Slowly, the first of the ships began to move in that direction, this time at a decent pace, and Mac walked it to the lock.

“Gregor! You get the next one.”

“You got it, Chief,” a shaky voice came back.

Business gradually returned to normal on the flight deck.

“They’re aboard, Captain.”

Weston nodded at the unneeded comment, still staring at the screen. “Any injuries?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank God for that,” he said, standing up. “Commander, you have the bridge. I’m going to have a chat with the pilot of the lead ‘orbiter.’”

“Aye, Captain.” Roberts moved to take Weston’s place as the captain turned and strode back to the lift.

Weston sat down in the lift and told it where to take him. He wasn’t certain what he could say to the man, or woman, flying that heap, other than to inform them of proper flight protocols.

Proper protocols for this ship, at any rate, he corrected himself.

It was obvious that the alien drive technology was entirely different than the reaction-based system that the Odyssey and its onboard complement used. The Archangels could match that kind of precision flying and often did, but no other craft built on Earth could hope to do it, and even the Angels would never try it on a landing.

The pilots were obviously used to maneuvers that made Earth’s precision flying look like child’s play, so Weston wondered what would happen to flight teams like the Blue Angels and the Snowbirds, if and when this drive technology became part of the Earth tech base.

Probably nothing, he thought after a moment. Fighters will always look impressive and dangerous to crowds, even if freighters are able to match their maneuvers.

Still, it wasn’t a happy thought to the former fighter pilot.

As the lift stopped, Weston pushed the thoughts away and grabbed a pair of Magboots as he kicked out into the zero-g deck.

Impressive drives or not, they were still ugly as sin.

Weston floated along the wall as the first of the orbiters rose up from the evacuated deck below, riding the massive airlock up into the parking level.

The squat ship was little more than a flying box, without even the bristling sensor antennae to give it a vaguely utilitarian look. Instead, it looked like someone had attached some kind of drive system to a cargo container and wished its crew the best of luck.

Weston waited for the orbiter to come to a halt in one of the parking places normally reserved for the Odyssey’s shuttles, then walked over as a small crowd gathered around it.

“Where’s the door?” someone called out.

“Damn if I know.” Another of the flight-op crew shrugged. “Looks like a brick without the wings.”

“Captain on deck!” someone snapped out as Weston approached.

The men snapped to attention as Weston touched down, the echoing clanks of his boots rebounding through the deck.