Free Under Strange Suns by Ken Lizzi Page B

Station,” she said, “gateway to the stars, castle in the sky for those plutocrats too nervous to stay on Earth and too timid to put down roots on another planet.”
    Aidan collected his duffel bag and gave a nod of thanks to the pilot as he climbed the interior shaft of the docking port to the airlock. Captain Vance preceded him and the other passengers up the rungs, activating the pressure door. The airlock computer read the equalized atmospheric pressure on both sides of the compartment and cycled them through to the station without delay. The door above them slid open to a welcoming chime and a female voice greeted them: “Welcome to Cayman Station.”
    They climbed out of the airlock into an antechamber with another airtight door. Captain Vance stabbed the “open” button with her gloved hand and the door slid open to reveal the arrival concourse, a compact, beige-walled chamber lined with storage lockers, its level floor and ceiling not betraying any of the curvature of the station. A half-dozen attendants awaited them, assisting the newly-arrived passengers in removing helmets, gloves, and pressure suits.
    At the far end of the concourse a woman in a black blazer and tie, hair snugged back in a tight bun, sat behind a desk. Two men wearing black combat fatigues, mirrored helmets, and armed with submachine guns flanked a door set in the wall behind her.
    The woman kept her eyes on a display on her desk as the passengers approached.
    “You can’t see the scanners if you don’t know what to look for,” Vance said. “But as we walk, we’re being sniffed and patted down. If you’ve got an appendix scar she’s looking at it right now.”
    Vance paid the Cayman Station entry fee for both of them and they passed between the two sentries into the bustle of the station proper.
    Aidan was impressed. The military satellites he was accustomed to were closets compared to the expanse of the station sweeping up before and behind to high horizon lines, walls curling up on either side to enclose him within the vast tube of the wheel. He found himself in a bustling street lined with compact buildings. Alleyways led to smaller parallel streets whose buildings seemed to jut out from the curving station walls, the elevation perhaps providing vistas for homes or upscale restaurants. The ceiling, hubward, was a brightly lit pale blue across which drifted the occasional wisp of simulated clouds. The purposeful strides of passersby reminded him of the New Mexico spaceport. But there was an additional note: whereas the New Mexico spaceport was fundamentally a workplace, this place was also a home. Many of the buildings were shops, offering clothing, home furnishings, food and drink. The restaurants did not appear to possess the perfunctory airline terminal quality of those he’d seen at the spaceport. Instead they hinted at the comfortable ambiance of neighborhood eateries. He didn’t see the furtiveness, the worried expressions he was accustomed to Earthside. These folks were concerned with business, the day’s work, re-decorating, not with whether the local government was going to collapse, or if the Chinese were able to suppress uprisings in the western provinces long enough to launch an invasion of Taiwan as they periodically threatened. Or any of a dozen other likely calamities.
    He felt off balance for a moment and wondered if the curvature of the station was playing tricks on him. He shuffled his feet, focused on the floor between them.
    “Getting a bit wobbly?” Vance asked. “Coriolis effect messing with your inner ear. You’ll get used to it. Come on.”
    Vance led him spinward, up an alley to a side street, then up a stairway to the hotel where she’d booked two shoebox-sized rooms. He left his duffel and took the Vance Aerospace credit card shopping. He purchased a 6mm pistol, four thirty-round magazines, and four rechargeable batteries, each with a manufacturer-guaranteed two hours operating time per charge.