The day arrives and they leave the quarantine house at Kennedy. Vitality walks ahead of Maxwell, both before any other passengers. The owl stays on Maxwell’s shoulders. The shuttle is attached to a carrier aircraft and the runway stretches to infinity. This is what will take Maxwell into orbit where the Ragtime is parked. He had wanted to buy all the seats, but the space agency refused and very nearly rescinded Maxwell’s ticket. It’s apparently a mission with objectives and shit, some experiments on board. Planners with integrity. He isn’t used to refusal. It happens, but not often enough to acclimate him. At least he is the first. He paid good money for the privilege.

He touches his barn owl on the beak and it flies off. Maxwell smirks. He has programmed it to follow Gwendolyn. Take no action, just follow and stare with those owl eyes. He wonders how long before she’ll have it shot down. That or go insane. He hopes it’s the latter.

Watching the bird fly, incongruous because it’s daytime, Maxwell says, “Fin, Fin, come back to me. This is Ragtime One.”

Momentary confusion.

Back in the bar.

Back in the desert.

Back, back, back, back in the sleeping pod, floating.

“Fin, Fin, come back. Ragtime One,” says Shell in his IFC.

Ouch. Motherfucker. That kind of yank causes a splitting headache.

“Fin here, Ragtime One, go ahead.”

“Fin?”

“Yes?”

“I need a gun.”

“Say again?”

“We have vermin. I need a big fucking gun. Print me one. Right now. I’m coming to get it. Ragtime One out.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Ragtime: Shell

Shell can feel herself sweating, and, unlike when she’s working out, this feels clammy.

The moss is everywhere, but it seems to be dying and every surface she touches puffs up dust. She calls up the monitor in her IFC and the bacterial contamination is still growing. It’s not the mutt. Frances. Silly name. She keeps tabs on the wolf’s locator and it’s obviously hunting down mutants. The trail of bacteria is taking Shell further and further aft, which makes her uncomfortable because of the missing section and probability that any other section might just decide to detach and float away.

A few bots and dying animals mark the wake of the wolf. Frances isn’t fucking around.

Shell presses on. Look at her, a regular beau sabreur, rushing off to save her crew from faecal contamination. Maybe people will write songs about her after she’s dead. She feels a different kind of wetness on her face. She starts seeing globules in the air and stops herself by clutching a dusty grab rail. A problem with the water recycling system? Is this water from the toilet system? Gross.

“Ragtime,” says Shell.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Status of water recycler.”

“Status nominal, Captain.”

“You always say that, creep.”

“Please repeat.”

“Oh, shut up.”