Ivan glanced to his left at Tennison Davies, sitting across the center aisle. Tenn, a beefy, florid Texan, was a veteran of asteroid mining, returning for his tenth tour.

In fact, every one of the crew signed on with the Mad Astra had at least four previous tours with the mining ship. Everyone except himself and Arcadius Geiger, and Kady looked like he was falling asleep. Show-off.

Ivan and his fellow crew members sat together, taking up two complete rows. He could see groups from several other ships, all wearing similar utility coveralls, also heading up in preparation for a six-month mining tour. The coveralls, standard-issue items probably made by a single company, were identical except for the ship insignia on the left breast. The Mad Astra crew wore a stylized image of a hand reaching for a star.

Several clunks and a shudder ran through the shuttle, and Ivan renewed his death grip. He half-expected to hear a squeal of bending metal from the chair’s arms. A faint whiff of flop-sweat assaulted his nostrils and he realized he was again losing the battle with panic.

“Fifteen seconds,” the P.A. intoned.

Ivan closed his eyes and tried deep-breathing exercises again. Too late to back out now. Even if he unbuckled and ran screaming for the exit, the shuttle would launch on schedule, with him plastered to the rear bulkhead. Three months of training and simulations, which had felt like an adventure of its own, now seemed nothing more than wishful thinking . He was about to be shot into the air in a tin can, with no say in his fate, not even a view of space for the next fifteen minutes.

“Relax, noob,” said Davies. “We haven’t lost a crew member in weeks.” The veteran miner grinned at Ivan, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. He looked more like a cat anticipating a meal than someone offering reassurance.

Ivan opened his mouth to retort, but at that moment, the Sling kicked in. His body was pressed into his seat as the shuttle accelerated down the track. It would continue for the entire five-kilometer stretch of the launch tunnel, air resistance reduced by massive pumps that pulled the air from in front of the shuttle and pumped it back in behind.

The occasional moan floating up the aisle showed that he wasn’t the only person having trouble. He tried to extract a small kernel of solace from that shared misery.

Thankfully, this part of the takeoff was smooth—nothing like the old space launches, perched on top of an explosive cylinder of fuel, being rattled so hard you felt your teeth would fall out through your ears. Ivan concentrated on his breathing, and on not whimpering in fear. He hadn’t been tagged with a nickname yet, and he sure as hell didn’t want to provide the crew with that kind of material to work with. Certainly not before he’d even left atmosphere.