“Figure of speech. Will you lock me up?”

“No, but we’ll need to know where you’ll be at all times,” says Fin.

“Where am I going to go?”

Fin smiles, or at least thinks he is smiling. “Can we get that tour now?”

“Not yet. We need a schedule,” says Campion.

“What now?”

“You haven’t been listening.” She gestures all around her. “Big ship; need maintenance. We all have to chip in or we crash into Bloodroot. I have been running this alone, and there aren’t any extant protocols for the eventuality of mass murder, so I’ve had to improvise. I’m correcting work details, adjusting to your presence.”

“We will be honoured to help,” says Salvo.

“Glad to hear it. I’ll get your work plans to you as soon as I can. Let’s go.”

Fin throws his hands up and mouths “honoured?” to Salvo, mock annoyed.

This far from the airlock, the sensory texture has returned. Always that smell of rubber and ozone, the sound of humming machinery, the subtle vibrations.

Service bots scuttle out of the way like small animals in a forest. Campion launches from the grab rail of each node and propels all the way through to the next node. Fin and Salvo follow.

They emerge in a corridor labelled Node 6, where there is more space and nothing is tethered to the wall for storage. Campion somersaults and faces them, finally. Fin collides with her gently. She does not wear perfume. Fin hates low grav.

“We are off the main truss in the aft spokes leading into the aft torus, which is a passenger area.”

After fifteen minutes they open a hatch, which Campion flies through and waves Fin and Salvo into. She seals the hatch and launches to grab rails directly opposite which she signals them to emulate.

When they are secure, she says, “Ragtime.”

“Captain,” says the disembodied voice.

“Spin Torus 2.”

“Yes, Captain. How fast?”

Campion looks at Fin with contempt. “Better make it four RPM. We have beginners here.”

Once the rotation rate is further cut down to two RPM – Fin cannot tolerate any higher because of nausea and dizziness – they have artificial gravity.

“You can get to either of the toruses from the truss by the spokes; there is no direct route from one torus to another that excludes the truss. This is the passenger area. Each torus has five hundred and fifty pods for them to sleep in.”

With gravity, there is a better sense of up and down. Walking is welcome, and room is welcome. Trust the company to leave the shittiest areas for crew. They look at an empty pod first. It’s rectangular, maybe five-by-ten feet, white, clinical, dominated by the bed, which Campion calls a cradle, and the inert medbot fixed to the wall. The temperature in the pod is noticeably cooler.

“Do you freeze them for the trip?” asks Fin.