Is this going to be all text? The dialogue itself is good, but there are a few pitfalls for chat-only in this setting. First, we can't see any of the action; second, there's only so much the characters can reasonably do at their computers without the reader getting suspicious.

I pulled my blanket off and glanced up at the shut window. I couldn’t tell whether it was morning yet. Outside, it was still completely black, about as dark as a certain dwarf’s skin, or mine - but I wouldn’t say that to his face - and cloudy.

The lamp on the bedside table was dim but I could still see around the loft clearly, past the piles of stuff, including a wooden chest, swords, daggers and chainmail coats with gold links that were impossible to pierce. The dawn chorus was everywhere, coming from above ground to this house, which is the closest thing to a dwarven-style hall in this world. The window was shut and the fan was on so the room wouldn’t heat. A small glint of sunlight soaked in through the bars. Not enough to turn anyone to stone, but enough to make me jump out of bed and plop myself down on the floor. Thorin’s harp was leaning against the wall.

It was much hotter now than it had been about a hundred years ago, according to him. He said that was why dwarves had come back to this world to live in halls inside caves and underground, and elves had come back to live in the woods and forests; “Humans needed us as guardians, to aid them in this new world.”

Yep. It was definitely morning.

Something else was happening too. There were footsteps outside. Some of them didn’t sound quite human, but maybe it was because I was sleepy. They were barely able to be heard, even through the grass above our roof.

Thorin would be awake. The others wouldn’t wake up for at least four minutes, until they smelt breakfast. They still tossed around on their mattresses. Normally that was when I woke up too, but today was different.

In a couple of minutes, someone’s footsteps came upstairs, around the door just as I was climbing back onto the mattress and trying to block out the sounds by covering my face with my arms, showing just a lot of hair. That’s one good thing about being hairy.

“Frodo, I need to talk to you.” Thorin said through the door between my room and his forge. In the background the sound of him sharpening his axe on a stone echoed along the stone corridor. He hadn’t done that for two weeks. It’s his favorite defense weapon, less scary than a crossbow. He has one stashed in a cabinet somewhere, with a stock and lots of bolts, which he made himself.

Yeah, my name’s Frodo. Blame Thorin. His name is the same as the dwarf king in a book nearly everyone’s heard about, The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien, one of this world’s most famous writers. He’s Thorin Eikinscialdi, which is Oakshield or Oakenshield in English. Here he goes by Thorin Oakenshield for people who can’t pronounce his name because “it flows better.” Which means that he gets all these jokes. “No, I wasn’t named after the dwarf from The Hobbit. No, I don’t want to get back my treasure hoard. Treasure fills up rooms.”

I don’t know why a dwarf called Thorin, whose dad’s Draupnir, or “The Dripper”, decided to name a kid he found – a halfling- Frodo. He found me in a passageway and took me in later after he was approved to be my guardian from Social Services. But he did- and gave me his last name.

Once, when I was little, I asked him, “How did I get my name?” and he said this:

“Frodo was my great-great-grand-uncle’s name. He was the greatest chief of our tribe, one of the most honorable dwarves of Juravale living under Black Mountain, even though his enemies liked to mention his impure blood- he was part elf, you know- since Eikinscialdi the First, the father of my fathers and forger of elven blades, Lofar, one of the first ancestors of our folk, and Durin the Secondborn.” He always calls Eikinscialdi that when he mentions him, slipping into Middeleardian talk. Talking about names or honour gets him on the subject of elven disloyalty.

I guess I don’t mind my name. But unfortunately that means everyone asks me if I have a relative called Bilbo. I want to laugh. I mean, who names their kid Bilbo, except in a Tolkien book? It’s not even a real name. Seriously, Bilbo?

The Tolkien thing doesn’t hurt either. Most dwarves I’ve met really like Tolkien, for some reason, since he’s the first human storyteller to give them a good press and write about them in detail after he met them on his travels to Middle-earth and Veror. Or at least, Thorin does. “At least someone got bits right. We hate dragons and love mining. But we’re mostly not greedy. There’s always a blunt axe in a pile. Andvari is in mine. We don’t usually mention him.”

Andvari was his second cousin “on my father’s side” who was much older and had a magic ring that could find gold. He died years ago. I remember Thorin singing and playing a lay about him once, which starts like this:

''Once before the world was old,

Deep in a cavern dark and cold,

A dwarf dwelt, Andvari called,

In a pool within the cavern walls.''

“They called it Andvarinaut, Andvari’s Gift. No-one knows where in the Nine Realms it is now. It was part of a treasure hoard that should’ve been ours. Our great-grandfather was Dwalin Runebringer, who knew a lot about magic. Some people call him Dvalin. Andvari could shapeshift, like Dwalin could. He had many forms, but my parents told me that he used to spend much of his time as a fish in a pool in a cave. Apparently the gift skips a few generations. He was my foster father, because he was a relative. Dwarves prefer relatives to foster their children. When I was living with him and learning the trade, I tried to shapeshift several times. Never succeeded. Tolkien didn’t mention the sunlight thing. Some dwarves can turn to stone in sunlight. They need to stay underground for a few months before they can get back to normal. And the secret language and names? Please. Dwarves only keep their magic runes and smithing techniques secret, nothing else. A Dvergr’s name is his right name, it’s not like with elves. I guess he wanted to create his own stories for this world’s humans.”

“What? Thorin, I got school tomorrow. I need to sleep.”

“You need to come out of that rabbit hole, ‘cause speakin’ of school, your human friend’s here. Don’t know how she found this place.”

Human friend? Who could he be talking about? “She” could be anyone. There were heaps of humans in my classes who hated Orcs. Except the members of the Multicultural Club, who actually didn’t mind eating raw, freshly caught fish or roots and berries from near the creek.

“Really?”

“Aye. You think I‘d stretch the truth?” He started to walk away. “You don’t want me getting involved. I’d rather fight trolls and frost giants then deal with humans.”

“OK then, I’m comin’.” I pushed open the door and shut it behind me before running downstairs and through the passageway. No use waiting, ‘cause Thorin’d probably win the world record for “most impatient person”, if dwarves were allowed in the Guinness Book of World Records. His name means “bold one.” But I think maybe they should have added “impatient” after “bold.” Besides, I wanted to see which friend he meant.

Waves rolled against the shore of the beach while the sun glared in anger down on the partially submerged body of a cowboy. John Smith felt the waves brush against his back and the sand that stuck to the slime that had formed in his mouth. Memories of a storm and a wooden boat tickled at his mind, but at the moment he wanted nothing more than to lay there and rest in the heat of the sun and warm ocean water and let the darkness of sleep overtake him again. Sleeping where he was now would end with his demise from drowning. What actually motivated him was the mission he had that tugged at his heart and soul. Opening his eyes he we blinded by the intense light. Slowly he opened them again and began to pull his body up out of water stopping at the edge where the warm water met the searing hot sand where he could rest without risk of drowning. Out of the corner of his vision he saw something. Looking up he could clearly see a tanned, dark haired, woman with a bucket.

“You're welcome.”

He felt groggy and his face reflected it. “Huh.”

“I saved you from drowning. I found you after that storm was dying down and brought you here.”

He gave a gruff thank you before going to sleep. When he woke up the woman stood beside him and the sun was lower in the sky. She commented about him sleeping for several hours. He lifted himself up and out of the water; his clothes felt like they had gained twenty to thirty pounds. From his new vantage he noticed the bucket was filled with water.

“May I drink of your water?”

She gave him a sly smile, “You wouldn't like it.”

“I am sure I would like any water now.”

“Even sea water?”

He let out a sigh before walking towards inland and the palm tree. She followed after him and placed a smooth soft hand on his shoulder. “Wait. You're new. I know you don't know anything about this place. You will need me if you want to survive.”

“I've been here before.” He noticed her gazing at his crystal. She seemed almost hypnotized by the green light that radiated from it. “Get your own.”

She seemed to take this insult very deep. “I don't need your crystal. I can get as much as I need from the sea.” Slowly a look of deep surprise dawned her face as what he said crossed her mind. “What. What do you mean you've been here before?”

“Just that. I left then came back to this land.”

Her form shook with raw anger as she gasped for air to feed the fire of her rage. “WHAT WOULD BRING YOU BACK?”

“I was sent back to retrieve people.”

Her posture drooped as she spoke. “You have no idea what has happened since you were gone, do you. People on land have turned into barbarians. They attack whoever and steal their life force or crystals.” A smile crept on her lips and began to stroke his chest. “If you are looking for people I may be of service. I know where the towns are, where water is, I might know where some of the people are you're looking for, and being a sea nymph I have 'other' talents that you may like. All I ask is that you take me with you when you leave this world.” She licked her lips as she suggestively stroke him.

He grabbed her hands and shoved them against her side. “One of the people I am looking for is a dear friend named Kathrine. If you can help me find her and the others I will take you out of this place.” He recited the list of names of the people he was sent for.

The nymph led the way into the jungle informing the man that they would need to follow the peninsula until it met with the rest of the land then they would travel to the nearest town where if they were lucky they would find warm bodies that could tell them where some of people on his list had gone. The two stopped with nearly an hour of sunlight left. John pulled empty water guns from his coat and thrust them into the nymph's hands. He left to gather firewood to kindle a fire through the night while she went to fetch water. As he searched for wood he came across albino plants. John knew from experience how fruitless any attempts were to cut through or even push the plants aside. That had been when he had returned with Kathrine. The cowboy's stomach lurched at the thought of forcing him to hold onto a tree until the nausea passed from his stomach. He didn't know where she was or if she was hurt, but he knew she was alive. That was one of the few blessings this accursed land provided. She had been his partner by choice and not because of the group. He body felt cold and in response he buttoned up his jacket, despite his mistake he would find her. John made a silent prayer for Kathrine to be safe and for him to find her.

Mukondi Djata crawled out of her hide tent. A golden sliver of sun crept over the eastern hills and stained the early morning sky red. Though the twilight balminess would burn up any moment soon, streams colder than spring water coursed within Mukondi's veins. She held her spear in clammy hands while a machete's icy blade rested against her thigh. The spear's iron point stretched thrice as long as her hand, and she would need every inch of it for her upcoming womanhood.

Most of the Djata camp remained asleep in silence. Not even the most excitable of the boy-children scampered between the tents after waking up before their mothers and sisters. Come to think of it, Mukondi would have enjoyed an easier life as a boy. She would have then moved to the safety of a men's village back when she came of age and grown harmless crops for the rest of her life. Boys never knew how much dumb luck favored their sex.

"Mukondi? Are you ready, daughter?"

Mukondi jogged up to the plump baobab which sprouted on the camp's northern edge. Two women, her mother Dyese and cousin Azande, awaited her below the tree's shade. Having reached womanhood six rains ago, Azande now looked exactly as Mukondi and every other young Djata girl wished to look: tall and lithe, with firm muscles and a full rump underneath obsidian-black skin. Rings of fangs from Azande's kills hung under her gold neck-bands. Both Mukondi and Azande covered their breasts and crotches with leopard-skin strips whereas withered old Dyese donned an elder's gazelle shawl.

Dyese smiled as she patted Mukondi on the shoulder. "You can do it, my precious," Dyese said. "Oyosi Herself sees to it that you will."

Mukondi pulled her mother's hand off. "You must have told Nzinge the same thing."

"Don't mention her again!" Azande banged her spear's butt against the dirt. "You are wiser than your sister ever was. You shall succeed where she failed, trust me."

Mukondi shrugged. "All right, now did you see any Sambu on your scouting?"

"I saw one drinking at the river to the south, early last night." Azande pointed to the southern horizon. "He might still prowl there, or he might rest around the lone mountain on the other side." She laid her own hand on Mukondi's shoulder. "When you meet him, you know what to do: aim for the breast or brain. Good luck, kinswoman."

Mukondi nodded to her cousin and sucked in a gust of air to swell her chest upward. She curved her mouth into a slight smile.

"One more thing before you leave, daughter." Dyese pulled out from her belt a hollowed antelope horn and handed it to Mukondi. "This goes back to my mother's mother. Blow through it, and Sambu shall come."

"Isn't that really cheating?" Mukondi asked.

"Not at all, it only makes tracking easier," Azande said. "But use it sparingly. Blow it too often and Sambu will know what you're up to."

Mukondi slipped the horn underneath her own belt and bowed her head to Dyese. "I owe you so much for the gift, mother."

Dyese wrapped her arms around her daughter in a gentle embrace. "Not at all. Now you may go forth on the hunt, Mukondi. You leave our camp a girl, but you shall come back a woman, with the teeth of Sambu in your hands. May Oyosi bless you, Mukondi Djata."

After her mother let her go from warm arms, the chill returned to sting Mukondi's blood.

Many, many years in the past, the laws of nature worked quite differently than they do today. In fact, one could argue that they weren’t laws as much as they were guidelines that were only loosely followed.

There were no constants; absurdities such as physics were scoffed at by celestial bodies that only behaved in certain ways because they felt like it. Gravity? Planets only stuck around stars to leech off the excess energy that really only served as some sort of bizarre social status. Each planet in turn had its own unique society that depended on the different elements on it. For example: places such as Jupiter had gradually grown into overcrowded metropolises due to the abundance of your two garden variety gases, hydrogen and helium, that ironically got along despite their conflicting natures (hyperactively violent and easy-goingly passive, respectively). While places like Mercury tended to be a lot more laid back thanks to the surplus solar energy they were getting.

On Earth, things had separated themselves into three separate realms: one of land, one of sea, and one of skies. The elements in the sky and land mostly kept to themselves. The lands gradually but unwaveringly moved about and mingled as time continued to progress. The skies on the other hand loved to clash with themselves and kept a quick pace as they went about their day to day business.

The seas operated quite differently from the other two, as their main inhabitant was a peculiar little thing called water. Instead of individual parts having their own free will and determination and acting as part of greater whole, water had a sort of collective intelligence which caused it to act much more uniformly than other entities. In fact it acted so strangely that the sheer measure of liquid water on the surface set Earth apart enough from the other planets that they’d often make jokes about it when he wasn’t listening.

Here was another strange thing about water: it would often leave the confines of the seas and clump together as those vaporous masses we know as clouds. Of course, a good number of other things did that too, but the water variety was unique in that it became its own self-aware entity by doing so. Back then clouds weren’t as transient as they are today, so their newfound independence gave way to them creating their own society in the vast expanses of the skies.

The original inhabitants of the skies did not mind this at all, in fact the Nitrogens welcomed the first colonial clouds with open ions. Some might say that the skies were a bit too eager for some new blood, since within a relatively short time span clouds had completely overrun them. Clouds now came in every shape and size you could possibly imagine, and even more that you could not. They had their own personalities and aspirations. They formed complex relationships with each other and interacted in unique ways. They were endlessly intriguing but at the same time, to the seas they were leaving and the heavens they were settling, increasingly terrifying.

Domina City. “The City of the Lady.” Built on a trash island in the West Atlantic by the labor of white-collar criminals, paid for by the United States and the Vatican, Domina was meant to be a beacon of hope and prosperity. A test, proving that criminals could be put to a better use than clogging up prisons.

Thirty years after building started, Domina is a blight on the face of the world, soaked in the blood of millions. Death is a fact of daily life. Gangs rule by no other than law their own strength, and entire cultures have arisen built on legends. Angels, demons, vampires and more fight each other for money and control. The fey release their monsters on the streets for no reason other than their own amusement, and bystanders are always caught in the crossfire. Every living soul in the city is a killer.

But even so, life goes on. People go to work, fall in love, raise families. The city grinds away, and the people survive.

Into this maelstrom of chaos comes Adam Anders, a young man trying to go to college with his friend. He has no idea what he has just stepped into. But then, Domina is in for a few surprises as well...

Kraka

Prologue

This story begins like so many others. It starts a long time ago- from my birth and before it. I heard it when I was three years old, and never forgot it, even though I’ve almost forgotten my second father, who told it to me.

''I remember being three, clinging to the front of his long dark red tunic, which I thought made him look like a knight, and sitting while he told it. My nanny tried to pull me off and tuck me into bed, and Father Number One- his name, Heimir, is the other thing I remember- laughed and said, “Leave her for a bit, Arndis.” I call him that to distinguish him from the other father I remember. The one I have now. I just call him “Dad.”

Arndis, who wore a white shawl draped over a cloak the same colour covering a long blue dress and whose high brown buttoned boots stuck out under her hooped skirt, loosened her grip. “No, Arndis! I want to hear the rest!” I wailed.

'' “She’s truly her mother’s daughter.” Heimir said. “Nilda was exactly like this when she was that age. Obsessed with swordfighting. I think I might have another Valkyrie on my hands.” He was smiling, but it was strained, not a real smile. “Did you hear, she pretended I was an Orc today. Gave me a Hel of a fright. She’ll be a shieldmaiden when she’s grown, for sure.” He looked down into my eyes and smiled. “Won’t you, Aslaug?”

“C’mon, Aslaug.” Arndis bent down and wrapped her arms around my waist, lifting me into her arms. “It’s getting late.” ''

Aslaug. My name before this one.

Here’s the story. My birth parents were young when they had me. They met when my mother, Brunilda, was sleeping in Hindfell Mansion, up on the top of the cliffs southward of the Glittering Heath, miles away from here. She’d been placed there by the order of Odin himself, because she let the wrong man live in battle. Put to sleep, deactivated, out of commission “until someone without fear could wake her.” Wouldn’t you know it, that person was my father, Sigurd, who was just a year or two older than me, about fifteen, and had just killed the dragon Fafnir armed with an elven sword and wearing a mithril byrnie which his own foster father, the dwarf Regin, had made for him.

They say when he and my mother met after he’d ridden through the gas flames, he lifted off her helmet and fell in love with her instantly. He cut off her byrnie, which had almost molded itself to her flesh, worse than the tightest corset. She was probably wearing it for five years while she slept. Like Sleeping Beauty, but for a shorter period of time.

They were together for half a year. In March the next year, he left, leaving my mother pregnant. Her nanny, Caridad, who was a midwife, helped deliver me. She kept her promise to my father and named me Aslaug after his great-great-great grandmother. That was before I became Kraka.

Chapter 1. Kraka

I stared at the palms of my hands and dusted at them with both sets of fingers. The ashes flew off my hands with a sweep off my fingers. Stooping low, I held the coal scuttle away from my chest and towards the fireplace. My clothes don’t need to be dirtier than they already are.

Glancing down at the front of my dress, I took in the row of the patches running from the breast onwards. They were in different colors, and I could still see the stitches holding them on. My skirt was frayed and tattered at its edges, exposing my brown knees and my underwear. This is why I’m grateful for my hooded coat- even if I’m never allowed to take it off and it gets sweaty in the summer.

I emptied the contents. Then waited. One… two…

The flames grew, red and bright, shooting up inside the grate. That’s good. One chore done. Only a bit more to do around here.

“Kraka!” Mom called just as I picked up the dustpan and brush and began to sweep up the ashes, moving the broom from corner to corner.

“Yeah?” I answered, turning to face her as she walked slowly into the room, her slippers scuffling the wooden floorboards. “I’m sweepin’ the hearth like you told me to.”

She turned and looked at me from under her bonnet. Me and her couldn’t look more different. Her face is round and worn, with lines around it, and she looks like an old woman with her hunched back and wrinkles. People say she’s ugly. By that I mean people she knew in the past, when she lived in Lindesnes, the nearest village.

Not people here. There ain’t any people in this place who’d take much notice of a peasant woman and her family. Spangarheid’s so far away from anywhere that people don’t come here. Even the owners’ relatives hardly ever come.

“Just an old ragged hag. Even when I was young and had all my teeth, I was homely. Everyone said so, and by the Aesir if I didn’t see it myself every time I looked in the mirror. Ugly Gríma Krakasdottir, daughter of Kraka Bjørnsdottir, who was just as ugly. She married me to the ugliest man in town. No-one else would have me…”

At this point in her rant she usually glared at my foster father. That was if he was even there. He usually spent all his time in the corner, drinking or working on chairs or carvings. “Åke, you damned fool! Can’t you fix the stove? If it breaks how’re we going to get our meals?”

Me though- whenever I just take the hood of my jacket off, people stare at me, even though I’m just as brown as she is, and was like that even before I came here to live. I bet it was from my mother, Nilda. Their mouths stay open so long, I’m surprised they don’t get flies in there. Especially when it’s summer. She says, “It’s ‘cause you’re young, girl. An’ beautiful.” Her voice was strange when she said the last word. Not exactly sad. But something else- bitterness. I could tell, because her face hardened as she looked at me.

“Don’t take off your hood,” she said the last time I went to town with the goat’s milk.

I wondered why she had to remind me of it. “And don’t talk to anyone you meet. Especially men.”

“What happens if I do, Ma?” I wasn’t really planning on doing it, just asking out of curiosity.

She gave me that hard look again. “They’ll take advantage of you, Kraka. Don’t take it off.” I managed to avoid doing it for the first time that day, even though I could feel the sweat in my scalp under the shawl. Weirdly that’s the only time I felt like taking it off.

“Have ya cleaned out the washtub yet? Those goats need milkin’ too. Get to it.” Her voice was sharp, jolting me back to the present. “That father of yours did something right.”

“I don't like the look of this job.” Densor Williams shifted forward in his seat and looked straight into the recorder.

“For a start, it ain't a proper job. We should be findin' some nice little war somewhere and get some decent pay, not baby-sitting some stupid geezer what can't even buy a proper ship. Of all the shitty jobs we've 'ad in the last few months, this is the shittiest yet.” He rubbed the skin beneath his right eye.

“To make matters worse, we're 'avin' to split up the crew because the stupid flatlander don't like xenos. The Prof is right fucked off because that means no Kitarr food for the whole of the trip, but me, I'll be missin' 'anging out with Ter i'San 'n' Grau 'n' all the others.

“An' I'm going to miss my cabin, 'cause we're the ones what 'ave to crew this poxy ship. An' look at it,” he picked up the recorder and used it to do a sweep of the cabin, taking in the pastel-coloured walls and his small pack lying on the single bed.

“An' it looks even worse from the outside. It's some sort of poncy yacht, not a proper ship. Not a patch on the Septic Death. What sort of pillock would buy this 'eap o' shit?” He set the recorder down again and rubbed under his right eye.

• * *

Captain Trevor Rollins studied the man before him: older than Rollins, with completely white hair and a lined face, but he still looked lean and fit and he'd passed Doctor Weaver's medical examination. He relaxed in his chair with the casual confidence of someone who knew how good he was and felt no need to have to prove it.

“Hunter”, said Rollins, “is that your surname or first name?” It had been the only name listed on the extremely impressive resume.

“My title,” said the other man, “bestowed upon me by the Kanee during their fourth War of Repulsion.”

Rollins was further impressed – Kanee natives seldom earned a title and he'd never heard of them giving one to an outsider. “Which makes me wonder all the more why someone such as you applied for this job,” he said.

“As you can see, I'm not a young man any more,” said Hunter, “and that makes it hard for me to get work of any kind.”

Rollins nodded, pleased by the man's candour and honesty. A lesser man might have attempted to look less like he was desperate for work.

“Well, your age is certainly not a problem for me,” he said, “your work history more than mitigates it and we won't be needing combat skills, just experience in shipboard maintenance. Do you have any questions about the job?”

“Are you expecting any combat at all?”

“Not on this. It's a milk run.”

Hunter looked surprised. “Then why are you doing the job?”

Rollins gave a wry smile, “because getting work of any kind – especially our kind – is difficult these days and because our employer is convinced that his new ship is going to get attacked by pirates or worse the moment it leaves dock.”

Hunter laughed. “So he hired the Septic Death as bodyguards.”

“And crew. He hasn't got a crew of his own so he wants us to fly his ship home for him. Unfortunately, he's a grade A-one-plus xenophobe and won't let any non-humans on board, which means over half of my crew has to remain on the Septic Death and that leaves us without enough to crew both ships.”

“Which is why you're looking for another crew member.” Hunter sighed. “I'd hoped for more than that.”

Rollins ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. “So had I. But, anyway, the job's yours – if you want it.”

Hunter snorted. “Like you, I don't exactly have employment options queueing at my door. I'm in.”

Rollins stood and extended his hand. “In that case, welcome to the crew of the Septic Death.”

Hunter shook his hand.

“So, Captain, what's our employer like?”

Rollins rolled his eyes. “A complete and utter flatlander. He's a government official from some agricultural colony out at the arse-end of nowhere – from what I've heard they pretty much keep themselves to themselves and don't trust outsiders much. If he's typical of the rest of his people, they're a pretty uptight and insular bunch.

“It seems that their one-and-only interstellar-capable craft wore out beyond repair and he got the job of getting a replacement. So he got a lift out here and bought the first spaceworthy thing he could afford. He negotiated a good price, right enough, but he doesn't know one ship from another and got an old decommissioned yacht, when what they really need – from what he told me of their old ship – is a freighter.

“I tried to explain that to him but he insists that the ship will be fine. He's not one to listen to others.”

“So, we fly his yacht home and the Septic Death, with the rest of your crew, comes along as protection from,” Hunter grinned, “space pirates? Considering his fear of non-humans, I'm surprised he's letting a large armed ship filled with them follow him back home.”

“It took some doing to convince him. In the end I had to tell him that I can scuttle the Septic Death by remote if they get out of line. Even then, he insisted on me leaving a human with them to 'keep an eye on them'.”

• * *

The twins put the last of the boxes into one of the cabinets and left.

Doctor Weaver opened her recorder and placed it on the desk.

“Medical Officer's report,” she began, and eased herself into a chair. “The Infirmary has now been stocked sufficiently for the voyage and all the fittings have been checked. I am confident that I can handle any likely medical emergency and most of the unlikely ones short of transplant surgery.”

She pushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes and continued, “the crew aren't happy with not being on the Septic Death and being separated from the rest of the crew. Densor has come to me twice today complaining of pain in his left hand and I can tell by the way he keeps rubbing his eye that it's stress caused by the change in routine.

“Grizbot's delusions are getting stronger again, despite the medication, and I am concerned that stresses related to this mission may exacerbate the problem. He was wandering around the ship earlier muttering that it was an 'interesting new simulation' and prodding at the walls.

“I have decided to increase his medication to the maximum, at least for the duration of this mission, which will mean splitting the dosage between all three of his meals so that he won't taste it. This regime will commence with today's lunch.

“The rest of the human crew and the two temporary recruits are in excellent health and the Spectre seems to be as it always is. It has not required my attention in the past, so I have to assume that it will continue to perform normally and not require my attention for the duration of the mission.”

As always, the Spectre's examination had been an interview wherein she tried to determine, from its impassive body language and emotionless responses to her questions, whether or not there was anything to be concerned about. If the day ever came when it needed her attention, she had no idea what, if anything, she would be able to do.

She switched off and pocketed the recorder then busied herself readying the doses of medication.