By the time he reached the next stop on his string of errands, Corcey had almost gotten a grip on the amphetamine blur, and the painkillers had nearly diluted his headache to a manageable level.
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
Corcey took a turbolift up to MidbiM Command Control. The visitor access section was all but deserted: a janitor was cleaning the observation windows, and the public liaison was smiling expectantly at him from behind the counter. That smile seemed forced and artificial. He was average height, average weight, and completely nondescript in his otherwise squeaky-clean appearance. The name embroidered onto his uniform was Chip.
“Hello, Sir!” Chip said unctuously. “How may we help you?”
From his jacket, Corcey pulled out a small wallet. Inside was a badge on one flap, an identification card with a two-d piq of Corcey’s visage on the other. He flashed it briefly, then deftly put it away.
“Need some information,” Corcey said simply.
“Then you’ve come to the right place, Captain Midnight,” Chip said, and his smile morphed into a sly grin. The rank on the id was indeed Captain, and the name was ‘James Thade.’ In Cassidine street slang, ‘thade’ meant ‘midnight’. Corcey hadn’t thought he’d shown it long enough for Chip to get anything off of it.
“Right,” he said, nonplused. “I understand there was a chemical spill here about two weeks ago...”
“Nuclear, actually,” Chip clarified. “Liquid plutonium. Do you need the incident report?”
“No, I need to know if any ships left right after that.”
“Several, but the spill was in our own reactor, so no ships or passengers had any contact with it.”
“The spill is merely a point of reference,” Corcey said patiently. “I’m looking for a ship that left right after the spill was mopped up.”
Helpfully but curiously, Chip asked, “May we inquire what this is about, exactly?”
Corcey produced an immaculate copy of the reward poster. “I need to know if she was on it.”
Chip glanced at the paper, and the coyness of his smile increased enough to make Corcey both nervous and suspicious.
“Sorry, but she wasn’t. No one named Sophia Barbelo was registered on any passenger lists.”
Corcey’s suspicions grew: these replies came entirely too quickly.
“I believe she was traveling under the alias Liza Mohn,” Corcey replied, putting the paper away. “She arrived on the station two weeks ago.”
Without pause, Chip said “Thirteen standard days,
[2] actually.Corcey looked at Chip, who despite the poker face clearly knew something. Corcey continued with what he knew: “Flight
Chip interrupted him again with things he didn’t know: “Aisle seat 5 with two pieces of carry-on.” He even told Corcey the exact doqing time at the exact unloading bay.
Corcey had no idea what to say to this trumpet of information, so he simply continued to listen.
“Aaaaand,” Chip continued melodramatically, “you are correct: thirteen days ago Liza Mohn took a qargocamper out of here to Timmeon.” He launched into a soliloquy of specifics, to Corcey’s surprise and delight.
Chip explained, “She booked all her flights through Star Traveler; we simply checked the file.” He smiled sweetly.
Chip had yet to use the qomputer before him, so either he was ad-libbing lies, or he was accessing data through a direct cerebral linq. The use of the Royal We was the clincher. Corcey considered the clues, concluded Chip was a cyborg.
About the same time, Chip achieved a tentative hypothesis about Corcey’s nature.
Corcey considered his counterpart’s inherent ability for information retrieval.
“Shit,” he told him, “I’m doing this the hard way.”
“Get on to the Chain, my friend,” Chip replied slyly. “Implants are dirt cheap, and it’s direct access to a whole universe of data.
Several years ago, Corcey lost two of his favourite toes to frostbite; rolled off into Blade’s hand like blackened peas. He refused to have a replacement grafted on.
“No thanks, man,” Corcey replied coolly; “I’m kind of attached to the original parts.”
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
“Luddite,” Chip quipped.
Corcey repeated Ms. Mohn’s travel information back to him verbatim.
“Correct?” he asked sweetly.
“Yes,” Chip said, unimpressed, “but waaaait: there’s more!”
“Another connecting flight?” asked Corcey.
“Tell us why you’re really looking for her.”
Corcey smiled coolly. “You saw the poster.”
“You wound me. That poster is about as authentic as that badge you flashed.” Disdainfully: “Do you even know who Captain Midnight and the Ovaltine Space Rangers were?
Corcey looked down at his boots, his long hair hiding the shame on his face. “Well,,, no.” Then he looked up. “But I did try to find out once, without luck.”
“Agent Thade, we can actually answer that vexing question for you, but first we’d rather have you answer a question of ours. Why are you really looking for her?”
Corcey thought it over a moment.
“I’m not sure I can tell you,” he replied, using the Galaqommon plural of ‘you.’
Chip looked hurt. “And we’ve been so helpful... Okay, you can just tell me.”
What Corcey meant was that he wasn’t sure how to phrase the answer in comprehensible vocabulary. Awkwardly, he tried anyway.
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
The answer surprised Chip, though he showed no reaction to the answer except to say “Interesting. I suspected as much, but was right for the wrong reasons.”
“Mind if I ask you a question now?”
“Who were the Ovaltine Space Rangers?”
“Well, besides that: why are you being so helpful?”
“This is the help desk,” Chip told him with a straight face.
“Methinks you’re helping yourself most,” Corcey told him.
This time Chip had trouble phrasing his explanation. Corcey nodded afterward; he’d suspected as much, but was wrong for the right reasons.
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
“Well, instead of telling you where she went,” Chip went on at last, “we will insult your Luddite senses and use this hated system to print you her itinerary.”
He caressed the console as it spewed forth a journal of the journey of Liza Mohn. Her last stop was New Ra’Math, by way of Etam station.
“Any use of the name since then?” Corcey asked.
“No.” They’d already checked, of course. “Last bookmark is an exit scan at the shuttle depot in Gilead Gershon. That name hasn’t left that we can find, though your Sophia may have adopted an unknown alias.”
Nod. “Are there any direct flights to New Ra’Math from here?”
“No, but you can get there indirectly, as she did. There are a number of linking options. If you can’t charter a flight direct, come back and we’ll discuss them.”
Corcey nodded, and took the print-out. It was on bond paper with logo letterhead. Looked nice, official.
“Thank you,” he said, sincerely.
“Always a pleasure to help a kindred spirit.”
Corcey looked at him curiously, the metaphysical meaning not sinking in right away. He went over to the turbolift, and looked over the printout as he rode it to his next destination. Mohn’s flights were listed, as well as the departure and arrival times. Her indirect rout had taken eight days to get her from MidbiM to New Ra’Math. If he could charter a direct flight, he could get there more quickly and close the time gap between them.
Leaving the turbolift, he traced his way to the station’s main hangers. Smaller ships could enter the station there to refuel, repair, and load or drop off qargo. Larger ships had to use the outside facilities; the difference was whether or not you needed an atmosphere suit to touch your hull.
The hanger currently had four vessels. Corcey went to the first, a dilapidated old tug, but the crew wasn’t on board.
He walked past several empty bays until he found the next ship. He was surprised at the capacity MidbiM had for ships; the designers must expect this region to get a lot of traffic in the near future. The place was well-maintained, too: the majority of spaceports tended to be grimy sinthisteel coffins.
The crew of the second ship was also absent, but it had a qorporate logo, so they probably wouldn’t take leeches.
In a bay away from the others, a small qargo runner was loading large unmarked crates into its hold with extreme care and precision. The two saladrin supervising remembered him from the bar, and stared him away without a word. Corcey was mutually cool with that ruling.
The last ship, almost cowering in the back corner bay, was what suspiciously resembled a corvette class military assault scout. One of the old YYZs from the War. No insignia or colours, not even a name was visible, but as he got closer, he noticed a lot a variations and odd customizations amid old dings and dents that had never been hammered smooth.
Sitting atop was a short, brawny Hamaddi wearing grubby flight clothes, a purple bandanna tied tightly around her brow, knotted in front. She sat amid the debris in a very large gash in her ship’s hull, listlessly holding some soldering equipment. Metal was twisted and blackened around her; cables, wires, and exposed meqanix were everywhere. It had been a fair-sized explosion, but apparently not critical. She looked both bored and depressed, and clearly her work-effort was slack and half-hearted.
“Hey,” he called up to the Hamaddi. “Your captain around?”
The worker looked down at him contemptuously. “That’s me, genius,” she snarled harshly, her voice thick with accent. “Now go away.”
Oh, Sheol. Hamaddi were legendary for their pride: easily upset when not addressed with the respect that their rank deserved. Even if that rank was imagined or self-declared.
Corcey had a savant ability with languages, a sort of scribal gift of tongues: with a little study and devotional effort, he could read any language. But when he was sixteen he went out of his way to become fluent in both written and oral Hamaddi. Indeed, most Thune took a crash course in Hamaddi culture when the Aridians of the Mustavia Cluster had a short, brutal war with the Hamaddi of the Arpach Shad System.
Corcey called back to her in a variant of her native tongue, “My mistake: I should have realized that such a fine ship would have such a fine captain.”
Her wide maw grinned, displaying a thickly ridged mouthplate. At first she suspected a sarcastic insult, and kicking the stuffing out of this Human might cheer her up. But then she remembered: this was a fine ship, and she was a fine captain.
She spoke Gallahmme—the tongue of the wanderers, but recognized his compatible dialect: Shelah—the religious caste. Religiously, she didn’t buy the Arpach Shad line, so she had little use or knowledge of their history with it, and missed out on the Aridian chapter completely. She looked at him with one step above disdain, lazily raising her left leg behind her ear to scratch a nibbling tic with a toe claw. His move; she patiently watched and waited.
Corcey gesticulated in the proper manner, and introduced himself with a secretive grin: “Ko’re Asaph.”
Her grin grew even wider, and she climbed out of the hull hole and casually leaped off. Padded feet cushioned the impact; a Human or Saladrin trying it would’ve broken something.
“Captain Illania,” she proudly proclaimed, “of the Ko’re Asaph.”
Her name, in Galaqommon, was one of eight Hamaddi words translated as “Sniff.”[3]
Ko’re Asaph, in Hamaddi, translated rather loosely as ‘nocturnal bird of prey.’ It was a literal translation of his name, and a metaphorical description of her ship. Both Corcey and Illania seemed amused by the nomenclature coincidence, both wondered how seriously to take it.
“Your ship for hire?” he asked politely.
“Mmmmmaybe...” Her lightly feathered arms made sweeping gestures of the damage. “Gotta do some repair work, y’see. Tricky shit, too, and I want to do it right. It’ll take me a couple of days, if you’re willing to wait.”
Disbelief dripping in every syllable, Corcey caustically replied, “A couple of days?”
“Wellll,” she said defensively, “maybe less, if I cut a couple of corners.”
Cutting “a couple of corners” clearly included skipping numerous qoffee breaks, getting drunk, and maybe even a quick lay. Illania was bluffing one of the better demolition men among Swarm veterans. Corcey could recognize the type of explosion: the ship had been hit by a light assault rocket, probably a Stormseeker Mini. And, of course, he could also guesstimate how long it would take to repair it.
“Sorry, but that’s more time than I have. Looks like me and my five thousand byte voucher will just have to go elsewhere.”
Both of them looked around dramatically, at the lack of elsewheres. Almost on cue, a raspy voice shrieked, "Those crates must not come within ten meters of each other!"
But of course, his four figure offer wooed her attention, as he knew it would.
After a moment, Illania asked, “Where’re you headed?”
“New Ra’Math,” he replied simply.
Her rottweiler brow furrowed: somehow she’d been expecting “anywhere but here,” but he actually had a specific destination.
Kind of made sense, though: New Ra’Math was collectively insane. He’d fit right in.
“Well, I could only get you as far as Etam.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” Corcey grumbled in flawless Hamaddi, but he understood and accepted. “Close enough, though.”
Unless you landed directly on the planet, the only way into New Ra’Math was through Etam, the moon that monopolized the orbit traffic. Etam would, could, and did destroy any and all direct landings that tried to bypass their orbiting toll booth.
“Any qargo?” she asked, using a Hamaddi variant that implied contraband or things of suspect nature.
He smiled and spread his arms wide. “Ka,” meaning me.
Illania considered this. If Twilight Tweetie here couldn’t wait a day or two to leave, then he must hear the flies homing in on whatever shit he’d stepped in. She wasn’t sure she’d want him tracking it around her, because flies bite indiscriminately.
Of course, five large would pay for the repairs she was making on her ship. Since her qargo had been taken at lazerpoint, Illania had no idea how she was going to pay for doqing and repairs, let alone pay the crew. Just two hours ago she found out she’d even been scammed on her insurance.
The two Ko’re Asaphs had found each other at just the right time. Her ship was her life, which settled things in Corcey’s favour. Seemed like a fair trade: if he paid for repairs, she would take him to his destination without asking any embarrassing questions.
This was wise,
because whenever anyone asked Corcey “Is there something I should know?” he
would answer “Of course!” and launch
into a surprisingly passionate non-stop sermon-like diatribe. Corcey’s personal best was that marathon interrogation by Hamaddi
paramilitary on
Breaking her concentration, Corcey intoned “Excuse me... may I offer a suggestion?” He actually managed a genuine tone of polite kowtowing to the captain, because the suggestion was a big one. “If nothing critical is crunched, just fix the outer hull so that you’re space-worthy. We leave as soon as you have minimum efficiency.”
Illania’s mood soured noticeably.
“You want to leave with my ship on minimum efficiency, without several basic functions on line?”
“I’m sure you could continue repairs on the way, and complete them at Etam. Besides, I guarantee Etam has better facilities and parts.”
That would certainly be true, Illania thought, and began pondering the underground upgrades available.
“I’ll even help,” he added as the clincher.
That brought her back to reality.
“No thanks,” she said, condescendingly. “I’m very particular about who works on my ship. Besides, the spex would confuse you.” She smiled when she saw Corcey take amused insult, then explained, “Built her m’self.”
Corcey was so surprised that he took a step back, then turned to look fully at the Ko’re Asaph. Under closer scrutiny, it indeed seemed a home-made replica of a YYZ assault scout, with some original changes to the frame.
Corcey understood why Illania was so proud. When the Saladrin first encountered the Hamaddi, Hamadd had just entered the industrial revolution. The Saladrin gave them in one year what it would have taken them five hundred to discover on their own. Almost all study in indigenous science and teqnology ceased, it being simpler to learn the Saladrin systems. As a result of both this and the revolt it contributed to, Hamaddi to this generation have sadly lacked any creative inventiveness. Corcey was always surprised and delighted to find an exception to any rule.
“Well, you’ve done a marvelous job,” Corcey complemented with sincerity. “Where’d you get a YYZ frame?”
“YYZ’s a fine ship,” she replied with a smile, playfully dodging the question. “Flew one for Fef,” she said proudly, and pulled back a sleeve to show him her tattoo. In stark contrast beneath the fine hair-like feathers was an blue circle inscribed in a red octagon, centering the Fraknier letters Fef Tsi Yaw.
It was the standard for the Fraknier Assault Squadron. During The Swarm, the FAS were largely responsible for averting, or at least lessening disaster due to their abilities as pilots. They’d dealt the Rathgeans a few surprises, and even helped turn the tide in the space duel that was slaughtering Task Force Cassidine. FAS pilots were often considered to be some of the best, or at least ballsiest, who have ever flown, both in atmosphere or deep space.
Actually, the YYZ she flew for Fef was the same one behind her. She hadn’t so much built it as salvaged and repaired it.
“Anyway,” Corcey said, realizing he was close to violating the mutual No Embarrassing Questions truce, “how long do you think it’ll take to get there?”
Illania considered this momentarily. “Ah, you see, that’s one of the repairs I need to make. Normally it would take about five days, but I’m not sure about my c∞i generator. Hell, we could theoretically arrive there six months ago.”
Problems with time distortion from traveling faster the speed of light were compensated with a c∞i generator, which couldn’t cancel the infinities in the mathematics involved, but could lessen them considerably with a few negative square roots and some liberal division by zero. The result was a drift ± an hour, proportionate to how fast and far you went. On a long haul you could even gain or lose a full day if your formulas had enough flaws.
“The π splicer might be ground out. I’d have to do a strip test to be sure.”
“Actually, I like the idea of arriving six months ago,” Corcey told her. Fine by him: he’d just camp out at Sophia’s airloq. “However, that falls out of minimum efficiency.” They could just as easily arrive six months later. Unfortunately, ten generation of Saladrin studying the problem pronounced there was no way to control the chaotic temporal theorem, and prohibited experiments in that field. Mostly for health reasons, but also for fear that it may be discovered that the underlying math was bullshit and the whole system would suddenly stop working. There was actually precedence of this happening with two teleporters and a perpetual motion machine.
“Better check into it,” he told her of the p s
plicer grind. “I’m too old as it is.”...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
“Anything else need immediate fixing?” Corcey asked Illania.
They both looked up to the blasted hull. After a few moments of silence, a taloned finger pointed accusingly at the wound disabling her ship.
“That makes me so mad, too: the fiends didn’t even have the courtesy to use the phuqing airloq! Bastards just climbed right in through the hole and climbed back out with my inventory.”
“Who hitcha?”
“No idea. They were all Saladrin.”
“What’d they get?”
“Nasty things,” Illania confided coyly, still gazing at the gash. Corcey understood not to pursue it.
“Well, that’s less likely to happen with me on board,” he told her in a soft, assuring whisper.
This is true, she thought.
“You know,” she said, “You’re right. I want to get out of here, too: the Wilderness gives me the creeps.”
Corcey nodded in understanding, and pulled out the credit voucher.
“So,” Corcey asked, “how long will it take you to do a good job cutting corners?”
“Two hours,” she said precisely. In mulling and moping, she’d worked out what most of repairs would be, could she only finance them. At least this was a start, and one that would get her into less dangerous space until she could come back prepared.
“Two hours,” Corcey repeated, handing over the voucher. She triple-checked its authenticity, and asked, “are we happy?” When money changed hands, that was the customary question. Both sides had to agree that they were for the transaction to end satisfactorily.
“Ask me when we get to New Ra’Math,” Corcey replied, an acceptable answer.
“Cho,” they said, a formal short-term good-bye, and both left the ship.
Illania almost ran to the hanger chief to get the parts; Corcey just slowly disappeared into the shadows.
Beth the hanger manager was already weary of Illania and her mounting bill, but the Hamaddi showed her a grin and the voucher. Beth agreed to have the parts and even a couple of maintenance bots ready when Illania got back with an exact qompucheq for her debt.
And in complete ignorance of the import of her company, Illania rode the turbolift back from the currency exchange with Sophia for company.
After Jae left Tazza, Sophia made eight foneqals, and then took a shower with an SLX lazer on the soapholder. The only clothes she had that didn’t reek of booze, sweat, or menstruation was a long blue-white ty-dy dress. It had a matching cloak, which she pulled up around her, and hid most of her head in the veil of a funky white hat.
Without much thought, she put on an anklet of small moons.
With thought, she took her SLX and a vidibooq of The Law which she had miraculously found in her dresser, courtesy of the Gid'yunn Society.
Sophia and Illania both got out at the hanger, and while Illania went hunting for Beth, Sophia went hunting for crews. Sophia did a survey similar to Corcey’s to find a way off of this station now.
The Care & Precision Crew on the qargo runner were beginning to sweat how many people were wandering by, inquiring into their activities. She spoke to the Saladrin, who would only identify themselves as "B" (black suit) and "J" (white,) and when she learned they were just about to leave, she ran the gambit from beg, bluff, and bribe to get herself on board. They were adamant against it, and finally the human captain pulled her aside.
“Normally I’d take you, but not now,” he said with spiced breath and a tipsy wink.
He sensed her desperation, she his paranoia, and neither had a problem when she quickly walked away.
Sophia discounted the Ko’re Asaph on sight, not only because it was damaged, but her history with the Hamaddi, like Corcey’s, made it unwise to get involved with any of them sporting a YYZ. Illania had already contacted her crew, who were assembling by the landing struts. Sophia wondered if they were paramilitary; if so, the chances were good they’d know of the MustaviShad War. Hamaddi as a species stuck together, so though the War was with the Arpach Shad squad, most non-Shad Hamaddi banded behind their brother’s back.
Indeed, two of the five Hamaddi she herself killed during the War weren’t from Arpach Shad. At least, the five she had seen the faces of. Over 40,000 died from a pestilence pulse she, Corcey, and three other QDC set off at Qaliph the day before the War ended. With the Confederacy Intervention, all sides stood down, and war crimes inquiries started and ended the same hour. There were just too many nameless, faceless corpses, and both sides conveniently agreed the guilty parties were ultimately among them.
The Arpach Shadians were far less forgiving or forgetful, and an open bounty remained on the lives of any QDC from the War. As part of the planetary healing process, the Shadi had tried the QDC in abstentia, and they expectantly got mandatory death sentences. This was still enforced, most recently 2 years ago when an apostate veteran was publicly crucified to the Tree of Healing.
This had the understandable effect of making Arpach Shad the one exception to her “any place but here” nihilism in escaping away from Corcey.
It also made her habitually avoid Hamaddi as a whole; an unscrupulous Hamaddi who recognized her QDC history might try to qash in the ’Shad reward.
Sophia’s best option off MidbiM so far was a Saladrin freighter refueling outside. The captain was cool; if she could cope with the methane, keep out of the way, and didn’t mind going to Rok'Chotta'Iktz, she could leach for free.
Phuq it—she’d steal an atmosphere suit from the hotel if she had to, and she quickly went back to her room to make some more qals.
Taking a back way, she again narrowly missed Corcey. She even came within ten meters of him, but the walls of the hallway she passed through concealed her from Corcey, who was on the other side of the wall sitting in a small cafeteria.
Corcey wasn’t sure if he could eat, much less wanted to. He had always hated eating. Corcey was busy, he had things to do, and resented having to stop whatever it was so he could prepare, cook, and eat a meal. Worse, everyone was enslaved to food: if you didn’t eat, you’d die. Corcey had been fasting for quite some time, but he recognized the the nauseous vacuum in his abs and his dizziness to be symptoms of acute malnutrition. He suspected his hunger was a psychosomatic leftover from when he actually needed food, and he didn’t know if he was truly up for it. He still hadn’t made up his mind on this matter when he found the small, empty cantina, walking in just before Sophia would walk by.
The food was autoserve, which only guaranteed freshness, not quality or content. But at least the place was empty.
He went over to the stasis machines and looked over their contents. What you see is what you eat, in stasis from the day it was made. Corcey saw nothing he wanted, but chose something anyway.
Payment by Electrobyte only: Nards.
He pulled out six credit cards, and wondered which one to use.
He paid for his meal, and The Beast knew what Thaddeus Lebbaeus ate that day.
He spent a full half hour just staring blankly at the small bowl of foliage.
Vegetarianism was the easiest way to keep kosher, but oddly it had been Blade who helped him appreciate the leaf. He took a break from focusing on Sophia, and reminiscing about his Caandelenian cohort, took a hesitant, half-hearted bite.
His stomach reacted instantly to the bland ruffage, and he had to struggle to keep the foreign food in him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set his chopsticks on the table. His hand was visibly jittery: amphs and adrenaline. He snorted a short laugh at the realization that healthy foods like salads sickened his body, but toxins like caffeine gave it energy.
He decided to make his body suffer more: he took another bite. Taste buds already reeling from the soggy, almost flavourless vegetation were drowned in an overflow of acidic bile backwash. Corcey hunched over the table, his face centimeters over the small bowl of greens. His hair fell in a curtain around him, hiding the sight of him wincing in pain. He came very close to adding a second dressing to the salad, but all his body could muster was a reedy bastardization of a belch that tasted like dead, rotting plants.
Slowly he sat back up, blew out a breath that smelled like a vomit swamp, and pushed the bowl away from him. So much for material cravings, and he got up and left the cafeteria.
Food wouldn’t fuel him.
Drugs didn’t drive him.
His energy was self-contained.
...thump... ...thump... ...thump...
Corcey went back to the storage facilities and retrieved his things. No sign of a break-in, but he checked to make sure everything was still there. After all, they were cumbersome, but undeniably useful.
When he returned to the hanger, the Saladrin qargo tug had left, and the crew of the qorporate one was loading fuel pellets. Walking back to the YYZ, he was pleased to see the hull was intact and the power was on. Illania, however, was gone. Corcey looked around, but there was no sign of her. Two of the crew were outside, hanging bat-like from a hull strut and smoking stale fiberleaf. They glanced at Corcey, then returned to their animated debate on who (and where) was the best pornography star. Corcey seemed relieved that they ignored him, and he lotused himself against a portable power grid. Illania had left it on; the humm numbed his back.
He waited patiently. After six hundred thumps, Illania returned with three more of her crew: Hamaddi, as expected. All of them bore strong resemblances: this was a flying family. General introductions were made, Corcey filing away the names with the faces into his great cerebral rolodex. The crew seemed semi-ambivalent to him. Cool, he thought, as the captain led them into the ship.
The bridge had been cleaned up to be functional, but was still a gawd-awfull mess. Corcey took a chair out of the way. While the crew prepped for flight, Corcey looked around.
The whole ship, he had noticed, was full of gravaterariums. Much of the bridge was palsied by the dead green splotches. He knew their two-fold use: plants make air, and Hamaddi are almost druidic in their arboreal heritage.
With one exception, none of the plants were alive. Lack of photolight: another corner Illania had cut. The sole exception was the bridge’s centrepiece, a zilladdi tree undoubtedly from either Illania’s birthworld or even Hamadd itself. It too was dying, but through size had longer to live. Parts of the trunk were moving, symbiotic invertebrates that also served dual purposes: keeping the tree alive, and feeding the crew should they tire of stasis slugs.
The last act of preparation took place: the captain assumed the Chair.
“Beth, we’re ready when you are.”
With meqanical aid, the ship went out to the gigantic airloq that accessed the outside. Yellow lights began to flash as the inner door opened, and the corvette tractored inside. It was a tight squeeze—if the ship were any larger, it would have had to doq on the outside. The yellow lights died as the inner door closed, replaced by red ones as the outer doors opened. Engines flared briefly, propelling them away from MidbiM.
“Buckle up,” Illania told Corcey with a grin.
Once clear of the station’s gravity, Corcey slowly rose from his seat. Artificial gravity was another of the corners cut. Corcey slipped into the restraining harness, then tied the straps of his bags to a rail so they wouldn’t float away. The Carypaq he held onto: it was too fragile to risk.
Once they had drifted a safe distance away, the ship quickly rotated toward a far away point of light: the Mizpah System, of which New Ra’Math was the chief attraction. There was a brief qommunication between the corvette and MidbiM’s flight control, and then the Ko’re Asaph was blistering along at a rate Light would be envious of, with or without a c∞i generator.