Free Singularity's Ring by Paul Melko Page A

introduce himself to us before turning green in the gills, retching, and spending the last three hours of the push in the toilet.
    “You’re a quint,” he said. “You guys are rare. Never seen one.”
    “Yeah, we were designed to fly the Consensus, ” Meda said, replying for all of us.
    “Oh, yeah.” One of him held his hand to his throat, forcing down a heave as the barge twisted. “Excuse me …”
    “You picked an odd career if you get space sick,” Meda said.

    Anderson McCorkle seemed to get his stomach under control. He swallowed. I was only idly listening, waiting for the pilot to say we could get up from our seats. The barge was too fat to be under thrust the whole way to Columbus Station. We’d have at least two hours of free fall.
    “Apollo? I recognize that name. Didn’t you have—?”
    And then one of him spewed into the air. His globules of floating vomitus had formed galaxies of regurgitated toast and coffee, their orbit defined by momentum, Coriolis, and surface tension. I calculated their positions over and over again.
    “Quant!”
    Manuel, grabbing the rails near the dilated door with his feet, pulled me through into Columbus Station.
    Don’t zone out on us.
    Sorry, mesmerized.
    He smiled. He knew it happened, and here in zero-gee it happened a lot. This wasn’t our first time in space, but the first time we’d spent more than a couple of days. We’d traveled directly from Mother Redd’s farm to Indonesia when our practicum on Columbus Station came through. Three days of basic orientation had preluded the six-hour barge ride over. I was only just beginning to understand what motion was, after almost two decades of prison on earth.
    I know, Manuel sent.
    He was hanging by his prehensile feet, oriented orthogonally to me. I grinned. Of course Manuel understood. A bit of our mindspace seeped together in shared thoughts and memories. He experienced the spectacle of perturbations I saw; I understood his sense of balance and control over his parasensual organs. Though five, we were one.
    The sound of retching hit me the same time as the smell.
    Hope that wasn’t Strom, I sent.
    No, Strom replied before I saw him. He had a notoriously
strong stomach, and my jest brought a quick smile from the pod, shared on grasped palms.
    “What kind of space dog are you?” someone was asking.
    The bay was cramped for four pods: us, the newbie space hand McCorkle, and two trios—one all male, one all female—wedged to the wall at the far door of the bay. Through meter-square windows, I saw crews unloading the barge. It was easier to eject the cargo all at once instead of moving it into the bay box by box. The crews strapped the boxes to the station with self-knitting lines. I watched their dance, and hardly noticed as the new guy—both of him now—erupted again into a wall-mounted solid waste suck.
    “Inner—” one started.
    “—ear—” the other continued in stereo with the thump of bile into the duct.
    “—infection.”
    “Sure.” The male trio shook his head. “A quint and a space-sick duo. I don’t have time for this; we have real work to get done. What am I supposed to do with you?”
    “Put us to work!” Meda said. “I’m ready.”
    “Overeager groundhogs,” he said to the other trio, then extended a hand to Meda. “Welcome to Columbus Station. I’m Aldo, this year’s orientation lead. This is Flora, my second.” They were dressed in dark grey jumpsuits. All of them had silver pips in an odd design at the collar. “Flora, take Apollo to his room.” He grimaced at McCorkle. “I’ll clean this one up and get him oriented. There can’t be much left.”
    “Can’t I go with them?” McCorkle managed to say before heaving again.
    “You’re inside duty. They’re outside,” Aldo said.
    “Right,” Flora said. “Come on. I’ll get you settled in.”
    I thought McCorkle was empty already, I sent to Manuel, who shot me a smile.

    “Based on what he spit up in the barge, I