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they up to?”
    “Four were underway.   They all stopped what they were doing and are now coasting.   No sudden moves anywhere, sir.”
    “They’re flying casual.   Okay.   We do the same.   Nice and steady.   Big gentle turn into a standard orbit.”
    “Aye aye, sir,” said Lee.   “Big and gentle, sir.”
    Dillon nodded.   “Comms, do we have any hails?”
    “Yes, sir,” said the young woman.   “Traffic control channel is asking our intentions.   An Uta ship has transmitted a list of minerals they’re selling, and, uh…” she trailed off.   Turning in her seat, she faced the Captain.   “Apparently that sphere would like to ‘embrace Freem’ with one of us, sir.”
    He couldn’t help but make a face.   “Embrace what ?   No, wait, never mind.   Tell traffic control we’re here to buy supplies.   Ask if we can send down a shuttle.   Be polite.”
    The woman put her hand up to touch her earpiece.   “Aye aye, sir.”   She grimaced.   “The sphere seems... urgent, sir.   Should I decline?”
    “What?   No.   Tell them…”   He glanced at Chief Black, whose smirk had spread across her face.   “Okay, tell them we must observe the ‘ritual of the purple hair’, and then we’ll get back to them.”
    “Sir?”
    Dillon rolled his eyes.   “Make something up, Seaman Pakinova.   Respectful and courteous, but delay giving a real answer.”
    “Aye aye, sir.”
    Dillon turned to the Chief.   “I’m going shopping with Sap and a couple volunteers.   Get Lieutenant Cho up here; he’s in charge.   And you…” he pointed his finger at her again, “...your job is to find out all about Freem by the time we get back.   I’m tempted to send you over.   Who knows?   You might have the time of your life.”
    “Aye aye, sir.   I’ll take pictures.”

6

    The shuttle rattled ominously as it was buffeted about.   Miles of increasingly thick and rain-laden atmosphere reluctantly moved aside to let the small craft glide down to the surface of Tashann.
    Dillon sat on the hard bench, his left hand holding the grab strap over his head.   He gritted his teeth with each bounce of the shuttle.   Across from him sat Saparun, who had his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest.   To the Captain’s right, six of the Borealis crew, led by Petty Officer Lee, sat alongside them.   One of the marines was clearly unwell, his face darkening with each lurch of the ship.   Another marine — O'Neil, he thought — had slumped back into the corner of the bench near the far hatch.   Her body was limp, her head was tilted back, and her wide-open mouth rattled with her snoring.   Dillon caught the eye of Lee, and tilted his head toward O’Neil.   Lee smiled knowingly and made an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.
    The internal speaker chirped.   “Landing pad seventeen, now in sight.   Clear and clean.   Twenty seconds.”
    Dillon and the crew began to stand up, grabbing extra handholds while Lee shoved O’Neil awake.   They all wore full-length raincoats, all in the same nondescript grey-brown colour without insignia or rank badges.   The coats were light enough to be comfortable, but bulky enough to conceal the armour they wore underneath.   Bulky enough as well to hide the holstered pistols they wore at their hips, but not enough to hide the carbines of Lee and O’Neil.
    “Ten seconds,” came the pilot’s staccato voice.   “Today’s weather is twenty degrees, with a lovely torrential downpour.   We’re in landing bay seventeen, so please remember where we parked.   Thank you for flying RCAF, have a nice day.   Buh-bye.   Contact.”
    The shuttle gave one last bounce, then was still.   As the whine of the engines began to fade, the port side hatch slid open.
    The monsoon roared in Dillon’s ears, and in moments the damp reached through to his skin.   He pulled his coat’s hood up over his head, and peered out at the downpour.  
    The sky was dark and