“Whatever.” He leaned back in the pilot’s seat and checked his own harness, then signaled mission control for launch permissions. “Me? I die out here, I would hope somebody makes a joke over my dead body. Life’s too short, can’t be uptight all the time.”

“Laugh at your dead body,” she mused softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Ha. Ha. Now who needs to show some respect?”

Rosalyn tipped her head back and sighed hard enough to fog the glass of her helmet. The white mist of it bled slowly away as she stared impatiently up at the ceiling. “Get well soon, Alexia,” she whispered.

The automated voice of the mission control Servitor filled the cockpit, effectively silencing their conversation. Most critical roles were being overtaken by Servitors now, biped artificial intelligence units that were completely obedient, error-free and—most importantly—cheaper in the long run than human employees. It was only a matter of time before their jobs were completely automated, too. But maybe it was the right decision to let AI Servitors do what they did—it wouldn’t bother them to clean up the dead. There would be no more Alexias wandering the Merchantia campus mumbling about talking trees. Let the unliving handle the unliving, and see if doing it long enough drove even robots mad.

“All permissions in place,” Walters chimed in when the Servitor’s clear, slow voice cut out. “Monitors are green, engines green, and crew?”

“Ready on your signal,” Rosalyn replied at once.

“Then we’ll see you in a week, everyone,” Walters said with a sigh, leaning forward to switch the flight controls to automated. The salvage ships were more or less shot clear of the campus base, and then, safely clear of all incoming vessels and the space station itself, the ship’s controls would revert to manual. More than likely, Walters would just use the predetermined and charted course for the wreck and let the ship fly itself, but he would need to take over for small adjustments once they approached the Brigantine.

They both keyed in their personal, private number codes into the VIT units on their wrists. This was the final indication to launch control that they were both conscious and consenting to the mission beginning. Rosalyn punched out 1-1-1-8 on hers, struggling to hit the right numbers with the stubby fingertips of her gloves.

“Seven days,” he added under his breath. “Then I’m taking a long holiday.”

The internal countdown began. The engines roared. Rail mechanisms surrounding the ship began to squeal, spinning at incredible speed before engaging with the Salvager 6 and flinging it straight into outer space and away from MSC.