His damaged craft continued to decend.
Raynard, in the tiny ovoid cockpit, cupped in a gel-seat, leaned forward and stabbed at the vessel’s virtual-sentience lozenge, pausing for the illumination to pulse “ACTIVE”. Nothing. He flicked his neural glove across the holo-display, glancing at the timer again. The space craft remained stubbornly inert.
“Ship, elevation. Now please.”
He checked the cargo monitor. No movement. Growling, Raynard reached down below his seat for the manual override. In the corner of the navigation display matrix a small moving dot appeared, nested between coordinates. He found the overide toggle and yanked it, breaking the seal locking the red nipple on top of the pitch/yaw controller between his knees. It began lolling to and fro and then flicked sideways. The ship abruptly twisted, and Raynard struck the back of his head on the underside of the console.
“Fuck” he said.
The coaster’s computer synthvox cut in, adopting an admonishing tone.
“You have company Captain Raynard.”
“Just help me stabilise these vectors.”
“Do you wish to communicate with me, Captain Raynard?”
“I wish for you to do as I have commanded. Also, wake the cargo.”
“Flight path automated.”
The coaster began to rise away from the chop of liquid hydrogen threatening to engulf it. An alien voice serrated Raynard’s ear device.
“Salvete Captain Raynard. Forty six standard seconds to docking.”
In the cargo bay a small brown form unrolled and stretched multiple legs. Captain Raynard smiled at the life-sign read out.
“And to you Viscount, your son has just awoken.”
