“Woefully. Except on intuitive thought, where you failed marginally.”

Fin sighs. He had really thought this would get him back to work. “I’ll pack my things.”

“I’m still sending you,” says Malaika. He drains his glass.

“I don’t understand. Why?”

“Because of promise. Unwin trusts that promise and I trust Unwin. Also, I pick people for work based on their strengths, not their weaknesses. You can adjust for weakness, but no adjustment will bring strength where there is none. At most, you get mediocrity. Congratulations, son, you’re going to Bloodroot’s first investigation in space. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The car stops and the Artificial emerges.

“Salvo!” says Fin.

“It’s good to see you, Rasheed Fin.”

Unlike many Artificials, Salvo looks inhuman. No real attempt at verisimilitude, but he is a superficially male, bald android. He has a face and eyes, eyelids that blink, but he is clearly not human. These models are classified as equipment, mainly, and Fin has had him for six years.

“I have a job and I need an assistant because apparently I cannot be trusted to follow procedure. Tell me, are you rated for space?”

“Not yet, but there is a station where I can be updated,” says Salvo.

“Absolutely splendid.”

In the end, it takes ten days because of problems on the runway on day seven and a fuel line malfunction on day eight. Nothing explodes, though.

Fin calls his mother every night.

They clear Bloodroot’s gs in eight minutes, leaving six hours to dock with the Ragtime – precise work that Fin is glad to leave to the untiring, undistracted Salvo.

Chapter Three

Ragtime: Shell, Fin

Shell dips, then thrusts herself upwards into the cupola, the most fore position on the Ragtime. The sun is in the right position to cast light over Bloodroot, blue-green, with an atmospheric force field. Weird that there was a time when humankind thought only one planet in the universe could support life. Weirder still was when they thought the Earth flat.

The cupola trip is illogical. She knows Bloodroot is sending someone and she wants to see the shuttle; to do that she’d have to use the external cameras, of course. She somersaults and kicks back down into the bridge. She runs checks for an hour and a half. A ship like Ragtime needs taking care of, and without the Master AI Shell has to make sure the systems are functioning – a task which has to be done by her and the various maintainer bots who take orders. The last thing she checks is the passenger quarters. That’s a lot of real estate to keep sweet.

Shell is running on the treadmill when the call comes in on the radio, relayed by her IFC.

“Ragtime, come in. This is space shuttle Equivalence.”

“This is Ragtime One. Over.”

“Informing you of abortive six-hour dock. Now attempting two-day rendezvous with Ragtime.”

Male voice, no sign of panic.