Ann climbed
out of the airlock awkwardly, the mass of the umbilical and extra burden to be
accounted for. The first was a tether to the ship, made of thick, strong
titanium that was more than secure. The second was a dataline, feeding her HUD
with images from the ship’s sensors, relating her position on the ship’s hull,
her vital signs, and other minutiae. She needed it since she couldn’t see, at
all.
According
to the HUD, they were already sailing at a paltry 11 knots. The sails were
full, with no luff to them, but they sailed at a close haul, quite nearly in
irons—which would be directly into the wind.
Normally she
would have something acerbic to say to Flynn about his sailing, but Ann was
legitimately frightened about the prospect of what she was about to attempt.
Others had tried, but the number of success stories—and they were all
stories—could be counted on one hand.
She set
feet on the hull plating, the gravnets in her suit keeping her anchored. She
and Hank had boosted the suit’s power to make the gravnets extra secure. A hand
on her shoulder signaled the arrival of Stephanie Kimball, the erstwhile XO.
She may not know anything about sailing, but
marines are dependable in a crisis. Not that I’ll say that so that it could get
back to her.
“Captain,”
Kimball’s voice sounded over the comms, “we are tethered on the hull. Making
our way forward, now.”
“Copy that.
All sensors show that we’ve got ideal conditions for this, no sign of dark
matter or traffic.”
“Really,
Flynn, traffic? It’s space. The odds of hitting another ship at sail are—”
“Do you
really want the stars to jinx this by saying it can’t happen?” Flynn cut her
off.
Ann clamped
her mouth shut.
He’s right. Tempting fate always sets up a
chaotic event.
Ann said
nothing, but instead started walking forward.
“Moving
forward,” Kimball called out.
Time is relative. It slows down as we
attempt great things. She recited from the Analects.