As the world below them rotated, the ship’s engines kicked a few times. Echoes of God’s terrible roar rippled through the room: a reminder, a caution, or a mundane course correction; none could say.

The commuter rocket docked at space-station Rho. Not one of the glamorous new stations, but new enough. Gregor watched the rocket nestle into its appropriate slip like some obscene act shown on late-night TV. In the pseudo-null gravity of free fall, Gregor’s alcohol-burned sinuses seemed far more important than gathering his bag for unshipping.

Matti, with long-forgotten experience, maneuvered out of the harness. Gregor just sat and keened for hope long past. The pods ahead of them emptied slowly as Matti took their bags down from the compartments overhead.

A lithe form tumbled gracefully over the seat tops. The offerer of a bottle turned out to be a very slim young woman with what seemed to be a cast-iron stomach and a spacer’s jumpsuit. “I’m Hope,” she said, “Who might you folks be?”