There are four of us in all, but the usual distractions, bar duties, and waylays, sees me waiting, alone, at the pristine setting of white starched cotton, and carefully placed silver, for our food, which seems destined never to arrive.

I stand up to stretch my legs, looking around the wide, split level room, and a throng of diners. Elaborate lighting, set into the ceiling, and a kind of ‘deco’ centre-piece of pastel, triangular panes, creates an atmosphere of stylish opulence, with the whole affair somewhat undermined by a plain carpet of gunmetal grey.

Turning back, I find some kids have tried to horn in on our table, pointing to the abandoning of my post as technically a clause of finders-keepers.

I go nuts and the stewards have to intervene.

Through such mundanity, life on the star-ship maintains some veneer of normality.

The sheer number of people on board – far too many to know personally – sustains an illusion of endless humanity, without which the lengthy voyage would be reduced to a depressing, claustrophobic stasis.

It has become increasingly difficult to track the passage of time – the profusion of super accurate clocks merely reducing the hours to meaningless numbers, powerless to reset the biological timepiece as it drifts around a staggered cycle of sleeping, eating and recreation.

With three equal shifts per 24hrs, a routine would be easy enough to establish, except that one would be permanently denied any contact with two-thirds of the population either asleep or on-call. It is therefore polite, if not official practise, for anyone wishing to ‘visit’ a shift, to give up sleep for the shift ‘behind’, and let those ‘ahead’ to do the same. Thus to spend time with someone who has just knocked off duty, one simply stays up, and moves back in the shift-queue.

This works well enough; everyone suffers the same for lack of sleep. And, finding out who will lose sleep for you, and who would rather turn in, adds a revealing dynamic to the interactions,

Technically, the population of each numbers someone can only move in to a shift if someone moves out, but people do like to socialise, and with more or less 15% of the population rotating at a time on average the same numbers move from each shift, so applications will usually come up same day or the next, although constantly skipping ahead to keep up with friends can take its toll.

Still, the rekindling of one’s internal responses, and the break of routine, has a certain heightening effect and, apart from the lack of outdoors, the lifestyle does not differ, in most other respects, from that which I left behind, nearly four and a half years ago.

_____________________________

The duty ship commander’s voice issues from the intercom, which is piped through the restaurant.

‘Burn’ is the non-technical term for a deployment of ship’s thrusters – an ‘active correctional accelerative phase’ – which a flight plan, to be of any practical use, will require from time to time. Being hugely less economical than the utilization of gravitational fields, the timing and duration of a burn is, therefore, a matter of importance, and meticulous scheduling.

In engineering terms, the motions of celestial bodies within a gravitational field, including those of spacecraft, are defined as a geodesic – or path of ‘least action’ through space-time.

Simply put, a projected flight-plan is just one of an infinite string of solutions, describing permissible sets of tangential geodesic between points A and B, conjoined by optimum burns.

Most such solutions are eliminated as either unresolvable in practise or otherwise outside operational parameters, the remainder, winnowed through a sieve of material and economic constraints, eventually yielding the shortest, safest, and cheapest trajectory likely to arrive at the destination.

This then is the ‘flight status projection’ – a set of specified geodesic and the minimum schedule of ‘burns’ required for their acquisition. That’s what you need; your minimum asset out here is a flight plan.

And, that’s fine. If you want to fly across a sheet of paper. For practical excursions, however, a series of adjusts will allow for any curvatures either too small or too unstable to resolve in advance, or trajectory drift from their cumulative effects.

Contingent in-flight management of orbit is the dirty end of all those fancy navigational projections, making the real business of navigating a day to day matter.

And unless somebody figures out exactly when to do what, and for how long, pretty soon you'll be touring the outer limits with a b and if to do anything about it.

That somebody is known as the trajectory-analyst; the TA, the 'Tracker', the ‘Nav’.

The

Trajectory-hacker was nearing the top of the pile for a field-commission. You didn’t issue command orders or sit with geeky UEA crescents embossed to the back of your chair. But, apart from that, you were essentially piloting the vessel; burns were routinely on a TA’s recommend. And, out here; negotiation of the burn sequence is how ships get around, not with a lot of bouncing around in high-velocity turbulence screaming profanity into a tinny radio.

And no-one did anything much between burns. Except issue more command orders.

Anyone with aspirations to the flight-deck, or a rank above Lieutenant-Commander will put in some time ‘hacking deviations’.

And, some of them get pretty good at it.

A certain aptitude for numbers is mandatory, but make no mistake; this is pure ‘black art’, It was one of those rare-profile positions, both materially consequential and high-visibility, requiring a delicate mix of ability and flair.

This isn’t a job for eggheads. The constant demands of urgency, and a streaming request for decisions that can only be retracted by making another one, narrow the field of all but the intrinsically brilliant. Of course, if you happen to be a professional ego-stress-junkie, with a cool enough head to track multiple status on machines crunching their way through non-linear equations around you, with an instinctive enough grasp of where they were going to spot short-cuts and enough creative intuition to know when to use them, and if you don’t mind staring at a maze of god-damned panel-lights and updating fields, with the temperament, attitude, and discipline to secure the implicit trust and respect of those around you, for whose lives which you were routinely responsible, then this could be for you.

But unless you can survive in the job, don’t waste anyone’s time. You wouldn’t be there to begin with if it wasn't a vocation. But, wash out, and whoa baby you’ve got serious problems. And no-one wants a new TA any more than an old one.

Who’s are you?

Oh hell-o umm Leftenant. I’m the new TA. Oops, sorry

Yeah? Well get old. We don’t like new guys very much.

Trajectory deviations might appear a singularly unglamorous aspect of ship’s business. But, then, there wasn’t really anything much about travelling through an inertial vacuum that could be described as glamorous. No sounds, no sensations, no view; and all the ambience of an office block in cleaning-hours.

Your velocity, anywhere upwards of perhaps 1800 kilometres per second, could be checked on a tiny LED display. That was real handy. But it was the only way you’ ever know how fast the office-block was moving. Give it a little tap, if you like. It wouldn’t do anything. It would sit on that number, the same number, for weeks and weeks at a time.

Then, maybe early in September, there would be a scheduled burn, and everyone would worry a little, and get ready for the day – was it the 12^th or the 10^th, I’ve got the 12^th here – even if they had nothing whatsoever to do with operations.

Because, that day would be different. There would be sounds. A profusion of sounds, and a deluge of sensations.

For a few minutes anyway. And, then you could go and check that LED, and see that the number had changed – to 2157. Or, 1686. Memorise it. After June of next year it will be gone forever.

But, life here wasn’t really about such concerns. It certainly wouldn’t want to be.

The tri-delta vector. That was what it came down to.

The relationship of the tri-vectors then was as follows.

The idea is to be at (I), and even though it appeared we’d get to (P), in fact, we are at (R).

Apart from trying to maintain an overall convergence, there was actually no hope of even two of these values ever being the same.

But, that was actually not a bad thing. It gave you a wider road to negotiate, and a better error factor. It didn’t matter in the slightest that they had all started off at the same point in space-time – that was years ago, and they had from moment, been drifting, and careening, and wobbling in and out and around each other like three dolphins on their way to an end of semester party.

The reality is that each component of IPR was reliably wrong. In fact, the aim, far from ensuring that reality agreed with some or other projection, was to monitor the group as a behavioural entirety, and against a fourth trajectory – the golden unknowable thread that would deliver your destination in the most economical and least dilatory fashion. And, what was there to say that at this moment, you were not riding satori along the very centre of that invisible white-line of super-highway.

Besides, whatever put you OFP – ‘off-the flight–plan’ – was equally likely to put you back there, so it didn’t pay to be particularly fastidious.

And there were more and less serious ways to be OFP. As long as things didn’t get too out of hand, it was shrewder to put things off for as long as possible – burns are expensive, and corrections make sense only if the result is an improvement; not a better number, or a prettier picture, just a shorter, cheaper flight.

The first-year officer training, the endless problems that posed one extraordinary stuff-up after another, and to which you were expected to provide at least three solutions.

The first was an immediate and intuitive divination on assimilating the problem, and provided entertaining divertissement later on, when you would either ponder life in the virtual twilight-zone of ‘game-over’, or pump the arm and scream, "boo-yeah!!", like pilots should having negotiated a black hole with one-hand, while removing a ladies upper-body support with the other. Something to that effect.

Unless, of course, you were a lady. In which case mostly you were asked to translate the same scenario into one in which you were by yourself.

At any rate, the remaining two solutions were the results of your laborious calculations into variances, veers, volatility, vectors, and …vacuum constants, and a second blind-knuckle stab at some moment of your own choosing, and more kudos, obviously, the earlier in the process, or saving everybody on-board from incineration and ending up taking some poncy commander’s salary.

Such were the diversions of young hopefuls

It wasn’t a write–home disaster, for example, to find that you were ‘two feet to the left’, or two miles, or two hundred thousand. If ‘variance’ wasn’t increasing, or if ‘veer’ remained constant, then a retrieval of [i] would albeit take longer, but not one drop more fuel.

Non-linear veer, or volatility, presented the first real pause for crisis – up til then the frantic eyeballing, finger-drumming, number-muttering button-punching was just you being paid to be a smart-alec.

When volatility showed up, however – and let’s be realistic deviations were all veer, and veer was very rarely stable, you were suddenly being paid to be a hero, even though you were working just as hard before. And, why didn’t you get paid more when you saving people? Umm. So you wouldn’t slack off when you weren’t? I don’t know. It doesn’t work like that. Your ass is theirs whatever happens. And if they want a window open don’t talk about vacuums waiting outside. Just open wide.

That reminds me of a story. A junior officer, frustrated with all the ‘sir’ this, and ‘aye captain’ that, and stuff having to be ‘starboard aft’, instead of just ‘back there somewhere’, and whatnot, had confronted his superior officer, probably not at an optimum moment and definitely not the right person, for some defence of all the ‘swabby’ talk, and why a ‘ship at sea’ metaphor should persist, when nothing they did bore the faintest resemblance to anything maritime.

Well, fair question. If you’re a raving existentialist, , with no understanding of what keeps you safe at night.

Anyway, this commander, some career jerk probably, who knows, does a double-take, glancing around briefly to make sure everyone has stopped what they were supposed to be doing, and replies, "The reason we call it a ship, Ensign, is because firstly you’ll never get home unless we take you there, and secondly, anyone thrown overboard invariaaly drowns. Was there anything else?"

No, captain. I’ll just be going port aft to Miships and the Galley until 6 bells and the Dog Star has clear the jib.

But, to burn or not to burn. It was up to you. They were your numbers, it was your call.

And, when you were victim to an active component, drawing you steadily away, ever faster – off towards the ‘twilight zone’ – and we’re still waiting for your answer – it was assuredly time for a number, the 4D vector that would be piped to in the form: when, in which direction and for how long moment, for how long, and in which direction?

That 4D vector was actually just called ‘a number’ – a rare instance of brevity in the nick of time.

Give me a number. And, as the TA, you had to provide one. The best you had. Promptly, confidently, and unequivocally.

And, since the solutions are routinely chaotic, the longer you work on the problem the more obsolete the result, which makes it impossible to delegate entirely to hardware, and effectively making the gravity flux about as capricious, and predictable, as the wind.

____________________________

With the exception of Administration, virtually every aspect of ship’s business falls within the twin spheres of life-support and navigation

Environment Control

Resources Management

Habitat

Ambience Schedule Activity Amenity

Social Services

Flight Command

Trajectory Management

Propulsion

Engineering

Mission Supervisor

Security

Communications

Status and Emergency Monitoring

Payload & Freight

Personnel and Shift Rotations

Residential Union

_____________________________

Flight Command belonged to Navigation – it was their little castle in the clouds, and there was indeed a certain mystique attached. If you weren’t part of Nav, you didn’t find out what went on behind those doors. That was what it was. And, that was how it was staying. You don’t want people traipsing around the castle, peering over your shoulder, and going, "Oooo! whadda rawl those green dots!?"

"..Did you put ..a smudge …on my screen!?"

"Oh, sorry Chief"

In fact, it would have destroyed the mystique were you to find out.

Up on the Flight Deck, a mezzanine that was forward of Command, and which required a Level 2 Nav security dez

They had for the better part of a shift, been tracking an unstable variance – it wasn’t exactly a veer, simply because not once had it yet maintained the same polarity in either p or r at a third successive point, which would have been be required in order to establish it as a drift. It was like an eddy, although some of the thing s it was being called since morning – a meander, a wander , a ramble and possibly a tangle – had now come down to – a samba – a wrongo, – a now some of the descriptors which In a drift, you have to be drifting. If you start coming back, then you aren’t drifting. So it was an unstable variance.

But it was really annoying. They were most likely experiencing a multiple influence that was exhibiting a chaotic fluctuation, and which might persist for some unspecifed duration, until quite without preamble, it would resolve into some coherent behaviour.

But at the moment you couldn’t take your eye of it. Do that and you could look back to a panel meltdown – complete with those little rotating yellow numbers they’d been thinking of installing for as a gag. But, it was funnier as a suggestion. It wouldn’t be all that funny in reality. It’d be a freak out. It was stressful enough up here without thinking up artificial aids.

How can we increase the anxiety around here?

Anyway this had been going on now for 10 days – 30 shifts, well 29. And, if it couldn’t decide what to do, then someone else would have to. Guess who?

Rather than maintain the stress any longer over a variance it had been decided to put them nearer the flight plan – they were travelling a line that was far from straight, and although they were in no risk of . The job now was to pick the moment that would entail an optimum burn for the required correction.

The duty flight-officer on the mid-shift, was a Wing Commander Jody Larsonette – a corpulent but genteel SOB whose principle idiosyncrasy was a ticklish turn of demeanour, in which would undergo a conversion in mid paragraph from flatly officious to notably ebullient and straight back in the space of a moment, with no discernible objective. He was just a bit hard to read. And, a commanding officer was supposed to be unambiguous in the extreme. Nevertheless, it was an affliction that only surfaced when it could be said not to matter.

The flight officer's primary console, designated 'command', faced fore, and was where the results of all navigation activities, great and small, were destined to accumulate. To the right, was the Comm, presided over by a junior-officer to whom were barked official pronouncements to be entered as orders or recommendations for orders, as the case may be, or memoranda for the log, which were either 'for the record', or for posterity, depending on the degree of self-importance of the individual in question. About the best thing a ‘chief of comms’ could do was 'a good job’, because it kept his future prospects alive and kicking. And that meant paying attention. Finding yourself in the awkward position of having to ask that an instruction be repeated, (akin to a talk-show host asking for a repeat of something that his audience heard the first time) and it was a better idea to request a 'rephrase' or a 'could you confirm that, Sir?' Just saying 'what' or 'come again guv' didn't cut it.

To the left of the Command console was a void that might best be described as 'the office’. When addressing the Commander in person, or in private, one approached from that side, to avoid being inauspiciously placed between the man himself and his link with the outside world – the chief of comms.

From here, a step of carpet and railing proceeded in a curve across the expanse, marking off the observation mezzanine, which arched up into a precipitous ceiling void, three-storeys high, of gantry levels and artificial silicon-plasma™ display simulation that could be configured to show any required combination of view, inside or out, or dynamic projection overlays.

The far wall hosted a networked array of variable frequency scanners for taking accurate ship’s position, task-managed services, a schedule of current computations, redundancy systems, the burn notification requests, and so forth, largely accounting for the business end of things, and staffed by a regular shift of ranking navigational tech officers.

Directly behind the Commander’s chair and extending back down the centre of the room some 17 metres was the primary navigation array, and a the first section of which, on the left, was the jurisdiction of Trajectory Analysis.

The TA, on the mid-shift, was an intense-looking kid, with a tapering fringe of black hair that would be flicked away in the crook of a thumb during moment of peak concentration, and whose uniform, with its recently acquired Group Captain insignia, fitted like some stylish over-size lounge jacket.

Larsonette swivelled left, to his display on the main console, and addressed his TA.

"Did you have a number for me, Mr Forbes?"

"Aye, Commander … …Standing by… Machine–A… on my mark …aaand… …Punched!…"

His hand, poised above the ‘MarkTo>Command’ button, skipped up with a slight flourish; a mark of those innumerably-performed actions that have become second nature. Predictable, accurate instinctive.

The best of three time-stamped projections updated the Command > Current field on the main Nav–console.

"May I have your hack on this one, Mister? At ease…"

"Sir. …Well, it’s still heading down to that minimum node there …at 335. So, apart from the little whoop-de-doo earlier, it really hasn’t turned all morning, …Well, obviously, the whole point is that it hasn’t stopped turning …in terms of vector; I mean we know that already. What I'm trying to say is that it keeps shaping up exactly the same no matter where it waylays off to in the meanwhile… In other words, it's not the 'turns' that I'm interested in, it's the 're-turns'. And it's only got eyes for that node, really. Yea-ah… 335's the only feature of interest as far as I can make out. Seems to be the attractor …a pretty wishy-washy one if y’ ask me… If that's where it thinks it's going, well, I don’t think it’ll make it… not today. You can put a duo on that for me. ‘Course, whatever’s keeping it away, is even vaguer, …and there's something else out about …here, somewhere [he gestures magnanimously to indicate the vast separation of influence]. The problem is it's got one 'true love', and a bunch of half-assed paramours all going… 'come to me …no, don't go there …come to me, I'm better… No wonder it can't make up its mind! How would you feel!? …But, anyway, if this keeps up... and it hasn't turned in ..let's say, within the next …two hours …or so… it’ll be …seriously… worth a look… Anyway, that's why I’ve got Machines–B and C working up burn options right at the node. See, then, I can just move ‘em up a tad, right at the last minute. 'Cos, I mean, it’d be …great if it did node. Leave my duo where it is – but this is why I’m not moving them up …just yet. Because that would be just …beautiful, you know?…to get it right ON that node …And I mean right on it… like six decimal places, I reckon; an' that’s pretty fun’ close, ya know. Pity that duo says it won’t happen. I mean, it's a shame. But that, gentlemen, is simply called hedging your bets – a win-wink, thank you ver’ ver' much…situation.

Ahh …meanwhile, the tracking on A is just about 100% prediction-past data…‘cos it’s been through here about 25 times already this week, I mean, Holy Martinson, it's like watching an ant in a teacup…In fact its gotten so old out there that A …right…. has virtually got names for where it is …like …oh look I'm back at Jerry, now, …or whatta you know, we've moved on to O'Rielly.. …Yep an’ looks like she might be headin’ down to the ol’ Bentley place later on, …and so forth… I mean A is just doing it so easy that I'm worried about wasting resources… I could just call out to it. Hey! you know …You're at Nigel! Or pack up your stuff you're off to a weekend at Madisons…

But, hey…if that's where they're happy, then that's where we're happy… an' happy is ….right smack dab… in the middle of the cross-hairs, at the moment …And, I can't see any reason why they shouldn't just stay …right there…"

"Well, thank you, Mister. That's very descriptive, as usual. So, to paraphrase…track 335, and leave the options running. Is that your concur?"

"…It is. Yea. I would. It's a concept with a future, anyway. The actors are believable. And, even if doesn’t exactly node, …well, it’s gonna be …pretty fun’ close…"

"That’s fine. Just tell me …the minute you even think it looks like turning…Alright, Mr Forbes...?"

"…Aye… sir…"

"...I really do not …want to sit about in the Twilight Zone…"

Larsonette paused, then swivels his high-backed chair, with its twin embossed UEA crescents, in the direction of Ensign Downes.

"Did anybody get Engineering yet? I still want to see this link back on… [he squints, theatrically] I don’t like blanks on the display …This means literally …nothing"

He toggles the button in question a couple of times, before swivelling back in disgust.

"Blank fields, Mr Forbes. Don’t they annoy you?…"

"Well, Sir! Blank fields …are like an awkward silence …at your sisters graduation…!"

"Really? An awkward silence at your sister’s graduation. Where did we come up with that one, Mister Forbes?

"I just made it up, sir!"

"Yeah …It’s pretty off the wall, Captain…"

"I can ask around for a better one, if you'd prefer…"

"No. Don't do that. I like the first bit… An awkward silence… but I just don’t know that everyone would find the other bit …well …funny"

"That’s a comedian’s lot sir. Undepreciated"

"You mean …under-appreciated?"

"Yes sir, that is …exactly what I mean…"

"I see, Mr Forbes. Well, we have many fine councillors on board if it all gets to be too much…"

"Councillors …may be part of the problem …Sir!"

"Yes, Captain. That's probably true. But, when you make Major, and I’m sure you will do so in due course, you do realise that such sentiments will no longer be expressible?

"Oh sir, I already miss the joys of a Lieutenant."

Ensign Downes clears his throat.

"Ah. Xcuse me Sir, Engineering’s on the Comm.."

"Well, thank you, Ensign"

He turns back momentarily.

"And, ahh don't forget, Mr Forbes. Before. Before she turns…"

"Don’t worry, sir …It’s not gettin’ away…"

"Sir. …Well. It’s still heading back. Except for that little whoop-de-doo earlier it hasn’t turned all morning, sorry, I mean, it hasn’t stopped turning – …we know that already – but its still making for …that minimum node at 335… which is really the only feature of interest as far as I can see. Seems to be the attractor …pretty wishy-washy one if y’ ask me… and I don’t think it’ll make it… not today. Put a duo on that for me. Whatever’s keeping it away is even vaguer, of course …but it’s …something …something out …’bout here, somewhere [he gestures magnanimously to indicate the vast remoteness]. But, even if it keeps going.. and doesn’t turn ..say, in about an …hour or so… it’ll still be worth taking …seriously… enough. So, anyway I’ve got Machines B and C working the burn options at the node And then, I can just move ‘em up a tad, right at the last minute. I mean because it’d be …great if it did node – you know, leave my duo where it is – but that’s why I’m not moving them up yet, because that would be just …beautiful …to get it right ON that node …and I mean right on it… like …six decimal places I reckon I could get it – that’s pretty fun’ close. Anyway, my duo says it won’t happen. Which is a shame. But, that gentlemen is called hedging your bets – a win-win thank you ver’ much… Anyway, the track on A is all prediction-past data, cos it’s been through here about 25 times already this week, …bor –ing …so you know A is virtually got names for where it is …like oh OK its back at Jerry, now, …and look now its moved to Frank Juniors.. …Yep looks like it might be headin’ down to the ol’ Bently place later on, …you know, and so on… so A is pretty happy. A’s fine… I’m leaving A. …And, the rest is all in the cross-hairs…"

"Well, thank you, Mister. Very graphic. So, track 335, and leave the options running. Is that your concur?"

"…Yeah. I would …sir …Even if doesn’t node, it’ll be …pretty ..fun’…"

"That’s fine. Thank you. Just tell me the minute you even think it looks like turning….. right, good work, Mister.."

"…Aye…"

"...I do not want to sit about in the Twilight Zone…"

He swivels his high-backed chair, with its embossed UEA crescents, in the direction of Ensign Downes

"Did someone get Engineering yet? Because, [he squints, theatrically] I want to see this link back on… I don’t like blanks on the display …it means nothing…"

He swivels back.

"Blank fields, Mr Forbes. Don’t they annoy you?…"

"Sir, blank fields are like an awkward silence at your sisters graduation..!."

"An awkward silence at your sister’s graduation!? You come up with stuff, don’t you Captain? So where did that come from?"

"Just made it up, sir!"

"Yeah …it’s pretty off the wall, Captain…"

"I can ask around for a better one. If you prefer.."

"Well, it’s nearly right.. I like the first bit… An awkward silence… but I’m not sure that everyone would find the other bit …well …funny."

"That’s the lot of a comedian sir, Misunderstood and undepreciated"

"Do you mean under-appreciated"

"Well, if you prefer that"

Some of our more conservative haven’t got anything better…yet …But, I will …I’ve got the mission, now.. you know?…"

Ensign Downes clears his throat.

"Xcuse me Sir, Engineering’s on the Com.."

"Well, thank you, Ensign. …Now, remember, Mr Forbes. Before she turns…"

"Yeah, Aye, Sir. ..It’s not getting’ away…"

__________________________________

That was earlier. In fact the track had turned, as the TA predicted. For the first time in more than a week and a half, it was officially heading away from the transfer node and a burn request was immediately placed in the system.

Between announcement of a correctional phase, and its commission, which is always kept between 15 and 75 minutes – the entire population exhibits a marked elevation of intensity; timing is notably enhanced and interactions are crisply administered.

Such is the respect for the dangers, which unfailingly serve to highlight the problematic occupations of off-world transit in general.

And, unlike the discreet professional theatre of composure designed to smooth over the routine crises that typically arise in the ordinary course of events, a ‘burn’ is never considered routine, and most will recall their earliest such experience with an acuteness undiminished by the passing of time.

_____________________________

From the first notification until stand-down condition, a strict set of safety codes are in place, principally for the following reason.

Acceleration stresses can be so extreme, that the "E–Layer membrane" – a thin film of clear, viscous fluid resembling albumen, in a shallow, oval cavity situated beneath the sub-cutaneous layer at the base of the skull – is subject to lateral or torsion stresses significantly increasing the possibility of rupture, and which in extreme cases, can be fatal if unattended, since the forces that caused the disruption will then proceed to drain the perforation, placing the patient at risk of critical toxic-shock reaction, and subsequent coma.

It may be medically obscure but no-one seemed to view it as merely esoteric. And nothing is more down to earth, than a serious risk to well-being.

Standard procedure, where appropriate restraints are unavailable – is simply lie down on the floor, aligning the top of the head in the direction of motion. This may seem strangely unsophisticated. But, there are good reasons why such basic precautions, necessary as they are, need not entail anything more involved.

Alignment of the medial axis along the acceleration vector distributes fluid pressure across the "e-cavity", minimizing lateral stress and substantially reducing the risk of complication.

.

The relative orientation, somewhat incidentally, is a direct symmetry of that normally experienced when standing upright in a gravitational field, a accounts for

Additionally, lying down ensures that correct attitude is maintained, with incidental movement kept to a minimum, a procedure that can be implemented with little administration or compromise to safety.

_____________________________

For the past 4 minutes we had been under 2^nd notification, an orange condition that entails one immediately call a halt to any unproductive activities, and devote one's attention to the task at hand, namely, finding somewhere safe and comfortable to be during the burn. It was no use just plonking down where ever you happened to wind up. Burns didn't happen often enough to get that chummy with them. From everything relevant that one can recall it was advisable above all to be comfortable. And, that meant 'snooze-worthy' irrespective of how unlikely it was that you'd be doing any sleeping.

And since you were committed to It was needlessly stressful to

what one

It’s crowded on the floor tonight, and I was briefly delayed – perusing the outer foyer to notify the stewards, by law, that I had been separated from my companions – finding myself still wandering about before final call, looking for a suitable place on the carpet.

I become mildly apprehensive.

This is a serious business. People can see my concern and begin to clear a spot for my gangly frame, where I won’t have to bend my knees or neck.

As soon as I am settled, face down, and forehead to the carpet, the intercom crackles to life.

Everyone is lying still, anxiously. We’ve all done this before and appreciate full well that ‘velocity deltas’ constitute the most hazardous time of any space voyage, with the possible exception of landings, and the negotiation of gravity sinks, such as black holes.

Finally, an enormous, shuddering roar, signalling engagement of the flux engines, fills the dining area, accompanied by a rising vibration in the floor and walls.

The directional thrust kicks in with a sudden dragging weight, allowing a few critical seconds for minor adjustments of posture before the first plateau.

Acceleration is applied in a series of increasing thrusts – almost resembling gear changes – and partly to limit the peak g force after monitoring each stage for fuel efficiency.

At precise eight second intervals, the noise and vibration levels step in intensity, generating a series of disturbing and unpredictable modulations in the resonant frequency – jarring quivers becoming savage contortions, or pounding reverberation – as the ship, its energy levels over the bend, quietly time dilates in the silent expanse of vacuum.

One cannot help but ponder the integrity of internal structures, or perhaps to picture little bits of hull peeling away. Well. Probably not.

Nevertheless, any sort of collision at these speeds, or a loss of symmetry in the ship’s trajectory, would be catastrophic, tearing the 6000 kilotonne vessel to debris in a fraction of a second.

To say nothing of the dangers we face just lying on the floor, trying not to get bent out of shape.

The feeling of being at the mercy of circumstances, and the Captain’s skills, is palpable, and there are intermittent waves of alarm around the room, in the form of sudden panicky cries and stifled screams.

At its climax, the expectation of disaster is hard to avoid, and which the passage of time makes increasingly acute.

Like pulling an Ace for the ninety-ninth time – or going ever faster on a motorcycle, knowing that there is an ‘edge’ …but only that you haven’t crossed it.

The best approach is probably to ‘reinterpret’ the intensity, as one might a fun-fair ride – with a certain detachment, and a steadfast denial that there is any real danger.

To simply bathe in the raw concentrations of energy, or muse over the tiny details.

After a while, one inevitably stumbles upon another tantalizing speculation – that perhaps the engines have finally peaked, and since all things, sooner or later, come to an end, that the same applies here, and the ordeal will soon be over.

But, whichever impossible turn of thrust one takes to be the last, it invariably proves, somehow, merely the penultimate, masquerading.

Eventually, though, the shudders and roaring subside, the structures of the ship wilting in exhaustion, and echoed in the relieved sighs and moaning of traumatized passengers as they roll onto their sides, to look to their neighbours, all sharing the relief and checking for signs of headache and disorientation.

For the time being, it is possible to relax within the comfortable frame of reference of the ship’s interior, and forget about the realities …out there.

Of course, whatever the comforting silence of the ship's engines may try to disguise, there is, as everyone appreciates, one unspoken and unsettling fact.

That, even now, we are moving, and will continue to move, at the same incomprehensible velocities to which those same engines, just moments earlier, so dramatically propelled us.

The UEA Angstrom–Helsinki had just executed a turn.