said, in that booming voice which always sounded so confident. ‘For all we know, the probe’s just fine. The wave might be ahead of its signal, that’s all.’
‘Anyway, your father’s working on an alternative course,’ Mum added. ‘We might be able to outrun it. So to speak.’
‘But we’ll have to hurry.’ Dad began to stuff down a pancake, using his fingers. ‘Seems to be subject to random surge variations . . . which makes it hard to plot, of course.’
‘We’re on yellow alert,’ Mum interrupted. ‘That’s the important thing.’
‘Yellow alert?’ I was dazed. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh, Cheney.’ Mum sounded disappointed. We were all supposed to know our alert drills off by heart. I tried to concentrate.
‘He hasn’t slept,’ Dad mumbled, through a mouthful of pancake. ‘Maybe you should give him something to calm him down.’
‘I’m fine. Really.’ I’d remembered, by then. Yellow alert.
Of course. ‘Pressure suits and scheduled stations. Stand by to brace,’ I recited.
‘Correct,’ said Dad.
‘But I don’t have a scheduled station,’ I pointed out. Capers had no specific site allocations – they could work out of their cabins, if they wanted to – and anyway, I was supposed to be sticking with Arkwright. ‘Where’s Ark-wright going to be?’
‘On the Bridge,’ Dad replied. ‘I’ll take you.’
He and Mum exchanged another glance. Then Mum hustled me into my pressure suit, which was a transparent, plasma-film thing with a built-in thermionic cooler system and an emergency oxygen supply pump. Happily, I didn’t have to seal the hood. Not for a yellow alert. Even the glove assemblies were optional.
Dad needed a lot of help getting into his.
‘It’s sticking to me,’ he complained.
‘It is not,’ Mum retorted. ‘It just feels like that.’
‘It’s too small for me, Comet, I swear.’
‘Nonsense.’
They ended up in fits of nervous giggles because he totally screwed up the boot assembly attachment. My father could break anything , given half a chance. He was brilliant, but he was clumsy – always knocking over cups and running into bulkheads. He had outsized feet, and a huge voice, and one of those big, loose-jointed bodies that are terribly uncoordinated, no matter how much training they’re put through.
He was also a good bit older than Mum, so that can’t have helped his agility rating. His long, wispy curls were quite grey, by then; his face was pouchy and his movements were slow. But that was all right, he used to say. My mother had enough energy for both of them.
I suppose I took after Mum, in the looks department. I wasn’t especially big or especially loud. Nor was I especially clumsy. I had her pale eyes and skin, and my hair, though thicker, was a similar brown to hers. But when it came to energy levels, I was much more like Dad.
The two of us working together couldn’t accomplish half as much as Mum could. Not unless the work involved particle physics or something.
‘How long have we got?’ I asked them. ‘I mean – when are we supposed to be hitting this thing?’
‘If we hit it at all,’ Mum corrected, and Dad said, ‘We’ve got a few hours yet. When we’re finished our calculations, we’ll know the exact time.’ He accepted a spare glucose bar from Mum, and tucked it into his pocket. ‘My guess is, about eleven-hundred.’
‘Have you eaten, Cheney?’
‘Yes,’ I replied – although I knew that, in my mother’s opinion, one dry biscuit from the bottom of a drawer wasn’t a proper meal. The trouble was, I didn’t feel hungry. ‘When do we go onto red alert, then?’
‘When the time is right,’ said Dad. Mum squeezed my arm.
‘I’ll be along, Cheney,’ she murmured. ‘Everything’s been arranged. My emergency station is on the Bridge, with you and Tuddor. There’s no need to worry.’
No need to worry. That’s what all the Shifters were told. And it’s what we believed. What was the point of
‘Anyway, your father’s working on an alternative course,’ Mum added. ‘We might be able to outrun it. So to speak.’
‘But we’ll have to hurry.’ Dad began to stuff down a pancake, using his fingers. ‘Seems to be subject to random surge variations . . . which makes it hard to plot, of course.’
‘We’re on yellow alert,’ Mum interrupted. ‘That’s the important thing.’
‘Yellow alert?’ I was dazed. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh, Cheney.’ Mum sounded disappointed. We were all supposed to know our alert drills off by heart. I tried to concentrate.
‘He hasn’t slept,’ Dad mumbled, through a mouthful of pancake. ‘Maybe you should give him something to calm him down.’
‘I’m fine. Really.’ I’d remembered, by then. Yellow alert.
Of course. ‘Pressure suits and scheduled stations. Stand by to brace,’ I recited.
‘Correct,’ said Dad.
‘But I don’t have a scheduled station,’ I pointed out. Capers had no specific site allocations – they could work out of their cabins, if they wanted to – and anyway, I was supposed to be sticking with Arkwright. ‘Where’s Ark-wright going to be?’
‘On the Bridge,’ Dad replied. ‘I’ll take you.’
He and Mum exchanged another glance. Then Mum hustled me into my pressure suit, which was a transparent, plasma-film thing with a built-in thermionic cooler system and an emergency oxygen supply pump. Happily, I didn’t have to seal the hood. Not for a yellow alert. Even the glove assemblies were optional.
Dad needed a lot of help getting into his.
‘It’s sticking to me,’ he complained.
‘It is not,’ Mum retorted. ‘It just feels like that.’
‘It’s too small for me, Comet, I swear.’
‘Nonsense.’
They ended up in fits of nervous giggles because he totally screwed up the boot assembly attachment. My father could break anything , given half a chance. He was brilliant, but he was clumsy – always knocking over cups and running into bulkheads. He had outsized feet, and a huge voice, and one of those big, loose-jointed bodies that are terribly uncoordinated, no matter how much training they’re put through.
He was also a good bit older than Mum, so that can’t have helped his agility rating. His long, wispy curls were quite grey, by then; his face was pouchy and his movements were slow. But that was all right, he used to say. My mother had enough energy for both of them.
I suppose I took after Mum, in the looks department. I wasn’t especially big or especially loud. Nor was I especially clumsy. I had her pale eyes and skin, and my hair, though thicker, was a similar brown to hers. But when it came to energy levels, I was much more like Dad.
The two of us working together couldn’t accomplish half as much as Mum could. Not unless the work involved particle physics or something.
‘How long have we got?’ I asked them. ‘I mean – when are we supposed to be hitting this thing?’
‘If we hit it at all,’ Mum corrected, and Dad said, ‘We’ve got a few hours yet. When we’re finished our calculations, we’ll know the exact time.’ He accepted a spare glucose bar from Mum, and tucked it into his pocket. ‘My guess is, about eleven-hundred.’
‘Have you eaten, Cheney?’
‘Yes,’ I replied – although I knew that, in my mother’s opinion, one dry biscuit from the bottom of a drawer wasn’t a proper meal. The trouble was, I didn’t feel hungry. ‘When do we go onto red alert, then?’
‘When the time is right,’ said Dad. Mum squeezed my arm.
‘I’ll be along, Cheney,’ she murmured. ‘Everything’s been arranged. My emergency station is on the Bridge, with you and Tuddor. There’s no need to worry.’
No need to worry. That’s what all the Shifters were told. And it’s what we believed. What was the point of
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