Each of them hangs off whatever they can find. Shell floats at the opening of the cupola because, well, she feels stronger there. Joké beside Uncle Larry, Salvo at Fin’s side – IFCs synced, no doubt. Shell feels the loneliness of leadership but struggles to keep her body language neutral, which is less than they need. The crew, such as it is, needs inspiration, not neutrality, but it’s the best Shell can muster at this time.

“On Earth there used to be this soothsayer, the Delphian Oracle. Supposedly it spouted glossolalia, gibberish, and the seekers of wisdom took away whatever message they wanted to hear guided by projections of their own subconscious. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I do know that whatever oracle we choose to consult will tell us we are cursed.”

Joké says, “Umm—”

“Shut up. Let me finish,” says Shell, not unkindly. “The breaking off of Node 7 cost us atmosphere, but when it detached, it bounced off the hull twice before disappearing. Among other things, it broke off the long-range antenna. Half of the backup was attached to the terminal segment.”

“So we can’t contact Bloodroot?” asks Fin. Seems alarmed.

“We can’t contact Bloodroot. On Earth we have a satellite array, but the space programme on the colonies is… rudimentary. That’s not all. That wetness all over Joké was bioreactor fluid. It has sprung a significant leak.”

This is non-trivial because the algae make oxygen, food and energy for the ship. Combined with solar thermal fuel, the bioreactor fluid flows on the outside in transparent channels to trap sunlight, then all round the ship.

“I’ve run some numbers and had Salvo check them. In the current circumstances we have one hundred and thirty hours of life support left.”

“Five days and change,” says Larry, unperturbed. Which makes sense for a pioneer pilot whose life could have ended at any time during any number of his missions.

“So let’s get all of us down to Bloodroot,” says Fin.

“Don’t be daft, son,” says Larry.

“What? What do you mean?” asks Fin. He looks from Larry to Shell and back.

“The Ragtime is not a planetside ship,” says Shell. “It was built in orbit and designed to park in orbit. It’s less a large ship than a small, travelling space station. You need shuttles to evacuate. For shuttles, you need mission control. For mission control, you need—”

“Long-range transmitter, yes, I got it.” Fin frowns. “So we take one of the docked shuttles, fly down to the surface and radio them. We don’t even need to land. We just need to get in range and transmit a mayday.”

“I agree,” says Lawrence. “It’s a two-hour mission at most.”

Shell nods. “It’ll have to be the Equivalence. The Decisive has no landing gear to speak of. It’s for space station capture, not atmosphere or terra firma.”