Free Under Strange Suns by Ken Lizzi Page A

was always a little disconcerting. The single-stage, metallic-hydrogen fueled Iapetus rocket was a reliable heavy-lift launcher; a work horse, efficient, strong, re-usable. Still, it was a rocket after all. Even a placid work horse could decide to kick up its heels or just die in its traces, with no premonitory hint of ill-health.
    And if it did blow up, turning itself into a blossom of fire, would that be such a bad way to go? Sudden, painless. On the way to the start of something new, something not yet tainted by a growing sense of pointlessness. There was a certain purity inherent in the possibility; an explosive injection straight into Valhalla. Cough, cough. Here I am, guys. Hey, Summers, where’s the mead?
    The display on the bulkhead above counted down to zero. The rumbling beneath rose to a sustained, thundering crescendo. Then he was rammed into the couch as the g-forces heaped all the free weights from a gymnasium on him and tossed on a couple of resistance training machines for good measure. He was thankful for both the couch and the snug compression suit.
    The rocket separated from the capsule in low orbit, dropping back Earthward, directing itself to the closest retrieval location. The capsule emitted a thruster burst, pushing it into higher orbit where it would intersect the orbital path of Cayman Station.
    Aidan savored the weightlessness. It felt like the first steps in his own shoes after a long day on the slopes in ski boots. He remembered the first time he’d gone into orbit, all those other grunts stuffed into a tin can, cracking wise and pretending not to be sphincter-lock scared. The launch had been a thrill ride, and he’d actually enjoyed it, experiencing the rush that extreme sports practitioners claimed to feel, and he figured most of the other soldiers got a kick out of it also. Zero-g, however, left several of them looking chartreuse and breaking out the vomitus collection devices, or puke-sacks as the instructors had termed the VCDs. Aidan hadn’t experienced nausea that time, nor during any subsequent jaunts off-world. And he was loving it now, getting a view of the sweeping curve of earth through a port window as the capsule made an attitude correction.
    “Looks peaceful from up here,” said Captain Vance.
    “I’ll try to remember it that way,” Aidan said. He gazed out the port for some time, watching the continents roll by.
    Vance adjusting the bulkhead display drew his attention. She’d called up the view from the command compartment, and was craning forward to watch, the video showing a donut on a spike inching steadily slower.
    “Pilots,” Aidan said. “Don’t be a back seat driver, Captain.”
    “What can I say? Can’t leave it at the office. Wonder which docking port we’re assigned? Look, see that spar?”
    “That one? Looks like one of the sprinkles fell off the top of the donut, got stuck to the side?”
    “Right. That sprinkle is the shuttle departure arm. You can’t see it from this distance, but there are probably five to ten shuttles berthed there right now. One of them will be taking us to lunar orbit tomorrow, delivering us to the Yuschenkov .”
    Aidan watched the growing habitation. He could make out the spin of the station. The sprinkles on the donut resolved into antennae, docking ports, the shuttle launching pier, viewing cupolas, and any number of miscellaneous appurtenances projecting from the vast metal toroid. The long axle thrust through the center sported solar panels, power relays, a bewildering system of motors, the entire length festooned with blinking lights like an enormous, girdered Christmas tree.
    A docking port seemed to swell before them, expanding to occupy the entire screen. Captain Vance muttered grudging acceptance of the pilot’s competence as the capsule socketed into the port with only the gentlest vibration. Locked into the station’s centripetal force, they were shoved back into the launch couches. “Welcome to Cayman