J.D. planted her feet, kicked, and headed for the far wall too fast and too hard. Victoria winced and pushed off after her, but somehow J.D. managed to turn in mid-air, catch herself on her toes against the bulkhead, and bounce back, awkward but safe. Victoria used her arms and legs as springs to give all her momentum to the metal surface. She floated beside J.D., who hung upside-down nearby, laughing. Her hair, short and limply dry from exposure, flew around her head.
“Even better than diving,” she said. “And you don’t need half as much force to get you where you’re going. I’ll learn to compensate. I thought maybe I’d let my hair grow, but I think I’ll keep it short.”
They found their closet-sized cubicles, where they could rest during the trip to the starship.
“One of Satoshi’s department members says the transport reminds him of his college days,” Victoria said. “He used to travel cross-country in a bus. But I think of the transport as the China Clipper. Crossing space like a prop-plane crossing the Pacific.” The transport was less luxurious but safer, not as unbearably romantic.
“The middle of the Pacific is scarier,” J.D. said.
The transport freed itself from the spaceplane with a low clang and a vibration that trembled through the ship. J.D. started, then flushed with excitement when the gentle acceleration provided micro-gravity.
“We’re really on our way, aren’t we?”
“We really are,” Victoria said.
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