dense, but certain phrases stood out: "exclusive access," "personality rights," "image licensing," and "biographical material." They weren't just asking him to do interviews—they were asking him to become a brand.
"What about Milo Harlan? He's excellent with media, and his technical knowledge is—"
"Milo Harlan is not the mission architect," Patterson said. "You are. You're the one who solved the navigation challenges, who designed the probe's approach vector, who made this mission possible. That's the story we need to tell."
Through the windows, Eli watched a flock of pelicans fly past the launch complex, their formation perfect and natural in a way that human organizations never seemed to achieve. They knew where they were going without needing media strategies or public relations campaigns.
"There's another consideration," Isabel said, her voice dropping to a more confidential tone. "We've been monitoring some... concerning developments... regarding mission personnel."
Eli's attention snapped back to the room. "What kind of developments?"
"Security clearance issues. Personal relationships that might compromise operational security. Health concerns among support staff." Isabel's gaze was steady and calculating. "Nothing that can't be managed, but the board feels that having a strong, visible leader will help maintain confidence during any... turbulence."
The words hit Eli like micro-meteorites, small but potentially devastating. Security clearance issues—was she talking about Noah's failed pilot training? Personal relationships—did she know about the coffee meetings, the slowly developing connection that Eli was still afraid to name? Health concerns—what did she know that he didn't?
"I'm not aware of any security issues with my team," Eli said carefully.
"Of course not. You're focused on the technical aspects, as you should be. Let us handle the administrative concerns." Isabel smiled, and it was like watching a shark discover blood in the water. "The important thing is that you understand your role in ensuring mission success goes beyond engineering."
Eli looked at the contracts again, seeing them differently now. This wasn't just about publicity—it was about control. By making him the public face of the mission, they were also making him responsible for its public perception. If something went wrong, if there were delays or technical failures or "personnel issues," he would be the one explaining them to cameras and congressional committees.
"I need time to review these," he said finally.
"Of course. But the CNN interview is scheduled for Friday, so we'll need your signature by Thursday morning." Patterson gathered the papers with practiced efficiency. "The network is very excited to speak with you."
"Friday." Eli calculated quickly. "That's four days from now."
"Which gives you plenty of time to prepare. Marcus will be in touch about talking points and wardrobe." Isabel stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Oh, and Eli? It would be best if you avoided any... distractions... between now and the interview. We need you focused and professional."
The dismissal was polite but absolute. Eli gathered his tablet and headed for the door, feeling like he'd just been maneuvered into checkmate by a chess master who'd been thinking six moves ahead.
In the elevator descending toward the engineering floor, he pulled out his phone and stared at Noah's earlier text. Remember: you're not just good with numbers. You're extraordinary with them.
The problem was that extraordinary with numbers didn't necessarily translate to extraordinary with corporate politics, media manipulation, or whatever game Isabel Crowe was playing. And increasingly, Eli suspected that the stakes were higher than just mission success—they were personal, involving people he cared about in ways that made his careful calculations irrelevant.
The elevator doors opened to reveal the familiar chaos of the engineering floor, where problems had solutions and mathematics was more reliable than human nature. But even here, Eli could feel the weight of watching eyes and unspoken questions.
41 days, 13 hours, 45 minutes until launch. Time enough to master orbital mechanics, but maybe not enough to navigate the gravitational fields of corporate politics and human emotion that seemed determined to pull everything off course.