In slowly timed steps, Falise approached her staff. Ednund smiling his approval, Clarice inclining her head. Shoto bowed so deeply, the lights played on the back of his bald head. Fig and Phredo, of course, just stood with their eyes downcast, hands clasped obediently before them.

“Are we ready?” Falise asked as she joined them.

“All of the luggage is stowed, Lady,” Ednund told her. “I have arranged for our seats to be next to the door. I got to Schulyer before the others thought of it. We’ll be the last ones on, the first ones off. Much to Bartolome’s chagrin. Cinque implied that he didn’t care what order we disembarked, which, of course, is a misdirection. Chad accepts his being first to depart Turalon, and first to board the shuttle as his due and a Grunnel accomplishment.”

“You are my miracle worker, Ednund,” she told him.

“Ah,” Clarice announced. “Lady, if you will allow us to precede you, we’ll take our seats so that you may enter last. It will be you, seating yourself, that signals our readiness to depart the ship.”

“Then, do precede me.” Falise extended a hand, then took her place last in line.

As Falise passed through the airlock and into the shuttle, her dress had shifted into iridescent violet. She pulled the fabric out to its best display as she lowered herself into the seat beside the airlock. As she was buckled into the restraints by a crewwoman, she triggered the crimson program that began turning the fabric a ruby-laser red.

Head forward, eyes on the bulkhead, she barely heard the announcements from the command deck. Would they never depart?

And then it happened: the clang of the grapples, the sudden flip of the stomach as she was momentarily in freefall, and finally, the thrust that pushed her into her seat and returned a feeling of normalcy.

Falise—through force of will—kept her expression blank. She hated this. Nothing to see. Just the featureless sialon bulkhead between her and the command deck. Then the g-force shoving her into the conforming cushions. The roar of atmosphere and the thunder of the thrusters could be heard. She was tugged down into her seat, detesting the effect and worried that someone would see her face or breasts sagging.

God, would this never end? Though it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes, just when she thought the g-force interminable, it let up, a slight tremor running through the shuttle as the craft came to rest and the thrusters began to spool down.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re dirtside. Welcome to Capella III.” Schulyer’s voice came through the com.

As the thrusters dropped to a soft whine and died, the crewwoman stepped over, unfastened Falise’s restraints and gave her a hand up, asking, “You all right?”