for a moment, before recalling that officially he was now a major in the Shrievalty Ocula. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said.
‘First Officer Oon Dicogra, NMS 3304,’ the young woman said. ‘Welcome. Please follow me.’
Slovius held out one flippery hand. ‘I shall try to remain alive until your return, Major Nephew.’ He made a wheezing noise that was probably a laugh.
Fassin gripped Slovius’s finger stubs awkwardly. ‘I’m rather hoping this is a false alarm and I’ll be back in a few days.’
‘In any event, take care. Goodbye, Fassin.’
‘I shall. Goodbye.’ He kissed the still-sleeping Zab lightly on the cheek, avoiding waking her, then followed the Navarchy officer to the platform, stepped up onto it and waved as the curve-bottomed slab raised them into the ship.
‘We’ll be pulling about 5.2 Earth gees most of the way,’ Dicogra said as Fassin’s robe and his luggage were secured in a brace-cabinet. ‘Are you happy with that? The physio profile we got on you says yes, but we have to check.’
Fassin looked at her. ‘To Pirrintipiti?’ he asked. The local shuttles and suborbs accelerated a lot less sharply than that, and they did the trip in less than an hour. How tight was this schedule?
‘No, to Borquille city,’ Dicogra said. ‘Going straight there.’
‘Oh,’ Fassin said, surprised. ‘No, 5.2 is fine.’
The planet-moon ‘glantine’s gravity was about a tenth of that, but Fassin was used to more. He thought about pointing out that his day job involved spending years at a time in a gravity field of over six Earth gees, but of course that was in a Dwellerine arrowship, pickled in shock-gel, and didn’t really count.
First Officer Dicogra smiled, wrinkled her nose and said, ‘Good for you. That physio report said you were quite a toughie. Still, we’ll spend nearly twenty hours at that acceleration, with only a few minutes weightless right in the middle, so do you need to visit the heads? You know, the toilet?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
She gestured at his groin, where a bulge like a sports box was the only place on his body where the grey, centimetre-thick gee-suit didn’t hug the contours of his flesh. ‘Any attachments required?’ she asked, smiling.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Drugs to let you sleep?’
‘Not necessary.’
The ship’s captain was a whule, a species that always looked to Fassin like a cross between a giant grey bat and an even more scaled-up praying mantis. She greeted Fassin briefly via a screen from the bridge and he was settled into a steep-sided, semi-reclined couch in a gimballed ball pod near the centre of the ship by First Officer Dicogra and a fragile-seeming but dexterous whule rating who smelled, to the human nose, of almonds. The whule rating levered himself out with a snapping sound of wing membranes and Dicogra settled into the only other couch in the pod. Her preparations for a day of five gees continuous consisted of tossing her cap into a locker and adjusting her uniform underneath her.
The ship lifted slowly at first and Fassin watched on a screen on the curved wall opposite as the port’s circular landing ground fell away, the little figures there lifting their heads as the Navarchy craft rose. Zab might have waved one tiny arm, then the haze of clouds intervened, the view tilted and swung and the ship accelerated - the gimballed pod keeping him and Dicogra level in their seats - towards space.
*
Was that screaming? His eyes flicked open. His neck hairs were standing on end, his mouth was dry. Dark. Still inside the ruined alien ship, his back resting against the dimly lit flier. Taince gone, away to the gap to check for comms reception. Oh shit, those were screams, from behind. Maybe shouting, too. He scrambled to his feet, looking around. Little to see; just the faint traces of the warped landscape of destruction and collapse that was the interior of the wrecked ship, the tilted decks and bulkheads, the huge hanging strips of
‘First Officer Oon Dicogra, NMS 3304,’ the young woman said. ‘Welcome. Please follow me.’
Slovius held out one flippery hand. ‘I shall try to remain alive until your return, Major Nephew.’ He made a wheezing noise that was probably a laugh.
Fassin gripped Slovius’s finger stubs awkwardly. ‘I’m rather hoping this is a false alarm and I’ll be back in a few days.’
‘In any event, take care. Goodbye, Fassin.’
‘I shall. Goodbye.’ He kissed the still-sleeping Zab lightly on the cheek, avoiding waking her, then followed the Navarchy officer to the platform, stepped up onto it and waved as the curve-bottomed slab raised them into the ship.
‘We’ll be pulling about 5.2 Earth gees most of the way,’ Dicogra said as Fassin’s robe and his luggage were secured in a brace-cabinet. ‘Are you happy with that? The physio profile we got on you says yes, but we have to check.’
Fassin looked at her. ‘To Pirrintipiti?’ he asked. The local shuttles and suborbs accelerated a lot less sharply than that, and they did the trip in less than an hour. How tight was this schedule?
‘No, to Borquille city,’ Dicogra said. ‘Going straight there.’
‘Oh,’ Fassin said, surprised. ‘No, 5.2 is fine.’
The planet-moon ‘glantine’s gravity was about a tenth of that, but Fassin was used to more. He thought about pointing out that his day job involved spending years at a time in a gravity field of over six Earth gees, but of course that was in a Dwellerine arrowship, pickled in shock-gel, and didn’t really count.
First Officer Dicogra smiled, wrinkled her nose and said, ‘Good for you. That physio report said you were quite a toughie. Still, we’ll spend nearly twenty hours at that acceleration, with only a few minutes weightless right in the middle, so do you need to visit the heads? You know, the toilet?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
She gestured at his groin, where a bulge like a sports box was the only place on his body where the grey, centimetre-thick gee-suit didn’t hug the contours of his flesh. ‘Any attachments required?’ she asked, smiling.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Drugs to let you sleep?’
‘Not necessary.’
The ship’s captain was a whule, a species that always looked to Fassin like a cross between a giant grey bat and an even more scaled-up praying mantis. She greeted Fassin briefly via a screen from the bridge and he was settled into a steep-sided, semi-reclined couch in a gimballed ball pod near the centre of the ship by First Officer Dicogra and a fragile-seeming but dexterous whule rating who smelled, to the human nose, of almonds. The whule rating levered himself out with a snapping sound of wing membranes and Dicogra settled into the only other couch in the pod. Her preparations for a day of five gees continuous consisted of tossing her cap into a locker and adjusting her uniform underneath her.
The ship lifted slowly at first and Fassin watched on a screen on the curved wall opposite as the port’s circular landing ground fell away, the little figures there lifting their heads as the Navarchy craft rose. Zab might have waved one tiny arm, then the haze of clouds intervened, the view tilted and swung and the ship accelerated - the gimballed pod keeping him and Dicogra level in their seats - towards space.
*
Was that screaming? His eyes flicked open. His neck hairs were standing on end, his mouth was dry. Dark. Still inside the ruined alien ship, his back resting against the dimly lit flier. Taince gone, away to the gap to check for comms reception. Oh shit, those were screams, from behind. Maybe shouting, too. He scrambled to his feet, looking around. Little to see; just the faint traces of the warped landscape of destruction and collapse that was the interior of the wrecked ship, the tilted decks and bulkheads, the huge hanging strips of
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