Pitstop

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Their marriage was widely believed to be one of convenience, the contract renewable on a year-to-year basis. Every year they surprised their colleagues by signing on for another stint.

“Dammit, will you take it easy, Claire! You spilled my bloody coffee!”

Claire Alvarez-Linstrom turned her head and grinned at her husband from the blindship’s piloting station, a console and chair bolted to the blue shag carpeted floor near the bay window. “We’re making a planetfall, Arthur dear, not doing brunch. You should expect a little turbulence.”

As if to back up her assertion, the craft shied violently. The gravdampers could have compensated, but she insisted on leaving them on at the bare minimum needed to keep the place from coming apart at the seams. Can’t fly by the seat of your pants when you’ve got your butt parked on a pile of fluffy cushions, she always said. That did give her more feedback, but then again she was one of the few surviving practitioners of the inexplicable fad sport of broken-cord bungee jumping.

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