20 Million Leagues Over the Sea Read Free

and if he had delivered the same lecture
whilst in the act.
    She had endured much, much worse on previous
expeditions. At the same time, while physics was the pilot on this
part of her journey, she did have control over one thing. She
pressed a button on the arm of her padded seat. It was large enough
to accommodate her thickly gloved finger.
    "Gentlemen," Gemma said, "your advice is duly
noted and appreciated. However, I do believe it is time for this
lady to get some beauty rest."
    With that, she pressed another button, the
one that silenced all transmissions except those from the launch
commander. She breathed happily into the blessed silence that
followed.
    Moreau . The name tickled a memory at
the back of her mind, but she couldn't quite place it. That
bothered her; in her line of work, memory was her most valuable
tool. He didn't seem French, and he certainly didn't sound like he
had been anywhere near Paris.
    She dozed for a while, unsure if they had
ever stopped their one-sided debates. All of a sudden, she fell
forward with a jerk. The shuttle had stopped floating freely. She
felt a slight wobble and a distinct forward pull.
    "Ah," said the captain. Somehow, he had found
an override. "That would be the landing tether. They are towing us
into the station bay. Almost there, now."
    A few moments later, the cabin lights
extinguished, and the hatch opened. A waiting crew unstrapped them
and assisted them out of the small capsule. Gemma was so stiff that
it was almost impossible to walk down the short ramp to the main
deck without assistance. She turned to look back at Dr. Pugh, but
all she could see was a very tall white jumpsuit and a helmet that
was stubborn in its refusal to unclamp from its collar. The
technician ushered her forward into a dressing room and left her to
the ministrations of another lady waiting there.
    She was very relieved to exit the awkward
suit. It was a bit of a struggle even with assistance. They finally
managed it after much hopping and grasping and pulling and not a
little cursing on Gemma's part. Mrs. Brightman would not have
approved of the cursing, but she was many miles away on the planet
below and could not hear. After uttering every swear word she knew
(and making up a few in the process), she was free of it. In the
small cubicle where she changed, she found a washbasin and soap.
The water was not as warm as she would have liked, but a wash after
so many hours of sweat was refreshing. The young lady presented her
with a long charcoal-gray skirt and brown button-up blouse. She had
to demonstrate how the skirt worked; apparently, in space even
dressing required extensive training. Flaps and buttons allowed one
to be wearing a skirt or wide-legged pants, depending on what one
needed at that moment.
    "There are times," the technician said, with
her own "skirt" buttoned into pants, "where the trousers will be
more modest than the skirt. Trust me."
    The blouse itself was a double-breasted
jacket in a drab workaday brown material that was warm and heavy
but not stiff. Copper buttons marched in a double line down its
front. From its mandarin collar down to the hem just below her
waist, its design had function in mind, not fashion. Buttons on the
upper arm allowed the wearer to shorten the sleeves or attach
sleeve protectors as needed. She had seen both techniques in
laboratories in the past. A small badge sewn onto the left arm
shouted that she was a member of the SCIENTIFIC COHORT.
    A curious patch sat upon the right arm. In
the shape of a shield, it bore a picture of a tiny steamship
churning its way towards the Red Planet. The white poles of the
globe shone in the harsh light of the station. Across the top of
the patch was the name of her new home: Thunder Child's
Fury . The bottom simply declared the ubiquitous war cry of Terra Vigila!
    She brushed the patch with her left hand and
adjusted the top of the blouse. She tucked her locket in and
buttoned up. She left her braid alone, as they did