Chapter 2

“The word in intrasolar politics today is unilateralism!”

The snide, snarky voice of Dan Chaps, the best podcaster on politics on the web (at least, according to the 16 to 24 progressive and liberal demographic) filled the ear of Annabelle Herman DuPont as she peddled down the crumbling I-280 North in what had once been the biggest, most bustling suburbs in California. Her bike’s smart tires and efficient chain-gearing system, combined with her own long honed muscles, chewed up the miles faster than she’d have thought possible. Not many people biked the interstate – most people preferred greener paths.

But greener paths and other people meant that Annie had to worry about those other people. And she enjoyed turning her brain off and letting her muscles burn and her knees bend and her sweat bead and Dan Chaps fill her ears with the latest news today on Earth and aboard.

“Now, you may ask, what is unilateralism, Mr Chaps?” Dan chuckled. “Well, the idea was brought up in the late 90s, when the Indians first began to nuke Mars. The idea being that if we were going to terraform our own planet, why not begin terraforming our nearest, most similar neighbor? Bonus points if anyone out there said ‘what, Venus?’” A happy chime rang out – one of Dan’s trademark sound effects. “Now, before then, every decision made about space had been made under the UN emergency charter – solar shades, areosats, thorium mining, all that was finger quote owned end finger quote by specific nations, but they were in place under the UNEC EcoDev headquarters. That meant everyone on the Security Council got a say.”

A pot hole the size of an old automobile loomed ahead of Annie. She twisted both bars and her bike skidded around the hole with the grace and adroitness of a great cat. One of the non-extinct ones at least.

“But when the Indians began their New Mars project, they did so ... without ... checking with the UNEC. The argument being that since it wasn’t impacting Earth, the UN had no say. Now, if our glorious new world order overlords had any teeth, then there would have been snap back, wars, bar codes on the face, numbers of the beast, all the old fun stuff. Instead of that obvious and logical eventuality...” He sighed, dramatically. “For ... some reason, the United Nations backed down and ceded back all the power that it had claimed during the 21st century. So, when the 22nd century came whining around, we were right back where we started. Just with a space infrastructure big enough to let every nationalist to fulfill their colonialist dreams like it was the age of sail all over again. Goodie!”

The normal exit that a car might have taken, a hundred years ago, had collapsed. When Annie rode towards it, she had pause and wobble in place as her bike’s tires shifted their shape into something more rugged. She started to grunt as her bike climbed up the small hill of rubble, grass, and budding trees. She laughed as she rattled her way back down the hill and into the reclaimed suburbs beyond.

“Which brings us back to the here and now,” Dan Chaps said. “Every decision made beyond Earth orbit for the past seventy years has been determined by what one country picked. The Chinese move asteroids. The Federal Government mines Ceres for water and slings it to Mars. The Indians introduced enigneered moss to Mars thirty years ago – a decision that will impact this solar system for millions of years ... and the only people they had to answer to were ... what? Their corporate masters?”

Annie shook her head.

Dan Chaps had a point.

But listening to him was a good way to get kinda ... pissed off.

“And now we have the ultimate form of galling unilateralism, one that has actually drawn censure and commentary from the United Nations,” Dan Chaps said as she peddled past an area where dozens of people in reflective vests and hard hats were working with electric tools and exoskeletons and crowbars to tear down the suburban sprawl that had been abandoned during the mid 21st century and left to rot. A few waved at her – and she waved back as Dan Chaps continued to upbraid the Chinese government.

“This is one of those unprecedented moments in human history. We have, by sheer bloody minded accident, blown a goddamn hole in space-time and smashed a moon to pieces with it. The Janus anomaly, oh, screw it, lets stop pussyfooting around, the Janus wormhole, is the most important things to happen since a certain mass murdering dipshit dropped an atomic bomb on a civilian target back in the 20th: To really hammer it in for you guys, lets say it again. Nothing. Will. Ever. Be. The. Same. We don’t know what is there, what is through that portal, where it leads, what effects it will have on this entire solar system, hell, this entire universe. And what do the Chinese do? Without even bringing up the idea to their own people, they send a shuttle through!” He paused a beat. “Five times!”

Anne was about to shake her head in disbelief as she skimmed around the corner and came to the outskirts of her parents enclave when she nearly ran someone over. He stumbled out from behind an oak tree that was gamely and slowly pushing aside asphalt and concrete and who knows what else to burst free and claim the air it was due – and Anne reacted. She slammed on the brakes and swept herself to the side. Her wheels skidded, shifting their form while alerts chimed from the bike. Seeing it couldn’t keep her safe with some wheel trickery, it sent a message to her riding suit, which popped off the rapid inflation impact surface.

Anne was catapulted from her seat and landed on her back, her helmet wrapping around her head with what felt like a thick, cotton mask. Her back hit the ground and she skidded nearly five feet before friction stopped her – and then groaned. She didn’t feel much more than a few mild bumps and a faint, throbbing ache behind her eyes – but she still had to lay flat as a board for the few seconds it took for her suit to deflate and retract.

When it did so, brilliant sunlight shone in her eye – and brought a faint whimpering groan to her ears.

Anne’s hear clenched. “Oh no no no no!” She scrambled to her feet. The enclave had a few old folks in it who sometimes liked to go for walks in the ruins – it kept them spry and fit. The nightmare she had was that she had clipped some hundred year old man, someone who had seen the worst disasters of the 21st century. Imagine surviving the flooding, the plagues, Rotlung, the civil war, the famines, and being taken out by a twenty something who hadn’t even picked her trade school.

Anne ran over to the prone figure – and stopped dead.

Well.

They weren’t old.

The man was quite possibly the most exquisitely beautiful men that Annie had seen in her life. And she watched porn. Like, an alarming amount of porn. He had the tall, narrow features she associated with Loonies, but not quite as pronounced. His muscles were well defined and his skin was porcelain pale – it practically shone under sunlight. He had no birthmarks or scars, but he did have a small, distinct tuft of chest hair that set him apart from the ‘smoothboy’ look that was pretty popular now a days. His face was delicate and feyish, with high cheek bones and thin lips, while his hair was midnight black and glossy. It was cut short and tousled – and Annie had the intense desire to rub her cheeks all against it, to see if it was really as silky as it looked.

Oh.

He was also naked.

Annie’s eyes widened as she looked down at the rest of him.

Wow.

Again. Annie had seen a lot of porn. She should not have been this impressed. She put her hands over her face, covering her mouth. Annie, her brain said, echoing in the empty space left now that her podcast had auto-paused (the play feature overridden by the emergency response of her biking suit) Annie, get him some pants. Annie. Get. The. Man. Pants.

“Right,” Annie turned back to her bike, which had fetched up against a lump of rusted metal that was mostly covered in moss. A large lizard sat atop it, enjoying the sun’s heat, watching her. For a brief moment, Annie felt distinctly judged. Then she started to rummage around in her backpack. She had packed her work clothes – for Mr. Finch wanted anyone who worked his front desk to be presentable, which didn’t include wearing a skintight biking suit. She futzed with the belt controls until she had set her pants to the maximum width they’d go, and then walked back to the man.

His eyes were open.

For a moment, Annie was positive that his eyes were pure black. Not just ... dark. But black black, black iris on black orbs. Then he blinked and they were merely the nearly black-brown of a man born to be a romance cover. He pursed his lips, looking at her jeans, then at her. “Are those for me?” he asked. His voice was husky and warm. Like rich chocolate. Annie nearly dropped the pants, her cheeks flushing as dark as they could go.

“Yeah,” she said, then dropped the pants on his face, turning around.

She heard a muffled chuckle. Then a clink and clatter of clothing sliding on, then a soft grunt. She glanced back – and saw that the man was looking at her with wide eyes. She bit her lip, slightly.

“What?” she asked.

“Just...” he shook his head. “Where am I?”

Annie looked around herself, then back at him. “Are ... you okay? Did you hit your head? Did you get brain damage?” She asked, stepping forward. “Shit. Shit, are ... do we need ... I’m going to call an ambulance! Don’t worry, if you can’t remember your MediCode, you can use mine!” She nodded. “My mom’s diabetic, I’m used to dealing with MediCore!” Then she smacked herself. “Wait, no, chips, chips, duh, they can just scan your chip, duh, stupid!”

The man chuckled, softly. “I ... I beg your pardon, madame, but I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about.”

Annie blinked at him, feeling like she had been the one to hit her head.

The man looked around himself again, then shook his head slowly. “I believe I...” He paused. “I believe that I have no idea ... where I am or how I got here...” He gulped. “I...” His hand went to his temple. “I barely even remember my name...”

“Well!” Annie said. “With a ... a name and a date of birth, we can find out, uh, who you are!” She clapped her hands together.

“My name is Dale,” he said. “And I was born...” His eyes unfocused. He wobbled slightly. “I ... was...”

He started to fall. Annie yelped and caught him in her arms.

The enclave proper wasn’t walled – even if the name implied otherwise. It was only marked off by a small fence – but stepping past that fence was like stepping into another world. It had been, ages ago, a park in the center of the suburbs. Now, that park had been expanded outwards. Old houses had been torn down and replaced with family communes that held small constellations of people – some related by blood, other by contract, and others by nothing at all. Interspersed between were all the things the encalve needed: A 3d print shop, a mechanic depot, a MediCore outpost with a single very grumpy GP, and of course, the media center.

This meant it had quite a few people who were out enjoying the sun or doing their day jobs – mostly via teleoperation – and that meant plenty of people saw Annie as she dragged Dale. The Brigston twins, two buff black men who had moved here when the UN had finally declared New Orleans a completely lost cause and let the ocean take the city, took Dale by the feet, and Mr. Gibson took his other arm. The lot of them got him into the DuPont compound, where Mom and Dad both came out to cluck and shake their heads.

“What did you do?” Mom asked, immediately.

“Honey,” Dad said.

“Nothing!” Annie exclaimed, while here two younger brothers started to make snide predictions.

“I bet she ran him over,” Mika whispered.

“Splat!” Greg started to slap his belly for the sound effects in question.

“Oh fuck off!” Annie snapped.

“Annabelle, language!” Mom said, her voice aghast. She walked forward and then stopped, looking down at Dale. “He doesn’t have a chip-scar.”

“Huh?” Annie looked back.

And yeah.

Mom was right. Dale’s neck didn’t have the furrowed bump where the identification chip normally went. It was the standard MediCore procedure, to aide in case of emergency, or in case you got lost or murdered or something. “He must be an Opter,” Dad said. “Or Mormon. Or Catholic!” He nodded.

“He doesn’t have a crucifix,” Mom said. Then she frowned. “Why is he in your pants, Annie?”

“He, uh, was, uh, that...”

“Is he your boooooooooyfriend?” Mika called from the peanut gallery.

“I hope so,” Aunt Gloria said. She walked down the stairs from the second story, wearing a tank top and short shorts. Her long deathhawk of pink hair had been done up in rollers, and she was holding an E-reader in one hand – but she paid it not a second glance when she looked at Dale. “Oh my, I definitely hope so.”

“I don’t even know where he’s from!” Annie squeaked. “He just ... stumbled out from behind a tree!” She flung out her arms. “And collapsed! I didn’t even hit him!”

“Must be on drugs,” Mom muttered.

“If he’s on drugs, he’s not an Opter. Or a Mormon. Or a Catholic, really,” Dad said, scratching at his jaw, his fingers rasping on hair he hadn’t shaved.

“Let’s call MediCore,” Mom said.

“I could examine him,” Aunt Gloria said, purring softly.

“Glor!” Mom and Annie said at the same time.

When Dr. Takashi finished his medical check up – which amounted to a blood test, a sweep for a chip (and no, telling him that Dale didn’t have a chip scar didn’t stop him), and a few pokes and prods – he shook his head slowly. “From my preliminary diagnosis, this young man just suffered from a bit of heat stroke. All he needs is cool air, water, and he should be up and about in a few hours. Then you all can find out where he’s from.” He glared at Mom, who had opened her mouth – likely to suggest that Dr. Takashi take him in. “If he’s not in the system, Mrs DuPont, I can’t log the bed time, I’m sorry. I could if he was under Article 98, but he’s not dying, he’s just tuckered out.”

“Is he on drugs?” Mom asked, frowning.

“No. He is not on drugs,” Dr. Takashi said, then pocketed his portable tester. “Get him somewhere cold and quiet.”

Dad, Aunt Gloria and Annie worked together to move Dale to the guest bedroom. Once there, they did everything Dr. Takashi said – and once they had done all they could, they settled in to wait. Annie and Dad sat beside the bed, watching as Dale slept. His head turned slightly and he made quiet grumbling noises. Like he was having a bad dream. Annie licked her lips, leaning forward on her knees. “Who do you think he is?” she asked.

“Who knows?” Dad asked. “He’s white and he speaks English, right? So, he’s American. Maybe he’s a runaway from a fundi commune. Maybe he really did just hit his head. We’ll just have to be patient.”

Annie tried. She really did. But her attempt to be patient grated against her nerves. First, her knee started jumping. Then her feet started tapping. Then she sprang to her feet and started to pace. AS she paced, Dad chuckled. “Did you have a good day at work?”

“Eh,” she said, distracted.

“Mom wishes you’d get a job in the enclave, not one over, you know?” Dad asked.

“Why’d you think I got it?” Annie chewed her lower lip. “Shit, I was tempted to jump ship to San Francisco, you know?”

“You wouldn’t like San Fran,” Dad said. “Thirty million people crammed into a steel pyramid? Climate controlled, artificial skies, no family?” He shook his head. “You might as well sign up to be on a spaceship for that kind of living.”

“People don’t nuke arcos, Dad,” Annie said.

Dad’s face fell. “Yes. Well. Lets hope not.”

Annie flinched. Sometimes, Dad would get a real sad, sad look on his face. It came up whenever the conversation got even slightly close to the big, gaping hole in the family tree. Mom’s parents were still alive – and her brothers and her sisters and her nephews. That whole side of the family was loud and officious and anal retentive. Dad’s side was a big, howling quiet. Annie shivered. Then she heard Dale groaning – shifting in his bed. He sat up, with a jerk. Like he was on a vidshow. His chest rose and fell as he panted. He looked around the room wildly.

Dad held up his hand. “Whoa, whoa. You’re okay, you’re okay,” he said. “You’re with friends.”

Dale slowly sagged back onto the bed. He nodded. “Yeah...” he whispered, then looked at Annie. “I know you.”

“Hey,” Annie said, waving. “This is my Dad, Charles Herman DuPont. Uh, I’m Annabelle. Uh, most people just call me ... Annie...”

Dale smiled at her. It was positively the most dazzling smile she had ever seen. Annie’s cheeks burned and her heart started to race as she clasped her hands behind her back.

“My name is Dale,” Dale said, looking at Dad. “Thank you for taking me into your home, my good sir.” He bowed his head. “I ... do not know how I got here. I do not know who I ... am ... exactly.” He breathed in, slowly, then breathed out. “But I am glad to know I am in the presence of such kind folk.”

Dad smiled. “Well, Dale. Until we figure out what’s going on, the DuPont clan is glad to have you around.” He grinned. “How are you with gardening?”

“Dad!” Amelia hissed.

Dale’s smile grew wider. “Oh. I believe I shall pick it up quickly.”

Amelia caught a playful glint in his eyes. Eyes that flicked to hers and smoldered. Her skin tingled. Her thighs pressed together. She felt light headed.

Okay, she thought. So, uh. Maybe I do want him to be my boyfriend.

Lucas sat down in his favorite chair in the briefing room and looked over at his manager. Lieutenant Chomsky was a bulldog faced woman who spoke in a monotone that somehow managed to make the already somewhat tedious subject of intersolar logistics even more dreadfully boring. Lucas liked Chomsky. He liked boring. He liked predictable. For all the times he wished that he was doing more with his life, he knew that excitement and crunch in logistics wouldn’t be an exciting adventure. No, it’d just mean more work.

And not enough extra pay to make it worth it.

Sitting next to him, Teller was sucking on a drink bulb with an obnoxiously smug expression on his face. It basically said to the whole world: Yeahhh, I wasn’t sucking on a drunk bulb last night, losers. I was getting some. And you weren’t.

Then Chomsky ruined both of their days.

“The Pentagon has given us an express order. Everyone not currently on priority jobs, you’ve got a new assignment. You need to take up to five ships from the Earth and Lunar fleets – their weaponry and disposition doesn’t matter – and work out mission schedule for them to reach the Janus anomaly within three months. And it needs to be ready by the end of the week.”

“Three months?” Teller spluttered, choking. “Are you insane, that’s...” He blinked. “That’s nearly two hundred kps of Delta-V for acceleration alone, Jesus Christ, that’s basically an interstellar flight, that’s-”

“Those are the orders we’ve been given,” Chomsky said, her voice flat. “Now do them. The Russians are already mobilizing their Jovian fleet. The Indians are pulling in ships from as far away as Venus – we have to get a force to the Anomaly too. The Chinese have given every other power three months to get there.”

Lucas whistled. That had to have been like pulling teeth at the negotiating table. The Chinese had been lucky enough to have one of their flying coffins within three days of Janus when it blew. Still...

“Why from Earth?” he asked, frowning. “We’ve got a Jovian fleet too – they could be there in a few weeks.”

“That fleet is protecting Ganymede. The last thing we want to do is lose the biggest claim we have in the outer system,” Chomsky said, her voice flat. “And all our best techs are on Earth. The Chinese haven’t said much, but what they’ve said ... well. It’s big. Now, get to work.”

Lucas stumbled from the room, feeling shellshocked.

“Three months,” Teller whispered. “Three months, Jesus Christ. This is going to be the biggest logistic crunch since the Watney rescue.”

“Well,” Lucas said, rubbing his face with his hands. “At least we have more toys. Right?”

“Right.” Teller didn’t sound convinced.

The first thing Lucas did was bring up a list of starships that the United States had in orbit. Thanks to a century and more of space industrialization – and the fact that starships had a remarkable shelf life, considering the alarming number of technologies that had failed to materialize. No one had invented fusion power. No one had built true AI. Nanotechnology remained a fringe field, mostly used in medical practices. And so, the starships that the United States built were only marginally better than ships built before – the main differences being mission profiles and tactical designs. Different schools of thought existed when it came to building ships – and one could see how those schools gained and lost prominence with the design dates of certain ships.

Lucas sorted out the ships into several spreadsheets. Several could have made the mission time from a purely mechanical perspective – but they were one or three man skiffs which would have arrived with the crews driven completely insane by the isolation and close quarters. A heavy drone carrier looked momentarily promising, until he had crunched out the numbers and found that, even if they tapped every drone onboard for reaction mass, they still would have missed the flight window by two weeks.

The next two days were spent in a haze of orbits, Hohmann transfers, burn calculations, and thrust-to-mass ratios. Each time Lucas stumbled to his apartment, he fell into his bed and passed out. Even Teller stopped trying to get laid – he was run ragged doing his own math, doing his own plots. Every other logistics specialist threw out ideas during lunch or coffee breaks. The ones who were still working on the normal profiles clearly sent them pitying looks.

And then...

Lucas had the idea that would ruin his life.

It was late on the fourth day, with the deadline looming. He was sitting in his chair, glaring at the remassing stations throughout the SOL system – tabbing to show where a ship could get methane, where a ship could get hydrogen. He had found an orbit that would work – but only if the ship could refuel at Ceres. But Ceres had been slow in developing, with the focus of the American development being on their newly claimed Ganymede.

“Why couldn’t they have waited a year?” he whispered, looking at Ceres’ logistic reports. It had literally millions of tons of water on it. Enough hydrogen to fuel a...

Fuel...

Lucas tabbed back to his spreadsheet. “Oh, I’m a moron,” he whispered.

Chomsky was in her office – did the woman ever sleep? - when Lucas buzzed the door. She nodded to him. “Mr. Sibusiso?” she asked, nodding to him – her jowls wobbling slightly in a graceful, low gravity jiggle. Lucas, in his addled state, nearly giggled. Instead, he coughed.

“I’ve got a proposed burn plan and ship schedule,” he said, then tapped at his tablet, sending the file to her screen. She looked at it, pursing her lip.

“A teakettle?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lucas said. “W-We phased out teakettle ships – uh, water is just, it’s not as efficient as other forms of reaction mass. But it has an advantage: Ceres isn’t prepared to produce hydrogen on an industrial scale – but it doesn’t have to produce ice. It just needs to cut it off. And with a month of lead time, they can get the ice ready to intercept our ship. And she’s a laser ship, so, she’s big enough to carry a science team.”

Chomsky, though, was smiling. “And the name...” she said.

“The ... huh?” Lucas asked.

Chomsky looked at him. “The name didn’t determine your selection?”

Lucas shook his head.

Chomsky’s smile faded. “We’re going to need a logistics specialist to go with the ship – if this anomaly is a portal, we want someone there to prepare and manage our logistic operations on the far end.” She nodded.

“Yeah. We should,” Lucas said. Sleep deprivation made the next thing he said come easy: “Man. What luckless dip are you going to be sending?”

Chomsky did not smile again.

Thirty hours later, Lucas pushed through the airlock and onto the USS Enterprise. His face was set and pinched from the hard burn that the cislunar shuttle had put him, and his guts wanted to crawl up and out his throat. Getting a sweeping view of the aging ship hadn’t exactly filled him with confidence, despite the shuttle pilot crooning: “Ain’t she a beauty?”

The Enterprise was, as starships went, quite ugly. It had a conical nose that was studded with blisters of ultraviolet lasers, then a narrow, tapering neck to cut down on mass, which then ballooned into the central habitation section, which could be spun up for some centrifugal gravity. Then there were the massive, bulbous water tanks that held the reaction mass, and then, finally, there was the ominous, matte black rectangle of the nuclear reactor that provided the power and the motive thrust. Flaring out from the reactor were two immense, sail-like radiators that glowed a brilliant cherry red even at rest. The whole thing looked spindly and toylike, and only when the shuttle decelerated towards the airlock did the scale of the ship start to impress itself on Lucas. The habitation section, which had looked like a pair of soda cans, turned into hotels. The conical nose turned into a mountain. The radiators became football fields.

Then the shuttle dock closed around the shuttle and he was through the airlock. He was met by a woman with sky blue skin – the kind of skin someone got from a dye pill – and the uniform of a junior officer. Lucas took her hand as she offered it. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Sibusiso,” she said, managing to not quite mangle his name. “I’m Ensign Helen Trevor, I’ve been assigned to welcoming you aboard.” She grinned. “I hear you’re why we’re being brought out of orbital duty.”

Lucas nodded. “Yes, uh, you know who to blame,” he said.

“Blame?” Ensign Trevor asked as she showed him the ladder to take hold of – the corridor that led to the shuttle lock was quite narrow, almost claustrophobic. The air smelled faintly stale, and Lucas could hear a constant, low droning noise that he was positive was going to drive him absolutely insane within the next few days. “Mr. Sibusiso, half the crew wants to pin the Medal of Honor on you. The other half just wants to buy you a round and a hooker next time we hit Armstrong City.” Her eye shone as she grinned at him.

Lucas had the frankly terrifying mental image of being held down while a line of nearly seventy prostitutes were ushered towards him by smiling astros. He gulped and started to climb ‘up’ the ladder.

“Oh! Sir! Er, uh, Mr. Sibusiso!” Trevor said, quickly. “You’ll want to reverse your orientation once you hit the junction.”

Lucas frowned as he saw what she meant. The ladder he climbed led into a ring shaped room that was slowly rotating – the faint, soft sound of metal rasping against lubricated metal filling his ears. Every few seconds, a different hatch rotated by overhead – separating the null gravity spine of the ship from the rotating habitation decks. He nodded. “There ... this seems kind of dangerous.”

“There’s nothing to it, Mr. Sibusiso,” Trevor said, pushing herself up and out of the ladder. Her magnetic soles clicked as they attached the edge of the ‘floor’ - or what would soon be the ceiling. She pointed up at the rotating speed. “It’s not that fast, see? You just need to jump when the yellow paint shows up – and then grab onto the green handle there. Watch.” She tensed, then jumped. The yellow paint she had leaped for – a long, yellow bar stenciled onto the slowly rotating ceiling – had finished rotating by once she had reached it, and her hands closed around a broad, bright green bar. She swung herself around and ‘fell’ into the hatch with a grunt. She poked her head out, her arms braced to keep her nestled against the hatch.

“Easy as pie!” she said – even as her head vanished around the bend of the ring shaped room.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Lucas whispered.

A few moments later, the hatch came around again – and this time, Trevor had drawn back, giving him room to leap and swing in. Lucas bit back a scream of terror as he jumped upwards – and then his palms slapped into the green bar after what felt like exactly zero seconds of delay. He swung around – and her arms wrapped around his leg, drawing him down and hooking his feet against the rungs of the ladder. The female astro slapped his thigh with a cheerful laugh. “See? Easy peasy!”

Lucas nodded, his arms trembling as he clung to the ladder.

Each step down he took made him feel more and more comfortable – gravity growing more and more pronounced until, at last, he stepped off the ladder and into the central corridor of the habitation ring. The floor was broad – for a spaceship – meaning that there was enough room for three skinny people to walk abreast. Most of the traffic stuck to the edges of the corridor. Crew walked by, murmuring to one another about their duty shifts. A distant buzzing sound and a smell of ozone crackled from around the curving bend of the corridor, which looped upwards and out of sight.