Future Perfect |

In my perfect future, all this will have taken place.

I have the best job in the world.

“Cloudbase, this is Angel one, ten miles out, inbound from the west.”

“Angel one, this is Cloudbase, we have you on approach. Cleared for zero-niner south. Welcome back Melody.”

Cloudbase isn’t the best name for it of course; we’re way too high for clouds up here, but if you’re going to construct a permanent habitat for a hundred people up in the middle of the stratosphere, what else are you going to call it? I mean, everyone remembers Captain Scarlet, don’t they?

“Cleared zero-niner south. I have the rail in sight.”

Depending on your point of view, Cloudbase is either a huge disappointment or massively impressive. If you’re hoping for an enormous floating aircraft carrier, you’re likely to fall into the former category, but if you have an open mind…

Imagine, if you can, a hundred thousand Mylar balloons, each as big as an aircraft hangar, strung together in a network of cables across a thousand cubic miles of sky, and supporting a varied selection of interconnected structures. It all looks a bit cobbled together, but then so does the ISS, and for the same reason.

Built over a number of years by a conglomerate of international organisations, the real wonder is that it all fits together. It’s still mind-numbing to see something this big all the way up here. Mylar is naturally silver in appearance, so in the permanent sunshine of sixty-plus-thousand feet it’s pretty hard to miss, even whizzing across the sky at eight miles a minute.

This is the tricky bit. The air’s so thin up here, I only have a few knots difference between stall speed and Mach buffet, so too fast or too slow and the plane will fall out of the sky. Same goes if I don’t keep the rudder perfectly balanced. So, while flying within some pretty narrow margins, I have to line up on a five mile length of parallel cables, keep them pretty much exactly twenty-five feet above me, and fly my hook into a gap between them that starts fifty feet apart, but narrows down to just two over the first couple of hundred yards.

It’s just as well I’m good at this.

The trick is to keep relaxed; tense up, and you start overcompensating. Takes a fair bit of mind over matter to override your body’s natural tendency under such circumstances, which is why it’s important to be able to trust yourself.

Hang on just a second, got to focus here.

“Sky hook deployed, approach speed four hundred and fifty knots relative.”

Both instruments and visual show my approach vector to be right on the money. The skyhook, a titanium rod that extends thirty feet above the craft, is designed to affect the aerodynamics as little as possible in the thin air. It slides between the rails in the final hundredths of a second and latches onto the arrest cable.

“Contact and secure.”

It’s kind of a rush how quick the rail approaches in those last few seconds, then there’s the reassuring jerk and I pull the throttle back to idle as my harness keeps me from mashing my face against the windshield. Actually, it’s only a half gee deceleration. The Angel’s wings are long and thin, and wouldn’t take kindly to much more strain. It takes three and a half of the five miles to slow down, and doesn’t look like anywhere near enough just after you catch the rail, but at this point I’m not flying anymore, so I can sit back and enjoy the minute or so it takes to lose all the speed. One hand on the release, of course, just in case something goes wrong and I have to abort.

That’s something I’ve only done in simulations so far. Arrest mechanism malfunctions, and you’re left with the choice of crashing into the structure, putting lives at risk and causing billions worth of damage in the currency of your choice, or you drop out of the sky on your own. Without sufficient airspeed, the plane tumbles uncontrollably until the air becomes dense enough to tear the wings off. Theoretically there’s a million to one chance of recovering, but those work out far less frequently than fiction would suggest. What’s most likely is I’d have to punch out and wait for rescue. With each Angel costing a fair few million a pop, it’s something else we’d all prefer to avoid, so landing mechanism maintenance features quite highly on everyone’s priority list.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at our destination. Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop. We would like to thank you for flying Angel Air, and hope you will travel with us again soon. Welcome to Cloudbase where we have clear skies and a balmy outside temperature of minus thirty two degrees Celsius. We are currently over the middle of the Indian Ocean, so the on board time is UTC plus five hours.”

It’s a captain’s prerogative to give post landing briefings, and I like to exercise it even when I have no passengers. The Angels don’t have much of a payload, and most of my flights are freight runs. The cost of ferrying passengers up and down is prohibitively expensive, so as a pilot I’m one of a very select few who gets to enjoy this flight on a regular basis. It does mean I have to keep my weight right down, since every kilo I manage to keep off is an extra kilo of goods I can put on board, but I get a kick out of being slim and delicate, and it’s nice to have an incentive to keep that way.

The plane slows to a sedate fifty knots, and the braking eases off. The hanger is still over a mile away, and now I’m down to a gentle enough speed I can coast for a few seconds.

I busy myself with the post landing checks while my craft slows to a halt, and the giant clamshell of the aircraft hanger closes about me.

A gangway slides into position beside the cockpit as the engines are spooling down. Last few things on the checklist. Transfer air supply hose from the plane to my small, portable unit – It would be a waste of time and effort pressurising a space as big as the hangar – unclip my harness, grab my tote from behind the seat, and pop the canopy.

A second gangway is already in position underneath the belly of the craft, and pressure-suited workers are in the process of unloading my cargo.

I give Angel one a quick once over before standing down. It’s only necessary to inspect pre-flight, but I’ve spotted enough snags in post-flight checks to avoid a few nasty surprises.

She doesn’t look much like the Captain Scarlet Angels, certainly no more than Cloudbase resembles her namesake. She’s more like an old U2 spy plane than anything else I can think of. Fatter in the fuselage, and a little bigger, but still with the long, spindly wings.

Nothing stands out in the check, so I make my way to the airlock. My apartment awaits, with a lovely hot shower and a welcome change of clothes.

“Hey, Melody!” Mary calls to me as I step onto the command centre. She runs over to me and gives me a hug. “I love your dress.”

Mary has Downs Syndrome, which means she has one of the kindest and most affectionate personalities I know. And that’s pretty much her reason for being here. In an environment where most people’s jobs are high stress and require a lot of focus, Mary gives us a necessary break from the pressure. Certainly I don’t think there’s a person on Cloudbase who begrudges her a position on the team.

“Hi Mary.” I hug her back. “I thought you might like it, so I bought you one too.” I pull a soft parcel out from behind my back and hand it over, receiving a delighted squeal in return. Mary takes the package and runs off, wriggling with anticipation.

“Welcome back, Chris. You spoil her, you realise that, don’t you?”

Laura, rather affectionately known to us all as Colonel White, is the base commander. She’s in her seventies, but sharp as a pin. Her trademark short, white hair helped to seal the nickname, and I’m pretty sure she’s secretly happy to have it.

“I do it on behalf of us all,” I reply, grabbing a seat near to Laura’s. I should probably mention, Melody is a nickname as well, again after the TV series, and one I’m quite content to own.

“I hope we’re not short anything from the payload because of your extravagance.”

“You know me better than that,” I reply. “I’m under my target weight, as usual. Sometimes Cloudbase benefits from the extra, other times I keep it for my own personal use.”

“It is a lovely dress,” she concedes. “It suits you.”

I preen under her compliment. Having people appreciate my looks is something I’ve developed quite a liking for in recent years. The dress itself comes to about mid-thigh on me. It’s a fairly neutral silver-grey without much adornment, but the material changes shade as it moves, which was why it caught my eye in the first place.

I reach into my bag and pull out a stack of envelopes and parcels, which I pass across to her.

“At least you remember the important things,” she says, taking them from me.

“When have I ever not?”

“Never, to my recollection, but you’re pretty much the only pilot here I can say that about.”

We do alright for keeping in touch with the outside world, but there’s only so much you can manage through email and video conferencing. Letters and packages bring your loved ones closer, and sometimes they’re the only way to ensure secure communication, so I make the mail my number one priority on any flight. Every now and then, the mailbag goes above its allotted weight, which is when I tend to use up my discretionary allowance. Since pretty much all my fellow pilots are at or above their target weights, none of them has the same flexibility, so they’re forced to leave any excess behind.

“So where do you want me now?” I ask. In a place this size, no-one escapes with just one job. Even Mary, who doubles as one of the serving staff at Ten Forward.

Yes you heard right. The nerds who work here include a significant number of Trekkies. Gene Roddenberry lives on in many hearts.

“You’re off duty till tomorrow, as you well know.” Regulations call for a rest break after any long flight, so yes I do. “Rachael comes off shift in half an hour, which you also seem to be aware of,” she eyes my dress and arches an eyebrow. This is one of the many things that make her such a well loved leader. She knew what time I was due today, and she arranged the rota so my significant other would be free shortly after my arrival. “But I would like you supervising the rigging crew when we replace the net in section thirteen tomorrow. I assume you brought the new one with you?”

“You’d know by now if I hadn’t.” I’d checked and loaded everything myself. I take pride in my work, which is always easier when you love it as much as I do. “Where’s Rach working at the mo?”

“Section forty-nine.” This is another of Laura’s things. She believes couples tend to get on better when they have regular time apart, so wherever possible, she assigns them work duties in different parts of the station. “Get on with you. You’re stood down till tomorrow at eight.”

“Thanks boss. See you later.”

I turn to leave just as Mary comes back in wearing her new dress. The smile shining from her face is all the thanks I could want, but I do manage to tweak it just a little wider by telling her how gorgeous it makes her look. Then I’m out of the command centre and heading for the mail room. It only takes a minute to distribute the contents of my bag into the relevant pigeonholes, and by the time I’m done, people are beginning to hunt through it, offering me grateful smiles for my diligence.

I have dinner pretty much ready to serve when the door opens and the light of my life comes in. Her eyes shine as she catches sight of me, and I break off what I’m doing to give her the attention she deserves – and receive the attention I deserve, of course.

“Wow!” she breathes. “You look good enough to eat.”

“Dinner’s in the pot,” I say. “If you’re still hungry after, I’ll happily be dessert.”

“You’re on. That is one gorgeous dress you’re wearing. Honestly, I don’t know if I should be flattered that you make the effort, or jealous that you look so much better than me.”

“You’ve just come off shift, so you’ve got an excuse. Go, get showered and changed. Dinner will wait fifteen minutes.”

She’s back thirty seconds later. “Chris, you shouldn’t have.”

What, you think I’d buy a gift for Mary and not get something for my girlfriend?

It’s a very different style from mine, but floral patterns suit Rachael better than they do me. We’ll probably end up mixing and matching someday soon anyway. We usually do.

Dinner is a simple risotto. Easy to chuck together in a quarter of an hour, filling without being fattening, and of course dessert isn’t so bad for us either. All the more delicious for coming at the end of a three day separation.

That’s probably the only thing I’d change about the job if I could. I’m off flying most weeks, and they’re all pretty long haul trips. Cloudbase moves about, so things change all the time, but I usually spend several hours in the air on any flight, which generally means I’ll spend at least one night away. Often enough, there are problems on the ground which mean I end up having to hang around one or two extra nights. On the plus side, it means we both appreciate the time we have together all the more.

All appetites satisfied, we take a walk around the base. The place is big enough to get lost in, if you don’t want to be found, and it boasts some of the best views on or above our planet.

Pretty much the best of these is from one of the balloons supporting the nets that make up Cloudbase’s primary reason for existing. They reach a further ten miles into the heavens, and from that altitude, you have a real sense of being in space. The sky above is dark and star spangled, even at midday, and the curvature of the horizon is quite dramatic. The downside is that in order to go that high, you need to wear a spacesuit, which isn’t all that conducive to romance. For this evening, Rachael and I keep to the pressurised habitats and enjoy the sight of monsoon clouds chasing across central India.

We sit and watch the Sun set behind the distant edge of our planet, waiting until the last of the day has chased it out of sight, then we watch the stars appear. One of Cloudbase’s secondary uses is as a high altitude telescope platform . We’ve been hiding out in one of the observatories, but now it’s dark, the creatures of the night will appear and turn their eager eyes towards the heavens. We’re still in the mood for solitude, so we make our way back to our quarters and bed.

Eventually to sleep, but not immediately. Three days you understand?

Between the tropics there isn’t much variation in day length, which runs from about six in the morning to six in the evening. Add to this the strong stratospheric winds typically pushing us about one time zone east in the course of a night, and the distant horizon adding twenty minutes to each end of the day, means we have a gentle but early awakening at about quarter to five, which then needs to be corrected to quarter to six local.

There’s something about waking up next to the person you love, with the early morning sun streaming into your room across the sort of panorama we enjoy up here. A three hundred mile horizon has an effect I can only describe as expanding your soul. It feels like you’re taking in a breath that just keeps going and going until you’re big enough to fill the world.

Replete with our daily dose of euphoria, we renew our subscription to the ten mile high club, as is our normal habit when we’re together, then out of bed for a shared shower and breakfast.

Oatmeal, yoghurt and fruit. Doesn’t sound exciting, but the trick is the fresh fruit, which grows surprisingly well up here. Fruit adds flavour and roughage, and grows particularly sweet with the amount of sunshine we enjoy. Oatmeal gives slow release carbs, enough to keep the boiler stoked till lunchtime. The only other requirement is coffee.

Ah, coffee! Everyone has some character flaw, and Laura’s is an inability to tell the difference between real coffee and instant. It’s true that instant has improved massively since the dark ages around the turn of the century, but just because she’s a tea drinker is no excuse for inflicting the dreadful stuff on those of us who can actually taste the difference. I only made it through my early days on Cloudbase because of my regular trips back to the surface. It took a month of hoarding my weight bonus to bring up the means of making a decent cup, and even now I have to set aside a kilo every two weeks or so to keep my supply of beans replenished.

Rachael accepts a cup from me and breathes in the fumes.

“You know, there are times I think you only stay with me because I keep you supplied with this stuff.”

“You may not be entirely wrong.” She smiles at me over her mug and takes an indulgent sip. “It’s certainly got us through a few rough patches.”

I’m sensible enough not to pursue the topic.

“So, what are you up to today?” I ask, knowing full well what her answer will be. Sections forty through fifty-three make up the base’s hydroponic section.

“I’m on green duty.”

“Any chance you can bring us back some strawberries and blackberries? We’re running a bit low.”

“I noticed. I’ll see what I can do. What about you?”

“Section thirteen, putting up the new net.”

“Lucky so-and-so.”

Any opportunity to climb up to the balloons is cause for envy. It’s as close to space as we’re likely to get, at least for a few years. I find myself wondering if Laura’s buttering me up for something. She usually gets as good as she gives. Mind you I’m not averse to the occasional mutual exchange of abrasive dorsal stimulation.

“I’ll bring you a souvenir.” Not really, but what else can I say

Breakfast over, we head for our respective jobs. Practicality dictates the use of jumpsuits for most duties around the station, and since I’m due to climb into an EVA suit for most of today, that means me too. I prefer to wear a dress when I have the option, but I don’t begrudge the necessity, given where I’m going. The same applies when I have to fly anywhere.

Besides, too much of a good thing and all that. I enjoy my coffee more because I limit myself to two mugs a day. Dressing up only stays special if it’s reserved for special occasions. Or occasional occasions at least.

Just having the option to do it at all is something.

Most of my crew are already waiting when I arrive, with the last member following close on my heels. No-one wants to jeopardise the chance of being picked for any future excursions like this by being late.

The day’s task is fairly simple, but no journey to the edge of space should be undertaken without a safety briefing, but how to do it effectively? Same as with pre-flight briefings, do the same thing every time and people switch off; make it too funny and they’re likely not to take things seriously; make it too serious and you’ll scare them into making mistakes.

Yeah, I overthink things a bit.

“Morning ladies and gents. Let’s start by introducing ourselves. I’m Chris.”

“Mike.” “Wang.” “Judith. Judy.” “ Saneeta.” “Phil.”

“Great. Anyone not done this before?”

I’m lucky. Judith puts her hand up.

“Okay, something from everyone. What’s most important?”

“Look after your buddy,” Mike says.

Judith looks confused.

“We run a buddy system when we go into hostile environments,” I explain. “Everyone is teamed with one other person, and it’s your responsibility to make sure they’re safe, just as it’s theirs to take care of you. Next.”

“Always keep one safety line attached.” This from Wang. I ask him to demonstrate, and he picks up the two tethers attached to his suit. “You need to shift from one tether rail to another when you’re up there. Only unlatch one at a time, and only move one after you’ve made sure the other is secure.”

I look at my remaining two team members.

“Don’t look down?” Saneeta offers.

“Important if you’re not good with heights.” I’d been considering putting the women together, but one newbie and one nervous was not a recipe for success. I review my options.

“Be slow and methodical in everything you do,” Phil finishes off. “It’s not a race, and it’s not a competition.”

“All good advice, and pretty much everything you need to know. Wang and Saneeta, team one, South spar. Judith and Phil, team two on North. Mike, you’re helping me deliver the spools.

“The spools need to be fixed to the spars at hundred yard intervals, then we lower the filaments so the crew below can attach them to both the new and old nets. We raise them both, bring the worn one in board and lower the new one into place. Teams one and two take a spool each to the furthest fixing points and get them installed while Mike and I bring the rest of the filament out to you. We work back towards the lift. Any questions?”

I’m greeted by five shaking heads.

“Okay. Like Phil says, this is no race, so take your time and do it right. It’s not called a hostile environment for nothing, so be careful. That being said, it’s also pretty amazing up there, so take a moment to appreciate the view every now and then.

“Alright people, let’s get suited up and into the rigging. Buddies double check your partner’s suit once you’re both in.”

Nobody needs to be told twice. Gearing up takes three quarters of an hour. Putting the suit on consists of a series of deliberate steps, then the all important mutual check of your buddy. Nothing gets done half heartedly, and it pleases me to note everyone’s professionalism.

We’re ready in good time and head for the lift, which consists of a mainly transparent capsule – large enough to hold eight space suited people – wrapped around one of the main support cables, which in turn is a yard diameter filament of some carbon allotrope, stretching ten miles above us to a distant Mylar balloon. It’s outside Cloudbase’s protected environment, in serious sub zero temperatures and a near absence of air. If something’s likely to go wrong with the suits, it’ll most probably happen here, so we take a few minutes to monitor our gauges and keep an eye on our buddies.

Once our caution has been rewarded with five minutes free of excitement, I wave my little troop into the elevator’s confined space, made all the more cramped by the presence of twenty-two reels of nano-filament cable, each one a yard across and a foot deep.

With the hatch secure, I call for ascent, and a dozen high powered lasers direct their energy onto an array of photo-voltaic cells on top of the capsule above our heads.

How do you power an elevator designed to travel the distance we’re going? Put the fuel supply on board, and you’re adding to the weight unnecessarily. Put an electric supply in the support cable, and the voltage drops with every hundred yards you travel. The lasers are the most efficient method anyone’s designed yet. Three sets of lasers, each capable of operating any of the base’s lifts, and each running off a separate power supply. It would be a bad day indeed when there was no power available to move a lift. Besides, in the case of total failure, the lift descent would be controlled using Hall Effect braking to ensure it maintained a safe speed.

It takes half an hour to get to our destination, during which time everyone remains silent. I make a mental note to report back how focused everyone is on monitoring their suits and those of their buddies. We all have our eyes outside too, watching the sky turn black, and our planet recede. The view, stunning enough from Cloudbase’s lower levels, becomes truly incredible. Saneeta’s breathing speeds up a little, and Wang puts a hand on her shoulder, directing her to look into his face until she calms down. Other than that, we reach the top without incident, where I open the hatch and invite everyone to climb out onto the spar. There are safety rails either side, just above hip height, where we tether ourselves.

If the term spar conjures images of a horizontal beam of wood on an ancient tall ship with a sail hanging from it, then it’s well enough named. Cloudbase’s spars are made from hollow carbon fibre, they’re a foot and a half in diameter, reaching a half mile either side of the main support cable on which the elevator runs, supported every fifty feet by thinner cables reaching up to the balloon above. There are safety rails offering some security, but not much reassurance. This will be Saneeta’s real test.

This experience isn’t for everyone. Standing on an eighteen inch wide bar with nothing but a couple of flimsy wires between you and a hundred and twenty thousand foot fall. I’d actually be worried if any of my team weren’t a little scared. Gravity up here is only one percent lower than on the surface, and we’re not moving anywhere near fast enough for our centripetal force to reduce it further.

“Saneeta?” I pick up one of the forty-five pound spools of wire and offer it to her. The best thing for her right now is to focus on the job in hand. She visibly shakes herself and reaches for the spool, transferring it with minimum fuss onto Wang’s back. With everything securely in place, he turns to her.

“Focus on my back,” he says. “When we need to transfer tethers, focus on your hands. Don’t look further away unless you feel entirely comfortable with being up here.”

She laughs nervously, but nods, and they head off for their destination.

“Okay Judith, you’re next.” She looks momentarily worried. “You’re either lifting it on and off your partner’s back, or you’re carrying it half a mile down the spar, which would you prefer? It weighs about the same as a full suitcase, so you shouldn’t have any trouble with it.” Judith takes it from me and turns cautiously to attach it to Phil’s back, following Saneeta’s actions.

Once the two teams are away, Mike turns to me and cuts power to his radio, indicating I should do the same. I do so and lean my helmet against his. It’s an old astronaut trick for talking privately. With almost no air around us, the only options for speaking to each other are via radio, or direct contact like this.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but are you sure you know what you’re doing, letting those girls out on the spars?”

“Yes,” I reply, trying to keep my voice calm and neutral. “I’m acting on trust. Trust of Laura’s judgement in assigning them to this detail in the first place. Trust of Wang’s safety conscious nature to reassure Saneeta and give her space to grow some confidence. Trust of Phil’s methodical, by the books approach to set Judith off on a good footing. Ultimately trust of Saneeta and Judith to fulfil their potential.

“I’m also trusting you to help me stay alert and watch out for trouble. While we’re doing our job that is. You ready to go to work?”

He looks at me for a long moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“You did the right thing. You were concerned, you kept it private and you challenged me. I give you any more cause for worry, you do exactly the same. If I’m wrong, I’ll need to hear it. If you are, you get to learn from the experience.

“Are we good? Can we shift some of these spools now?”

“No problem.”

He picks up a spool and lifts it onto my back. I do the same for him and, with our radios back on, we follow Wang and Saneeta onto the South spar.

It’s crossed my mind that if Saneeta’s going to freeze out here, it’ll be early on, in which case it’ll be better if Mike and I are close at hand. Beyond that, Wang and Saneeta are more experienced, so will have their first reel installed faster than the other two.

Saneeta makes it to the end of the spar without incident. Her suit telemetry tells me her breathing and heart rate have settled. Crisis averted, hopefully.

For the next few hours Mike and I alternate between the South and North spars, delivering two spools of nanofilament out to their fixing points. Safety dictates we should stay together, besides it takes both of us to pick up and put down one of our burdens.

The work is harder than it sounds. Just moving in a space suit in full gravity is exhausting enough. Add in the bulky load, the narrowness of the beam, the necessity to move tethers every fifty feet, and even a journey of half a mile becomes an adventure. The distances become shorter as the day progresses, and that in itself adds a psychological boost, bringing the end of our labours in sight even as we reach the point where tiredness might make things dangerous.

Lunchtime sees all but four of the spools delivered. Saneeta and Wang have installed seven spools with Phil and Judy completing five. I call a halt, and we all stop where we are. Lunch is whatever concoction has been loaded into the suits, which happens to be a surprisingly tasty stew today – liquidised, of course.

The suit radios mean we can all talk together, even though we’re spread apart. To start with everyone is too tired or too caught up with watching the world drift by to say anything, but silence rarely lasts long when there are women about.

Judith coughs nervously. “Sir?”

“What’s on your mind, Judy?” I have my suspicions, but I’ve been wrong before.

“I’ve, er, I’ve seen you about the base. You’re usually, er. Well, I mean, I don’t think I’ve really met anyone like you. Not to talk to. I mean, you always look really good, but I’ve always wondered… It’s just that all the men I know…”

“Why do I choose to wear dresses?” I put her out of her misery.

There’s no stigma attached to my lifestyle choice these days, not like in my grandparents’ time, but the TG community is still something of an emergent minority in the world, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise when I find people like Judith. Openness and honesty generally helps answer their questions. The expectant silence suggests my audience is larger than just her.

“I suppose the short answer is for the same reasons most women do. I like the way a dress looks and feels. I especially like the way it makes me feel – more attractive, more confident, more myself.”

“But most guys…”

“Most guys have their own ideas about how they want to live, but that’s no reason why I should have to copy them.”

“I’m not sure I understand. I don’t mean to be rude or anything; I’m just curious.”

“You’re not being rude, and I appreciate the chance to explain my perspective. The more open minded people there are in the world who understand where people like me are coming from, the sooner we’ll be accepted.”

“I thought people like you were accepted,” Mike adds to the conversation.

“I suppose to a large extent we are, but I still get treated to a lot of uneasy looks and awkward silences. International law means I have the right to express myself as I want without anyone objecting, but that doesn’t automatically mean everyone has come to terms with it. There are a lot of people who keep their disapproval to themselves.”

“Alright,” Judith says. “Please go ahead and explain.”

I pause for a few seconds, gathering my thoughts.

“What’s your understanding of gender?” I ask. My mum always told me lessons are best learned when the student is involved in the process.

“Er, I’m not really sure.”

“Anyone then, since the rest of you seem just as interested. Let’s do the same as before. Tell me something you know about gender.”

“Well, there’s men and women,” Phil offers.

“A sound, if obvious, start. What else?”

“We’re different,” Saneeta says.

“In what way?” I prompt her. “Let’s get the axiomatic baseline established.”

“The what?”

“Let’s be clear about what everyone knows for certain. How are we different? Start with physically.”

“Well, er, it’s obvious. I mean…”

“Mainly it’s the sexual organs,” Mike says, “but there’s more to it. Men are bigger, stronger, hairier.”

“Smellier,” Judith offers, eliciting a giggle from Saneeta.

“Interesting points,” I interject before someone takes offense, “and increasingly inaccurate.

“Genitalia is a defining difference, at least physically. Height? I went to school with a girl who described herself as five foot thirteen, which not only shows that it’s a misconception, but that it’s a commonly held one. Strength? My flying takes me to Africa quite a lot and I definitely would not want to arm wrestle most of the African women I’ve met.”

I’m rewarded by a round of chuckles.

“As for smell, here’s a challenge for you girls. Don’t wash for a week, and we’ll do the same. Let’s find out who’s the smelliest at the end.”

“That’s not fair,” Judith says.

“Actually, I think it is.” Wang makes his first contribution. “We’re talking about physical differences here. Men tend to smell more either because they’re less fastidious about washing, or because they generally exert themselves more, both of which come down to behavioural differences.”

“Thank-you Wang. And since we’re talking about the purely physical, pretty much the only means we have of defining gender is by considering differences in genitalia. Unlike all our other options, it gives us an almost binary distinction…”

“Almost?” Phil asks.

“There are relatively rare occurrences of hermaphroditism, androgeny, chromosomal differences like Kleinfelter’s syndrome where an individual is born with two X chromosomes and a Y, that sort of thing. For the most part though, the closest we can come to defining gender physically is by genitalia.

“The rest comes from a human tendency to look for patterns and categorise accordingly. Yes, men tend to be taller than women, but if that gives us a sense that tall women or short men are somehow deficient, then we are unfairly imposing standards on individuals who can’t help the way they were made. The same applies to strength or any of the other characteristics we consider to be predominantly either masculine or feminine.”

“I think I see what you’re leading to,” Phil says. “

I smile. I’ve worked with Phil before so I know how ordered he likes life to be. He told me once that he has a touch of autism, though I’m not sure if that was an attempt at humour. Certainly he finds it hard to accept change without logical explanation, so it’s pleasing that he seems to be following my logic.

“The same applies to mental and emotional norms,” I continue. I can imagine Phil’s head nodding as my explanation heads down the path he’s expecting. “It could be argued that we have more control over those things. If you look at different periods in history, different cultures, different sub-cultures even, you’ll see that a great many of them are marked by a group commitment to particular norms…”

“What do you mean by that?” Saneeta asks.

“Well, take your Indian heritage for instance,” I say. “How would you describe the caste system if not a culturally imposed norm for different levels of society?”

“It’s not all bad though, is it?” Wang adds. “I’m not sure if it’s directly related to caste, but the Indian culture has always had a far more open mind towards the transgendered, hasn’t it?”

“If you’re talking about the hijra, then I don’t think so,” Saneeta says. “They’ve been recognised for thousands of years, certainly, but it’s only been recently that they’ve gained any amount of acceptance in Indian society. My grandparents talk about them almost as being a caste in themselves and little better than outcasts.

“I see what you say about the caste system though, but what about the rest of the world?”

“In the Middle East there are still some places where women are expected to wear a hajib. If you go back a century or more in just about any western culture, you’ll find both a dress code and a code of behaviour, unwritten for the most part, which is highly gender specific.”

“I don’t follow,” Judith interrupts gently. “You say that we can’t choose what we are physically, but we can mentally?”

“There’s a mean in both cases, but there’s also quite a wide spread. We can’t do much about individuals who are significantly different in physical ways. In the past we used to treat them as freaks and oddities, only fit to be gawped at in carnivals, but these days we’re a lot more accepting of physical difference, at least in part because we’ve become a lot more cosmopolitan as a species.

“Mental and emotional norms have always been treated differently since we have a higher degree of flexibility in those areas, but it has become apparent that this flexibility doesn’t have as great a degree of plasticity as has always been supposed.”

“Plasticity?” Mike weighs in for the first time.

“Permanent change. When we impose a change on our behaviour, when we act under imposed restrictions, we put our minds under constant stress.

“You know that exercise when you extend your arms either side and keep them at shoulder height, usually while holding weights? You know how it doesn’t feel like much to start with, but over time it becomes increasingly painful? People with stronger muscles and shorter arms find it easier than most.”

“Yeah,” Phil says, “but if you do it enough, you get stronger muscles.”

“Agreed, but does it ever stop hurting?” Silence suggests the point has been taken. “Now imagine that you’re only doing this exercise when you’re trying to be someone you’re not. Phil, imagine yourself trying to fit in with a group of guys who only want to talk about boxing.” Phil has a largely self-inflicted reputation for disliking sports, especially violent ones.

“I couldn’t do that.”

“You’d be surprised what you could do if you had no choice. You could read up on the statistics and fake it, but you’d never feel comfortable in that environment, and the more time you spent acting outside your comfort zone…”

“I see what you’re saying.”

“Gay and trans people have lived with that stress throughout history. In a lot of places and periods, laws were imposed against free expression of their natural tendencies, so most learned to live with the discomfort and the rest found ways of relieving it in clandestine ways.

“Then the LGBTQ movement gained a lot of momentum towards the end of the twentieth century, and following on from that, a number of medical studies showed statistically significant links between certain genes that affect how much oestrogen and testosterone influence brain development, giving us a plausible theory to explain both gay and trans behaviour as being part of our nature rather than something that we learn. Somewhere along the way, legislation appeared in a great many countries protecting the rights of affected individuals, and over the last few decades, more and more people like me have felt safe, or perhaps safer, in coming out into the open.”

“Is that really what it is?” Mike’s question. “I don’t know what the percentage of trans people is in the world, but it strikes me as significant enough that I doubt most would have been able to hide throughout human history.”

“It’s about five percent I believe, maybe higher now. It may have increased over the last couple of centuries due to the broadening of the gene pool.”

“The what?” Saneeta asks.

“The broadening of the gene-pool. For most of its history, the population of the human race has remained below one billion worldwide. It passed that milestone in the early eighteen hundreds and has been growing geometrically since then, at least until recently.

“Before the technological improvements starting in that age, particularly in medicine and agriculture, we were subject to evolution in the same way as every other creature on this planet. A significant proportion of our offspring were destined to die before reaching an age where they could have children of their own, so those least suited to the environment wouldn’t pass on their genes. It’s quite possible that a lot of these were misfits in society such as the gay and trans population.

“Thanks largely to individuals like Fritz Haber and Carl Bosch, Alexander Fleming and Florence Nightingale, we became capable of feeding and treating the starving and the sick and a wider variety of people survived long enough to procreate. One of the reasons we have such diversity in our current world.”

“The population’s not increasing now though, is it?” Saneeta asks.

“No, we’ve stabilised at around twelve billion, which is still an incredible strain on the planet’s resources. I don’t envy the people who are currently working to reduce it.”

“How did we stop the increase?”

“It’s largely considered to be down to the efforts of charities in the early part of this century to reduce child mortality in what was referred to as the developing world.”

“I don’t get that,” Phil says. “How can reducing child mortality lower the rate of population growth?”

“Most people in the developing world believed that they should have as many children as possible in order to increase the probability of having at least one survive to look after them in old age. By improving the likelihood that all children would survive to adulthood, it was possible to re-educate them to have smaller families. This was better for the women as well since multiple births take their toll.”

“You know a lot about this stuff, Chris,” Judith says.

“I kind of started with a vested interest in understanding what’s influenced people like myself, and I can thank my grandparents for that, but it grew into a fascination over what’s influenced the human race as a whole.”

“That kind of thinking worries me,” Mike chips in from beside me. “It all feels a little bit Orwellian. You know Big Brother and all that?”

“More Asimovian I would say. Have you come across the Foundation series by Isaac Asimov? Nineteen eighty-four is all about controlling a society whereas Foundation is all about influencing it.”

“I’m not sure I see much difference.”

“So, you don’t see any value in education then?”

“What?”

“Education is our way of influencing people. We have a developing idea of what is best for us all and we teach people what this is and encourage them to participate. There are still people in the world who have ideas that are outdated and unhelpful to the human race as a whole. We don’t insist that they keep to our beliefs, but we do try to help them understand. Apart from ensuring that any negative impact on our fragile world is kept to a minimum, we give them space to follow their beliefs.

“And since we’ve now drifted quite some distance from our original topic, what say we get back to work. We’re nearly done linking up the winches, but we still need to reel in the old net and deploy the new one. If everyone’s rested enough, we should press on. I’ll be happy to carry on any discussion you like in Ten Forward later this evening.”

We return to work and set up the remaining reels in just half an hour. Wang and Saneeta finish their spar and Mike and I install the last two reels on the North spar once we’ve delivered the last of them.

Next comes the system test. There’s usually one or two glitchy units in a large job like this, but for once everything works as it should. We send filaments unreeling and call the progress in to the net teams below.

“Ahead of schedule, Chris. Are you trying to make us look bad?”

“Hi Bradley. Nothing like that, I’m just lucky to have a brilliant team with me today.”

Everyone’s resting in the elevator, but they still have energy enough to raise weary thumbs in acknowledgement.

Mike approaches and gives my suit a full inspection.

“Thanks, Mike.” I return the favour. “Okay everyone, on your feet. When you’re tired is when you’re in the most danger, so shake it off and give each other a thorough look over, then you can suck on any of the stew you may have left over and enjoy the view. How are you doing, Saneeta?”

“Just great thanks. Wang’s been brilliant, and… Wow, yeah, that is quite a view.”

The net team reports the old and new nets attached at all points so I start to reel them in. This is when the glitches show. We have two reels stall on us, both on the North spar, but both quite close. Another reason to work in from the outside. Mistakes tend to be made later in the day. Judith looks worried, but I smile reassuringly and send her and Phil out to the further one. Mike and I take the closer of the two and we’re back on track ten minutes later. One of the South spar motors jams up close to the end and that’s more than halfway out. Wang leads Saneeta out to take care of it but it turns out not to be as easy a fix as the other two. They were both failed components in the reel – at least officially. The one Mike and I fixed was badly seated and not making good connection, but Judy needs encouragement more than anything. Wang and Saneeta’s problem is a reel that’s not been winding in neatly. It’s now jammed and overheating.

This is why we use so many though. We can afford for a few of them to fail so we carry on winding. With the tension off their recalcitrant piece of hardware, Wang and Saneeta disconnect it from the slave circuit and let it out until the filament is winding properly, then they wind it back in again, keeping an eye on it. We have the nets fully raised before they’re half done.

“Okay,” Bradley calls a minute later. “The new net’s ready for deployment and what’s left of the old one is ready for us to gather in. Let them down, but keep it slow.”

This, of course, is the tricky part. The new net was laid out in its neat folds on one of the lower spars when we lift both it an the old one, so going up was something we could do quickly. The old one is ragged and largely missing, so gathering it into the parallel spar isn’t so easy, and with one reel malfunctioning and hanging free, we have to be careful not to snag the hook on the new net. The nets really aren’t particularly strong and the old one is especially fragile, so deployment takes the longest time of all.

Not much for most of us to do but watch the world go by, but Wang and Saneeta still have their glitching reel to sort, and I have all the rest to monitor.

“Wow,” I hear Judith breathe. She’s following the same video feed in the helmet head up display as me. “It’s nearly all gone.”

“There’ll be between a quarter and a third remaining, but that just shows it’s doing its job.” Phil’s her buddy, so takes the lead in answering her questions.

The new net is a fine mesh of thin grey wires whereas the old one is more holes than metal.

“So what stops the sodium reacting with the oxygen?”

“Not a lot. It’s mixed into an alloy which gives the net the strength to support itself and reduces the reactivity of the sodium to some extent, but the dull grey appearance you can see is a thin layer of sodium oxide over the metal mesh.”

“So if that’s the case, how come it reacts with the chlorine?”

“Chlorine is more reactive than oxygen. We put a large enough positive charge on the net to encourage a reaction so whenever we encounter a chlorine radical it displaces the oxygen.”

“Forming sodium chloride and releasing the oxygen. That’s neat.”

“Yes. The sodium chloride falls back down into the ocean, the sodium left behind reforms a thin protective layer of oxide and round and round we go, at least until the net is more holes than mesh. Like that one.”

“What happens to the old nets?”

“I fly them back down to the surface,” I say, continuing to keep an eye on my monitors “where the left-over sodium alloy is used to make the next new net that I then bring back up here.”

It’s a clever idea and the main reason for Cloudbase’s existence. It took a while, but the world governments eventually managed to persuade even the last remaining countries to put tighter control on the release of CFCs and the holes in the ozone layer over the two poles finally stopped expanding and started showing signs of repairing themselves. The natural recovery was slow though, so an international co-operative set about building a structure to accelerate the repair.

The holes exist over the poles because the effect of halogen radicals on ozone is greatest at low temperatures, that and the rotation of the Earth means that the ozone layer is thinnest there. With the atmosphere densest and highest over the equator, it made sense to locate the repair efforts there, so Cloudbase was constructed to drift around the middle of the planet, high above any weather that might endanger it. It hangs multiple nets of positively charged sodium alloy beneath it and trawls the atmosphere for the chlorine and fluorine radicals that catalyse the breakdown of ozone in the stratosphere. These radicals would eventually make it out into space, but it was considered worthwhile making any effort to remove them more rapidly. The halogens, being naturally electronegative even in radical form, are attracted to the positively charged sodium and react with it to form sodium chloride or fluoride. This is mainly the same salt as is found in the ocean in any case, so when it falls back to Earth it makes almost no difference to the seas where it lands, but at the same time it makes a significant difference to the atmosphere. The rate of improvement in the ozone layer is measurable and the world governments are currently talking about investing in a second cloudbase, which will add to my other job a little as I’m sure I’ll need to fly between bases eventually.

It takes a couple of hours to deploy the new net, by which time I’m beginning to reach the limits of my endurance. The filaments are unhooked and wound back up onto the reels and I delegate Mike to oversee the retrieval of the spools and settle back to enjoy the view a little. I still get to stow the reels as they are delivered to me, so it’s not a complete cop out. Mike constantly reminds the teams to work slowly and carefully which means that the day ends without incident.

“Had enough of the view everyone?” I ask.

Exhausted smiles are my reward, which is par for the course on a day like this. No-one is particularly upset when I suggest climbing aboard the elevator for the ride back down. Leading by example, Mike and I maintain our buddy system checks all the way until we’re back inside the pressurised environment. The others do the same, then we all help each other out of our EVA suits. By the time everyone is back in civis we’ve been on the clock for well over eight hours. I tell everyone when I expect to be in Ten Forward with the offer of drinks on me for a job very well done. They head off to their bunks and their showers, but my own work still has a few loose ends in need of tying.

“Great job as usual, Chris,” Laura says as I step onto the control deck.

“Give me a team like that every time and I can almost guarantee it.”

“No issues then?”

“Just one of the spools not reeling in properly. I’ve sent it to maintenance for an overhaul.”

“How were the girls?”

“Judith did really well for a first time. A couple of minor mistakes, but better than I managed on my first spacewalk.”

Laura smiles. “And Saneeta?”

“No issues. Didn’t pretend her acrophobia wasn’t an issue, coped well with it with Wang’s help. I think she even started enjoying the view towards the end.”

“Great. I’ll schedule a chat with the two of them soon and see where we take it from there. Nothing else?”

I shook my head. “A great team. Very professional.”

“I need a second for Stewart’s team in a couple of weeks.”

“Wang then.”

“Not Mike?”

“Possibly, but Stewart doesn’t like to be second guessed and I think Wang would be more diplomatic if he had to speak out. Mike did good today, but if I’d been Stewart, there might have been some tension.”

“Noted. Now, I know you’re too bright not to expect a little tit for tat over this.”

“What is it you’d like me to do?”

“I have a few classes scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Not a problem.”

“Wait till you’ve met the classes.”

“Arkansas?”

“Not quite, but there are a couple of younger classes from Louisiana. It’s a mix as usual. You’ll have some college and university level and above, all bright, all – well one hopes – scientifically minded, then you have a mixture of younger minds. I think you’ll find a lot of them more inclined to listen to you than otherwise.”

“I take it the younger classes are going to be along the lines of what we are doing up here and why science isn’t evil.”

“Pretty much.”

“How about the older classes?”

“We have a class of aviation engineers who are going to want to know everything you do and more about the Angels.”

“I’m amazed aviation engineering is still being taught with how few planes we have flying these days.”

“Few is not none, and we still need trained engineers maintaining and improving our aircraft.”

“Agreed. What else.”

“One sociology, one history. Two classes combining for a double, both high school equivalent. I know you don’t have qualifications in that area, but you know your stuff better than anyone up here who does.”

“Okay, next.”

“College level atmospheric studies. I’m sure you could fill that one with what you were doing today.”

“CFCs aren’t the only issue.”

“Well, do what you will with it. Your classes, you teach them the way you want to.”

“Which means no restrictions on dress code.”

“As I say, your classes, but you do have those two from Louisiana, and there may be some deniers in the high school classes.”

“Yeah, but where else are they going to have any exposure to someone like me.”

“Record the lessons in case there’s any blowback.”

“Always.”

“Go on then, buzz off. Rachael’s been off shift for a couple of hours. You stay here any longer and I’m going to have get you to skip a shift.”

I stood. “Could you share the TOIL between Rachael and myself?” TOIL stood for Time Off In Lieu. I work a long shift, I get a shorter one later on to balance out. If the shift is considerably too long, the regs require that I get a shift off. As I’ve said before, Cloudbase is considered a high-risk environment and they take safety very seriously. Tired workers tend to be careless workers and careless workers are more likely to make mistakes. Mistakes on a place like Cloudbase quite often lead to life threatening situations. Laura’s a great boss though. She knows that one hour off in the company of my significant other is worth two off alone with a book.

“You were two hours over the eight today, which is still on the quick side. Call it three with the debrief.” Generous since I’d only been here fifteen minutes. “I can’t do much about tomorrow. Your teaching schedule is pretty much a full shift, so how about I schedule you both for six and a half hours the day after?”

“Any chance you could make it happen on Friday?”

“Sorry Chris, you have a taxi run scheduled for Friday.”

One of the rare passenger runs. Less likely to be delays though, unless…

“Who, what, where?”

“Professor Farouk, solar energy specialist, Cairo.”

I sighed. Cairo was a long way back the way I had come and professors tended to run on their own time. Not just that, but the return flight would be longer still.

“I know, and I’m sorry. We’re having problems with the new coating on the mylar balloons. Our people think it’s because they’re higher up than the spec allows, but only Professor Farouk will be able to tell us for certain and what we might do about it.”

“So, there’s also a chance we’ll have to wait for materials.”

“A chance yes, but the professor is a seasoned traveller with us, so delays should be a minimum. Besides, you knew what you were signing up for when you trained as an Angel pilot.”

“I guess I did. I just came back from a flight though, couldn’t Rhapsody or Symphony take this one?”

“There’s likely to be a long list of materials to bring with, weight will be critical. You’re instructed to forgo the mail if necessary.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“But this time you will if you need to. We need the professor up here with everything that might be needed to fix this problem.”

“How much can we source up here?”

“Already factored in. You’re only bringing what we can’t provide”

“How much does the good professor weigh?”

“I didn’t ask, just said what the payload was likely to be.”

“How low can I go on fuel reserve?”

“I don’t like it, but regulation minimum.”

That told me how serious it was. Regs said a minimum of half an hour reserve, but the upper winds could be capricious and could easily add an hour to a long flight like this on our return.

“Chris, don’t stress about it. The flight isn’t until Friday, and you know the way things run around here. If you don’t like the plan…”

“…wait five minutes. Okay Colonel.” I snap a salute and grin at her scowl.

Back at the apartment, Rachael has put together a fresh salad for us both, capitalising on her access to greenery fresh from the hydroponics bays and with the added advantage that it didn’t need heating. I’m ravenous, but not so much so that I’m not going to shower and change first. Rachael joins me in the shower, to save water you understand, although we do have our desert first.

Back in a dress, I feel the day’s stress fall away like a Himalayan avalanche in summer. Rachael smiles at the change in my expression.

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“It wasn’t bad at all,” I say. “A very professional team, everyone pulled together and we had an almost glitch free run. Nothing dangerous and nothing to slow us down.”

“Then what?”

“The colonel has me teaching tomorrow, then I have a taxi run on Friday.”

“That sucks. I was hoping we could make something of the weekend.”

“How about we try to do that on Thursday then? We’re both on short shifts after my daring exploits in the rigging today.”

“How short?” Her eyes brighten.

“Six and a half hours. And there’s a possibility I’ll be back by Sunday.”

“Wow! It must be urgent.”

“And you know I can’t talk about it.” Standard procedure. Human nature hasn’t changed enough to fix the rumour mill, and misinformation spreads quicker than an Australian bushfire. The only way to counter it is to limit its fuel supply.

“You’d tell me if there was anything to worry about?”

I’m not sure I would. Yet again, too much scope for panic to emerge.

The station has protocols for evacuation if things go totally south. Everyone has a parachute and oxygen mask they’re supposed to maintain in good condition, and even if the balloons started exploding – not as serious as it sounds because there really isn’t a lot of oxygen at one hundred and twenty thousand feet – it should be possible for everyone to jump before the situation became too dangerous. The jump isn’t something anyone would do lightly though, because the cold and low pressure would likely cause a fair amount of harm before anyone fell back into the liveable zone. No-one wanted to stress about the possibility of that in near future.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I say in my most reassuring voice. I hope that’s the case. If the new solar coating is breaking down, it may result in balloon rupture, and even though we only have a few testing the new coating, there is always the possibility of explosions spreading. I hoped Professor Farouk would be able to fix the issue before it became one. An issue I mean.

I wasn’t even sure if the issue was that serious. Laura had mentioned solar specialist and the new coating and I’d pretty much gone straight to the worst scenario. It may just be that the coating wasn’t performing as expected, or it was peeling off. See what I mean about rumours and wildfires?

The salad – along with some plant-based protein – is enough to satisfy. I mention Ten Forward and Rachael is more up for the excursion than me. I’m tired and I have to do some preparation for the lessons before tomorrow, but I did say to the gang that I’d buy them drinks, so no real way out of it.

Temperature in the station is kept at a comfortable twenty degrees Celsius, so no need for cardigans or jackets. Just a lightweight summer dress with short cap sleeves and a hemline below mid-thigh. Comfort and coolness, plus it shows off my slim figure to best effect. I have a bra preloaded with silicon assets which fill it out nicely. Rachael helps me with my hair and a minimal amount of makeup as this is just casual social.

Judith and Saneeta are there and wave us over. Judith looks a little put out that I have someone on my arm, but she shouldn’t be surprised that I’m in a relationship, and this is the easiest way to say it.

“Is this it?” I ask.

“Wang said he might come along in a while,” Judith says.

“And you know Phil?” Saneeta adds. “Maybe it was your mentioning boxing that put him off.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Mike says from behind me. “Woah, Chris, you look stunning. Enough to confuse a guy proper good.”

“Hands off, he’s mine,” Rachael says, playfully, though I’m not sure if she’s making sure the message gets through to Judith.

“Okay, so who wants what?” The girls already have drinks, but that’s no reason why they can’t pre-order their next ones for when they’re ready. Mike adds a request for Wang along with his own and the girls tell me what they’d like next. I tap the order into the tabletop console along with delay instructions for the girls and Wang and acknowledge the charge against my credits. Mike’s, Rachael’s and my drinks are delivered to the table a few moments later. “Cheers.” I raise my vodka orange and receive a round of good-natured clinks in return. “Now, as promised, I’m happy to answer any more questions you might have.”

“I have one,” Judith says. “Where did you get that dress? It is gorgeous!”

I smile and thank her. “Perks of being an Angel,” I say. “I get regular trips to the ground and, since I’m underweight, I get to bring a few kilos of extras every now and again.”

“Well, next time you’re wherever you bought that, maybe you could pick me one up.”

“I’m not going to make any promises,” I say. “I have a lot of demands on my spare allocation, but if I ever have space, I’ll give it some thought.”

“You’ve had that dress for a while now, though haven’t you Chris?” Rachael says. “And you do need to clear out your wardrobe a bit.”

“It’s true,” I say. “How do you feel about wearing men’s clothes, Judith?”

“I think I could be okay with that, if you’re sure?”

“You’d be doing him a favour, and me. Living space is limited up here as it is, and between us altogether too much closet space is taken up with clothes.”

“I’ll wash it when I’m done this evening and pop it in your pigeon-hole in the next day or two.”

I share a look with Rachael, who’s looking a little smug. This is going to be a conversation for later. Maybe once I suggest an auction for the clothes we don’t wear much anymore, she won’t think it’s as funny. I mean I do like this dress, but I can easily get myself another one, and I won’t miss it particularly, but it’s a bit much when your significant other offers the clothes off your back to someone she doesn’t even know.

“You mentioned your grandparents,” Mike says. “Who are they, or were they?”

“Are they,” I say. “You’ll have heard of them I think. My grandfather is Steven Palmer, you know the author of the Night and Day books? My grandmother is Dr Portia Allen-Palmer.”

“Your grandmother’s Dr Portia Allen?”

“She’s been double barrelling the surname for a few years now, but her seminal work was published under Dr Portia Allen, yes.”

I spot Wang coming into the bar and wave him over. He spots us and makes his way across to us. I press for his delayed order to be delivered and it arrives about the same time as he eases his way through the denser part of the crowd and makes it to us.

“Who’s Dr Portia Allen?”

“Palmer. Dr Portia Allen-Palmer,” I correct gently.

“She wrote the definitive work on the transgender condition,” Mike says. “It’s required reading if you study psychology. I had no idea we were in the presence of such esteemed lineage.”

“What’s going on?” Wang accepts his drink with a nod of thanks and takes a sip.

“Chris here has been holding out on us,” Mike says with a grin. “It turns out he has a distinguished heritage.”

“Oh?”

“His grandmother is none other than Dr Portia Allen-Palmer.”

“Listen guys, it’s no big deal. I know she’s famous in her field, but that doesn’t mean I’m anything special.”

“Does that mean you brown nosed your way into your current position?” Wang takes another sip of his drink. I think he’s joking, but I’ve always found Orientals hard to read.

“Of course not. I Earned my way here the same as you.” I hate sounding defensive, but I guess I backed my way into that one.

“Then you’re something special. It takes a lot to become an Angel pilot, and you were justifiably our supervisor up there today. A light touch, and a good one. I’ll be on one of your teams anytime you like.

“You’re no slouch as a social historian either. I learned a lot from you today and wouldn’t mind learning a bit more.”

I adjust my seating position and turn towards him slightly. “Go ahead.”

So, he asks a series of probing questions on what it means to be transgendered. The answers to most of them come from my grandmother’s book – her first one, I mean. The one that formed the foundation of her reputation.

She based it on her husband, my granddad, who is at least as trans as me. It’s a good opportunity to talk about how they met, at school as the result of a stupid bet. That in itself gives us a good basis for discussion over whether my grandfather’s trans nature was formed as a result of being tricked into wearing a dress – Mike’s preferred stance still – or merely revealed. By talking through his story, I’m able to give a strong argument for the latter which reinforces what I’d said earlier about trans people living under mental and emotional tension.

It also gives us a good basis for discussing the two edges of the sword, the way trans people affect the less flexibly minded when they express their trans nature and the way those same people affect the trans community when they push them into hiding. Everyone has an opinion, including Rachael, who’s most vocal of all, and we work our way through several drinks until our arguments start to lose cohesion.

Somewhere in the middle of it, I realise I have classes to teach and very little capacity to prepare them. I drain what remains of my drink – probably not the brightest idea – and excuse myself from the ongoing discussion. Rachael also takes a last sip of her drink and stands to join me. Nothing new has been said, but the exchange of information has been friendly and open, so it feels like time well spent. ‘Maybe I didn’t catch any fish’, as grandad’s vicar likes to say, ‘but I certainly influenced quite a few.’

“Are you angry with me?” Rachael gives me a little pout and the drunken version of her sexy walk, which is more comical than anything.

“For giving away my clothes for me? Why should I be upset about a thing like that?” I keep my voice light, but I can feel the little niggle inside me. “It wasn’t a bad idea, and we do have a lot of stuff. Why don’t we spend some of our spare time on Thursday going through each other’s things and make a pile of stuff we think the other person could afford to get rid of, then we could run a charity auction and raise funds for some good cause. What do you think?”

“You are mad at me. I only wanted to see how she’d react to the thought of wearing your clothes.”

“She did alright.”

“She did that. You know, if we break up, she’d be a good port for you to weather the storm.”

“Do you think we’re likely to break up?”

“Not a conversation for when we’re this sozzled,” she says.

“That didn’t sound like a no.”

“Thursday. Put a pin in it till Thursday, please.”

It’s not an expression I’ve ever liked much. It goes back to one of the world wars and the idea of putting a pin back in a grenade so that it’s safe, or at least as safe as a fistful of high explosives can be. The problem is, even with the pin back in, there’s still an explosion waiting to happen.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“A little, why?”

Rachael is great in bed; always has been. If there’s a possibility I’m not going to be getting my just desserts for much longer, then sozzled or not that seems reason enough to partake as much as possible.

Rachael evidently agrees.

The morning sees us waking early as usual. Rachael is first into the bathroom with me diving in as soon as she’s free. Drinking loads of water before bed may reduce the hangover, but what it does to the bladder the following morning is nobody’s business.

My head is clear-ish, but my stomach is a little uncomfortable. Rachael has coffee and dried toast for us by the time I’ve milked my kidneys. She finishes hers while climbing into a pair of overalls, via the shower, and scoots out the door, giving me a guilty peck on the cheek as she goes. It feels like the end of something good, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. I have a couple of hours to prepare for class, including getting dressed. Whatever will come to pass between Rachael and me will have to wait for another time.

Once you’ve taught a bit, it comes as a surprise how readily you can teach without much prepared. The younger classes don’t need much other than a fairly basic presentation on what Cloudbase is and does, the material for which is readily available. What time that doesn’t take can easily be filled with a question-and-answer session. My last session of the morning is the aviation engineers, and if I can’t blag my way through a systems description on an aircraft I’ve flown twice a week for nearly a decade, then I’m not the pilot I think I am. That has the morning taken care of and I haven’t even touched my coffee yet.

The afternoon is sociology and history with mid-teens which promises to be the most challenging. The climate class, as Laura say, I can more or less get away with talking through what we did yesterday and how Cloudbase is doing its bit to fill in the holes in the ozone layer, but reducing greenhouse gases is a bigger topic and they’ll want something on that. I have a few notes I’ve made. Not quite a presentation, but definitely something I can use as a guidelines for a talk. I transfer them onto my tablet and reach for my coffee and toast. The toast is flavourless, but it settles my stomach just as the coffee settles my brain. I check the clock. I have a couple of hours before I need to get ready and guess I’ll need most of it preparing the double afternoon lesson.

A second cup of coffee, a rare indulgence this early in the morning, bump starts my brain and I complete my preparations with half an hour to spare. It means I can take a leisurely shower and spend a little time choosing what to wear.

I settle on a cream silk blouse I haven’t worn in ages and one of Rachael’s skirts. We started our relationship by sharing something from each other’s wardrobe, it seemed sadly appropriate that if we were to end it, we should do so in the same way.

Besides, the skirt is a deep maroon that’s almost brown. I don’t have anything quite like it, and if I’m going to insist on wearing these clothes, I should at least be respectful enough not to be flamboyant with it. The overall effect is subdued, a little like my mood. I pull my hair into a high ponytail and the librarian look is complete.

The school room is in section eleven, near to the bar we patronised the previous night. It’s dubbed the holodeck by the same vintage sci-fi buffs who insisted on the bar being in section ten and having the name it has. It’s actually proven a little inconvenient in the past when I’ve been scheduled to link to the outside world at the same time as a party has been running in Ten Forward. Sound proofing is relatively effective when the sections making up the station are separated from each other by almost vacuum, with the atmospheric pressure outside being one tenth what it is on the ground, but enough sound is conducted through the solid structure of the station, that the dull thump, thump of dance music still makes it through. It’s possible to filter the noise out from the transmission, but it’s still hard to concentrate with the constant beat in your ears.

The place is mercifully quiet this morning. I fire up the screens and set up the images of the station I’m going to use for my first lesson then open the transmission feed that will give me one whole wall screen looking into the classes I’m going to be addressing, just as they should have a decent sized screen looking into my environment.

The screen flickers and I find myself looking into a fairly rustic classroom. The school teacher, an elderly lady with her hair in a tight, grey bun, stiffens at the sight of me. Apparently she’s been warned about me and she doesn’t approve.

My classroom, my choice.

“Good morning class.” I keep my voice soft, but I’m not trying to disguise that I’m male. I also left my boobs back at the apartment so I doubt I’m fooling anybody, not that I’m trying to. “My name’s Chris,” make of that what you will, “and I’ll be explaining a few things about the ISB. Can anybody tell me what those letters stand for?”

I maintain the momentum of the lesson, concentrating on what they’re here to learn and only allowing responses to my questions. There are several attempts to steer me away from the topic in hand, so I’m prepared for things to go off the rails when we get to question time towards the end.

“Alright,” I say mentally preparing myself for the onslaught. “Do any of you have any questions? Preferably about the International Stratospheric Base.”

A little girl in pigtails and a pinafore dress is the first to put her hand up. I invite her to speak.

“Why are you wearing a dress?”

“I imagine for the same reason as you,” I say smiling. “I like to wear pretty things.”

“But you’re not a girl.”

“No I’m not. Do you think that’s a good enough reason why I shouldn’t wear a skirt if I want to?”

I point at a tall, gangly boy in overalls standing towards the back of the class.

“My daddy says ya’ll’re the spawn of Satan and ya’ll’re going to hell.”

This is the sort of thing I’ve been expecting. I have my response ready.

“Your father is entitled to his opinion, just as you’re entitled to yours. I hope you’ll be prepared to consider the evidence before deciding what you believe.”

A shorter boy next to the last speaker raises his hand then speaks without being invited.

“My daddy says the Bible says what you’re doing is wrong and that’s reason enough to condemn you.”

“I would be interested to hear which part of the Bible your father believes says this. The only passage I know of has an entirely different meaning when you look at it in the language in which it was originally written.”

“What does that mean, mister?” It’s the first girl who spoke answering again

I look to the teacher. I know better than to go down this route without permission. In the past it’s led to the connection being shut down and formal complaints being lodged. She looks uncertain for a moment then gives me a hesitant nod.

“Who knows when and where the people in the Bible lived?” I ask, bringing up a spinning globe on the screen behind me.

Hands are raised and answers given. Within a little time we have zoomed in on the area of focus of most of the activity in the Old and New Testaments, and established that it took place over two thousand years ago.

“So, what language do you think these people spoke? Do you think it was English?”

They all shake their heads which is encouraging. At least they’re not beyond reason.

“You’re all right,” I say, smiling encouragingly. “Around a thousand years ago, the only place where the people spoke English, or Anglish as it would have been known then, was here.” At a gesture, the map shifts several thousand miles to an island in the North Sea, “and if someone from that time were to speak to you, you wouldn’t be able to understand what they were saying.” I read a short excerpt from Beowulf in Old English, just enough to have them sharing confused looks.

“So what languages would have been spoken by the people in the Bible?” This isn’t a lesson on ancient languages after all, just a means to an end.

I receive a mix of guesses, things they’ve heard but maybe don’t understand. Latin, Green, Hebrew, Aramaic, Egyptian.

“Latin and Greek would be a possibility in New Testament times,” I say. “Latin would have been what the Romans spoke and Greek was the language of scholars back then, a lot like English is now. Egyptian would probably have been correct for Joseph right the way through to Moses, but Moses would have learned the language of his people, which would have been Hebrew.

“So, in order for us to have a Bible in English, someone would have needed to translate an ancient language, which was probably as different from its modern equivalent as Old English, like I just spoke to you, is from modern English.

“Given that that was the case, what do you think is the likelihood that the translators got it right first time?”

“With God’s help they would have.” This from a little girl standing up near the front.

“With God’s help I’m sure they would have, but do we know they had God’s help?”

“The Bible is the perfect revelation of God’s plan to us,” the teacher says. “He wouldn’t leave something like that to chance.”

“Under different circumstances I’d be inclined to discuss the first of your points. Perhaps I might respectfully suggest you look into it yourself.”

“You think I haven’t?”

“I’m not in a position to judge, but I am aware that most of the readily available information on the subject has a particularly pro-Christian spin to it.”

“You’re saying they’re lying.” I can see my words are causing her hackles to rise.

“Not as such, but when you have a vested interest in a particular outcome, there’s always a likelihood that you’ll look for supportive evidence for your argument. If you want a balanced opinion, you need to listen to both sides of the argument, even if you’re not inclined to agree. You risk biasing your own research otherwise.

“I’m not sure if making assumptions on God’s behalf is something you should do either. Doesn’t the book of Job warn against doing that? God has His reasons for doing what He does, and His ways aren’t ours.”

“You sound like you were a believer once.”

“He who began a good work in you…” I smile at her.

She smiles back. “Odd that you should quote scripture if you don’t believe it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I don’t believe it, I just don’t have the same unquestioning faith in it, especially the current translations we have of it .” I turn back to the class. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overlook you all. I’ve heard what you’ve had to say about my appearance, but I would like to say I’ve also heard arguments that tell me that God’s okay with me like this. If your teacher and your parents are happy, I’d be more than willing to talk to you about it, but I can’t really respond without their agreement. Other than that, do any of you have any questions specifically on the things you’ve learned about Cloudbase, as we all like to call the ISB?”

For a moment it looks like one or two of my hecklers might feel like pushing their luck, but their teacher is looking at them specifically and no-one else has a question.

“Well, thank you very much for taking the time to hear what I have to say. Adam and Eve were given the task of looking after the garden and everything in it, and we take that responsibility very seriously. As a race we came very close to ruining our beautiful world a few decades ago, but we are working hard to undo the damage we caused. If, in a few years, you might be interested in becoming a part of the healing of the world God gave us, there are a lot of ways you could get involved, and we would love to hear from you. Our time is up though, so I hope you have a great rest of the day.”

The teacher thanks me and instructs her class to do the same. There is something in her eye though, and I suspect I will hear more from her before the day is done.

The second class teacher seems intent on using the lesson as a way of demonstrating the evils of science, so my apparel gives her added fuel to burn. She seems intent on spending as much of the hour as she can to use me and my images of the station as an example of all that’s wrong with science. I let her have five minutes, during which time I reassess what I’m going to say.

I cough, loudly and insistently enough that it interrupts her flow.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” I’m not, but one of us has to stay civil. “The purpose of these lessons is to give classes around the world an opportunity to learn about the world from different perspectives, and to give their teachers a short rest from the teaching. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind me doing the job I’ve been asked to do?”

Her lips tighten and I’m immensely glad that looks have never had the capacity to cause harm. She smiles back at me with a vitriolic glare and cedes the room to me.

“Alright, good morning everyone. I have a question for you. Can anyone tell me what the Second Amendment says?”

A hand goes up. It belongs to a fairly athletic looking young man in an NRA tee shirt. I had a feeling he’d be able to answer and I indicate that he should.

“It gives us the right to bear arms.” He says it more as a challenge, which is understandable, given the recently ratified twenty-ninth amendment, limiting the sort of arms ordinary citizens are entitled to bear. It’s not a can of worms I particularly want to open here, though I personally agree that the increasing destructive power of modern weaponry has made the limitation a necessity.

“That’s right,” I say. “Would it be fair to say, given your choice of clothing, that you support the National Rifle Association stance on the Second Amendment?”

“Damned right I do.”

“Timmy!” The teacher’s growl tells me she has no tolerance for bad language, regardless of who’s talking.”

“There’s a slogan that the NRA has used quite a lot over the years. ‘Guns don’t kill people…’”

“’People kill people.’ Yeah, right.”

“I can tell you agree with the sentiment.”

“Dam…” He looks across at his teacher and decides to nod instead.

“I could make a similar argument for science,” I say. “Science isn’t evil, but sometimes people use science for evil.”

A little girl puts her hand up. “Like the atom bomb?” she asks without being invited to speak.

“There is a very strong argument for that, yes, but I’d like to talk to you about an area of science that has nothing to do with weapons. Have any of you heard of a man by the name of Thomas Midgely Junior?”

I’m faced by a sea of blank faces and gently shaking heads, and I have the hook for my lesson.

Part of my five-minute preparation had involved digging for suitable photographs. I put up the image of a stocky man in a suit with spectacles and a receding hairline, and begin my history lesson. Starting with early motor vehicles (appropriate photographs shown) and the problem of pre-ignition, leading to the hunt for an anti-knocking agent and Midgely’s development of tetra ethyl lead or TEL as a fuel additive to prevent this.

“Midgely knew the potential harmful effects of TEL, and he knew of effective and safe alternatives such as ethanol, but they were considerably more expensive, so he pushed to have his invention accepted and leaded fuels became the norm, starting in the nineteen twenties and running right the way through to the nineteen seventies when the introduction of catalytic converters meant TEL could no longer be used since it damaged the converters.

“Leaded fuels continued to be used right into the early part of this century, despite research showing an increase in atmospheric lead levels and in children worldwide, as well as strong evidence to suggest that this had an effect on mental health and violent criminal tendencies.

“You might argue that no-one could have predicted the damage caused by this substance, but there’s evidence to suggest Midgely and his boss, a man named Charles Kettering, knew full well that the use of their additive would have harmful effects, but they went ahead with its manufacturer anyway because of the amount of wealth that it generated for them.

“Midgely later developed a substance he named Freon, which was the first CFC, that’s chlorofluorocarbon, intended for use as a non-flammable, non-toxic refrigerant. It wasn’t until nineteen eighty-five that scientists discovered the holes in the ozone layer over our planet’s poles and linked this to the presence of halogen radicals from the CFCs in our atmosphere.

“This is, of course, the reason for the stratospheric base where I live and work. We lower electrically charged nets of sodium alloy into the atmosphere so it can react with any chlorine it finds and turn it into the sort of salt you already find in the oceans. It’s a slow process, but we are repairing the atmosphere by what we’re doing.”

“What about the lead?” The same little girl.

“Lead levels in the atmosphere have naturally decreased since we stopped using leaded fuels entirely. All the world’s countries have committed to building filtration systems using high efficiency particulate air filters, or HEPA filters as you may have heard of them, and all indoor public spaces use these, so lead levels in shopping malls and the like are extremely low, and in the open air they are considered to be at acceptably low levels for public safety. The situation is improving, but if you want to be completely safe from it, you should consider applying to work on Cloudbase, either this one or on the new one that’s going to be built in the next few years.

“The point I wanted to make though, was that a hundred years ago scientists either weren’t aware of the knock on effects of their research and development, or, as in the case of Thomas Midgely Junior, they ignored them in order to make more money. These days, scientists are a lot stricter in reviewing each other’s work and placing restrictions where they believe they’re needed. We’ve made mistakes, but we’ve learned from them and we’re working hard, not only to fix the damage that’s been caused, but also to find ways to bring genuine improvements to our lives.

“Right, any questions?”

“What happened to the man?”

“To Thomas Midgely? He got sick with something called polio, which weakened his muscles. He built a harness to help him get in and out of bed and was found to have strangled himself in it one morning when he was about fifty-five. Some people believe that he committed suicide, but he died thirty years before anyone discovered the full extent of the harm he caused, so who knows?”

The questions focus on the science for the most part, but they soon turn to my clothing and how my wearing them was a sin. I didn’t have a lot of time left, but I decided I could afford to go over by a few minutes.

“Why exactly do you think it’s wrong for me to dress like this?” I ask.

“A woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment; for whosoever doeth these things is an abomination unto Jehovah thy God,” the teacher quotes smugly, pleased to have her revenge for my upsetting her earlier.

“Deuteronomy twenty-two verse five,” I say. I’ve heard it enough over the years. “The only verse in the Bible that addresses this issue, I believe.”

“But one that does so quite clearly, I think you’ll agree.”

“Well, if you go back to the original Hebrew, it comes across as something like, ‘The weapon of a warrior shall not be on a woman, nor shall a warrior put on the robe of a woman, for all who do these things are a hateful thing to the LORD thy God.’ In this case the word robe comes from the Hebrew word ‘simlah’ which was a piece of clothing worn by both sexes.

“When you look at other Mosaic laws that use that phrase – from your translation – ‘abomination unto Jehovah’, you find that they most commonly refer to cross contamination of blood, and when you look at verses like this and even the ones that have been used to argue against homosexuality, the same thing can be inferred.”

The murderous look is back.

“I don’t mean to challenge you,” I say, “but as with the mistakes made in early scientific developments it’s dangerous to make assumptions, because there are often hidden truths when you look deeper.”

I’ve gone a couple of minutes past the allotted time, so I thank everyone for their attention and make my exit. There’s a good chance I’ll have some feedback from this lesson too.

I take a thirty second breather to compose myself and activate the link for the next session. This is the promised older class consisting of students from around the globe, most of whom seem unphased by my appearance. I have a seating plan with photos and basic information and I make a mental note of a couple of stony faces – one Syrian and one Palestinian – and the one who’s looking about him nervously – he’s from Algeria – and give them my best welcoming smile.

“Good morning,” I begin. “My name is Chris Palmer, and I’m an Angel pilot. Call sign Melody.”

“A bit girly, isn’t it?” someone calls out, earning himself a few laughs.

“Do I look like that bothers me?” That earns me quite a few more. “In case any of you don’t understand the names we use, there was a kids sci-fi show a long time ago called Captain Scarlet. The original was made using puppets, but then it was reissued as an animated series and eventually made it to the big screen maybe a couple of decades ago. It was about an international organisation called Spectrum charged with keeping the world safe from attack from Martians. Their base was a flying aircraft carrier called Cloudbase, and when the ISB was built, one or two of the designers decided it deserved a better name.”

“But you’re way above the clouds.”

“I realise that, but have no more say over the naming of this place than you. Laura McKenzie who runs the base is unofficially known as Colonel White, which she bears with good grace, the aircraft we operate are all called Angels, despite their looking nothing like the Angels from the series, and those of us lucky enough to fly them get to use the call signs from the original series despite the fact that only one of us is a girl.”

“You’re saying the other three pilots are guys?” This was Mr Cherif, the Algerian. He looked around for a laugh, but nobody else seems to share his sense of humour.

“Our only female pilot chose the call sign Harmony, which she thought we’d appreciate because she felt it was the most feminine. I let the other two guys choose next, so they’re Symphony and Rhapsody. That left me with Melody, which I have to admit I rather like.

“Anyway, are you all ready to learn a bit about the Angels?” I put a schematic up on the screen behind me. It would appear on whatever digital devices they were using and respond to any gesture I made.

The rest of the lesson goes into technicalities. The reasons for the design of the fuselage and wings, the details of the engine design, how the sky hook works. Specific questions for me on how the craft handles and what I would like to see improved on it. That’s easy. Like the U2 spy plane it resembles, it required immense precision to fly at the upper limit of it’s envelope with fairly dire consequences if you get it wrong. Automated systems are less reliable than a pilot’s skill and often enough it takes trained instinct to pre-empt some of the situations we face. Anything that might broaden the envelope and make the craft easier to fly would be appreciated. Other than that, if you could increase the cargo capacity and improve the efficiency of the aircraft, that too would be appreciated.

We discuss the newly approved drop tanks that I will likely need for my return journey over the weekend. Aerodynamically they fly themselves so give additional range without reducing payload. If I detach them in the right place they can theoretically be flown back to an airfield for re-use. They are the most significant improvement to the craft in all the time I’ve been flying and just the sort of outside the box thinking needed for the future. As we enter the last ten minutes of the lesson, I link through to the hanger bay, giving them a live view of my Angel and an opportunity to ask more technical questions of the duty chief engineer. I receive a resounding thanks from the class and sign off.

Lunchtime and time for a well earned rest. With my last minute preparations, I didn’t have time to put together a lunch, so I pop next door to Ten Forward and order a salad and a pot of tea. The water has to be boiled under pressure to make it hot enough, but that means the tea is the genuine article and a very good substitute for the coffee I would ordinarily have made. Ten Forward’s coffee is instant and not worth half what they charge for it.

The place isn’t that full yet, so I put a hand on the wrist of whoever serves me my lunch. It’s not Mary, who would have paused to say hello in any case.

“Do you have a minute?” I ask.

She looks around. The lunch crowd is beginning to arrive in ones and twos. “Just the one Chris.” Most people on the base know me, but the Ten Forward staff are aware how I spoil Mary so they have a soft spot for me.

“I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but I’m wondering if I need to be worried about Rachael and me.”

She gives me a sad, sympathetic smile and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry Chris.”

Well, it’s better than worrying about it, even if it does feel like a punch in the gut.

The salad is almost as good as Rachael makes, but then as I say, the staff here have a soft spot for me so they tend to give me their best. The tea is almost better than real coffee and has a much needed calming effect.

I head back to the holodeck fifteen minutes before my afternoon classes. The next one is a double class for a double period, so I need the energy and the time to prepare.

The class teachers from both classes are ten minutes early so we have a short while to discuss what they want from me, which pleasingly isn’t far from what I have planned.

The neat thing is that, since they’ve both asked for sociology and history, I can do both subjects on one topic, the big one these days being world population.

So I start by talking about the time when the human race first topped one billion and the reasons why. It’s largely technology based. The invention of tractors meaning we could sow larger fields, the development of fertilisers so we were no longer reliant on crop rotation, the Haber process which meant we didn’t need a supply of bird or bat poop to put nitrates back into the soil, the availability of enough energy to keep ammonia production going at the level we needed, genetic modification which produced strains of cereal crops that could be grown in harsher conditions and in less time, allowing several harvests per season. It all led to an availability of an excess of food, which in turn meant more children survived and the population continued to grow. I take time out to review the principles of evolution – all offspring differ, more offspring are born than can be supported by the environment, only the offspring best suited to their environment tend to survive. Changes in the environment direct evolution.

I talk about how the higher availability of food led to more children surviving to adulthood and the consequent geometric increase in population. That covers the history side of it with the class teachers interjecting and double-teaming with relevant questions to ensure the lesson is understood and learned.

We move into the next hour and I ask how the students would approach the problem. Solutions such as euthanasia and imposed population control are suggested and we discuss the morality of the first, then I tackle the second by explaining how China tried it and what it led to.

“The Chinese government imposed a one family one child policy in an attempt to reduce their population at a time when somewhere in the region of one quarter of the world’s population were Chinese.

“They set extreme penalties for any family breaking the new edict, but the didn’t count on certain cultural influences.

“Out in the poorer parts of the country, male children were considered to be more valuable than female ones. Boys would grow into men, who would leave home and make lives for themselves. The culture required a girl should remain with her parents until a young man came along and claimed her for a bride, usually accompanied by a bride price paid by the father of the bride to the young man to help him support his new family.

“Girls were too costly for most rural families and it became common practice for mothers to abort female foetuses or leave their new born daughters to the mercy of the elements.

“In the space of a single generation, China created two massive problems. One being that they had a generation where the large majority – more than seventy percent – were male, this resulted in large degrees of depression when a significant proportion of the generation were unable to find wives.

“The second problem was that they ended up with a large aging population needing support in their retirement and a much smaller work force available to fund it.

“In complex situations such as this, it’s important to consider the possible implications of any plan before attempting it.”

“So what did happen?”

“Well, the Chinese government abandoned the plan and the situation reverted to more or less the way it had been before.”

“No. I mean world population. How did we stop it running out of control?”

The question is an important part of any class like this. It signifies an acceptance that some problems can’t be solved by simple ideas.

I tell them about the research that led to an understanding of why families in the developing world were so large. I told them of the combined approach in improving health care in these countries, lessening child mortality, and teaching about how things were changing, so couples could choose to have smaller families and still look forward to being cared for in their old age.

The process was slow, but eventually resulted in the population growth levelling off.

The issue that remains is how to reduce the number of human beings on our planet to a more manageable level without penalising anyone, and here the discussion becomes animated and exciting. The kids from both classes have been energised by a new understanding of the problem and they come up with some quite clever ideas.

The two hours are up, which comes as something of a relief. It’s been an enjoyable lesson, but exhausting. Both teachers are appreciative of my efforts. They can spend the next few lessons developing class ideas and explaining the merits of the ones currently being implemented.

None of which would have been possible without the demise of capitalism. Nor, for that matter, would the ISB or any of a number of other projects currently steering humanity back from the brink of annihilation.

With the world’s wealth now being poured into a communal pot, rather than into the pockets of a few greedy individuals who already had more than they could easily spend in a lifetime, the resources were available to fund a great many ventures to mend the world, which was as well since the solutions weren’t cheap.

Quite possibly the biggest and most expensive addressed the population problem. It involved a lot of talking to people and re-education which was not my favourite thing to do in the world. I didn’t mind the occasional teaching day, but I was grateful there were other people ready to take on that sort of work. Just as I’m sure they were grateful for people like me.

I link to my last class. It’s a small group of about a dozen and a half students along with their professor.

“Good afternoon,” I greet them with a weary smile. “I’m afraid you’ve got me at the back end of a busy day.” They all give me a sympathetic smile. “That being said, I do have something prepared, but I’m just as happy to adapt to anything in particular that you want to cover.”

They look at each other with none of them having much idea. I remember being similarly clueless at their age, so I give them a hint.

“You’re all aware of the primary reason for the International Stratospheric Base. I just led a team up to the balloons to replace one of the sodium alloy nets, so I could talk to you about what that involves if you wish. However, I am aware that halogen radical capture to reduce further damage of the ozone layer is a relatively small part of your course, so I could spend some time discussing various carbon capture projects with you.”

“Er, well,” the professor stammers. “I’ll admit, I’d expected this session to focus on halogen recapture. I wasn’t aware that you were involved in carbon capture.”

“We’re not. Cloudbase is too high and too small to have any significant effect on the greenhouse effect, but we’re all environmental scientists up here, and we all take an interest in the global effort. I’m pretty sure I could provide you with detailed, relevant and up to date information on it. For instance, I’m due to fly to Cairo in a couple of days. Last time I visited, the algal fuel fabrication had just grown to over one hundred thousand square miles. It’s quite impressive from the air, and more so from Cloudbase when we pass over it. Egypt used to be almost entirely barren apart from the line of vegetation that follows the Nile. Now about a third of the country is covered with algae tanks. Egypt has taken over from the Middle East as the world’s largest fuel producer, and all of it sustainable. Quite a few other Saharan countries are joining in on the project.”

“But that doesn’t solve the carbon problem, does it?” one of the students asks. “The fuel that’s made from the algae is burned, so effectively the process is carbon neutral.”

“Yes and no, kind of,” I reply. “Yes because the biomass generated goes to making fuel which is then burned, but in the long term not so much. Right now, everything the facilities produce goes into the fuel tank of something somewhere, but it’s projected that within a few years, the Sahara will be producing more fuel than the world needs.”

“So what will they do with the excess?”

“The plan is to turn it into relatively short chain polymers – reasonably easy flowing liquid organics with a relatively high carbon density. These will be shipped to old oil wells and pumped into them. The thinking is that since the vast majority of greenhouse gases in our atmosphere came from the oil fields originally, then the easiest solution to the problem is to put the stuff back where it came from in a not too dissimilar form.”

“Er, yes,” the professor interrupts. “perhaps we could save this to the end, if we have time. For now, could we focus on your area of expertise.”

I’m tempted to ask what he wants to know about flying, but I don’t have the energy to be facetious. Instead the last hour becomes relatively straightforward with me describing the nature and purpose of the nets, the difficulty in deploying new ones and retrieving old ones, and my recent experience doing just that.

We finish twenty minutes ahead of the allotted time because they’ve already read a great deal about what we do, so I can skim the basics and focus on specifics. Leaving out our various discussions up in the rigging, the actual mechanics of what’s involved in raising and lowering the nets doesn’t take long, neither does the principle of what we’re doing nor the associated statistics showing a slow but measurable improvement in conditions.

“Who knows,” I end with. “It may be possible within our lifetimes to visit southern Australia without using sunscreen.”

It’s not much of a joke, but I’m tired, and they’re polite.

“Any questions, first on the soda nets?” I can see questions building up and I’m pretty sure they have nothing to do with what I’ve talked about.

“Why soda nets?”

Okay, maybe some of them do.

“Soda derives from the Latin name for a particular plant. A kind of saltwart that was burned and the ashes used to extract what we now know to be sodium. This is also where the English name for the element comes from. The reason why it appears as Na in the periodic table is that the Latin name for sodium is Natron.” That’s another common question, even at this level.

There are one or two more short questions, but the students are eager to move onto carbon capture.

Pre and post combustion capture has been with us for decades and doesn’t need much description from me. They’re measures designed to stop the problem from becoming wirse, and the big focus currently is reversing the trend.

I raise the issue of enhanced rock weathering and talk through the process – grinding down basalt so that it has a larger surface area, meaning atmospheric carbon dioxide dissolved in rainwater forming carbonic acid then reacts faster with the oxides in the rock to form carbonates

I talk about the huge gas centrifuges that have been built along many coastlines, how carbon dioxide has a considerably higher density than most components of air making it relatively simple to separate out. I talk about the problems associated with simply pumping carbon dioxide into the ocean, things like lowering the pH and associated problems. Things like the difficulty of getting the captured carbon dioxide below the phototrophic layer so it can’t escape back into the atmosphere. Things like the effects any change to the ocean’s complex ecosystem might then have on almost all sea life.

Eventually I turn to the idea of using alkaline silt of the sort left behind by the world’s receding glaciers to increase the alkalinity of the oceans, which in turn increases the amount of carbon dioxide drawn into the oceans by the centrifugal concentrators. The reaction of the silt with the carbonic acid produces insoluble salts that then fall to the bottom of the ocean.

I run over my time, but I also briefly mention the measures introduced in recent years to restore lost rain forests in places like the Amazon. It’s not something I know a great deal about so I gloss over it and simply say, “More trees means more photosynthesis which leads to more oxygen and less carbon dioxide. Of course the same goes for phytoplankton and there are projects to encourage more of that to grow in the oceans too.”

“This all sounds immensely expensive,” one of the students – an American from his accent – says.

“Oh, it is. If the West still ran on capitalism, chances are we wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“So, when did all that change?”

“Maybe a couple of decades ago, thanks to a social media campaign. But that’s going to have to wait for another time, because we’re well past our allotted slot, and I have a warning light winking at me saying that the next person scheduled to use the facility is here and likely getting impatient.”

“Is there any chance you might be available tomorrow?” the professor asks.

“I’ll check with the base commander,” I say. “It’s unlikely to be at the same time if it’s possible at all, but I’ll email you in about half an hour. Would that be okay?”

He agrees and I sign off. ‘Always leave them wanting more,’ is a quote from P T Barnham that my father uses almost constantly. I think I’ve achieved that today. It’s as well I enjoy an occasional day teaching, because after a day like this, it’s almost certain I’m going to be asked for an encore.

I make my way to ops, requesting a few minutes of Laura’s time as I go. Apparently, she wants to speak to me as well, so I don’t even have to wait.

“Hi Chris,” she greets me without even looking up from her typing – yes, she’s that kind of old school. “How come you’re so damned good at every job I give you?”

“Probably because you’re so damned good at assigning them.”

“I wish. Everyone else seems to foul up with some degree of regularity, but not you.”

“Well, set me up with a bureaucratic gig sometime. I guarantee I’ll make the biggest mess of it you can imagine.”

“Noted.”

“I take it you’ve had some feedback then.”

“Yes, everyone wants you back.”

“Even the Louisiana lot?”

“Especially the Louisiana lot. I don’t know what you said to them, but they didn’t hate it.”

“Well, I don’t know what else I could teach the aviation class, and the history sociology double seemed happy enough to do the follow up themselves, so I’m not sure what else I can do there. The last class, the prof asked if I might be available tomorrow at all…”

“Is that why you wanted to see me?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Well, if that’s the case, you have a full house on positive feedback. Leave that last one to me. I think I can free up a bit of time on the holodeck first thing if that works for you. The Louisiana classes will have to wait till you’re back from Cairo. Depending on how you get on with them, we may have a regular slot for you.”

“Victim of my own success by the sounds of it.”

“Something like that, but you know how important something like this is. I can’t remember the last time I had a Bible belt teacher wanting an open class discussion on beliefs.”

“I did say they’d need parental consent for the kids to be involved.”

“Yes, they told me. I think it was your being considerate of their beliefs that swung it for them. Fair warning though, I think there’s a fair chance you’ll have some of the parents and, at the very least, a preacher or two present for round two, so you’ll have to bring your A game.”

“What makes you think I ever bring anything else?”

“Okay, bugger off for now. I’ll leave you a message about the continuation of your lesson with the atmospheric studies guys.”

“You haven’t forgotten Rachael and I are on short shift tomorrow.”

“Of course not. Now go away. Rachael’s been off shift an hour already.”

I make my way back to our quarters, following my nose for the last few hundred yards.

“Lasagne?” I ask as I stick my head through the door. “What’s the occasion?” I can guess, but I have every intention of living in denial for as long as I can.

“Why does their need to be an occasion?” Rachael says, but I can see the guilt she’s trying to hide.

“I don’t suppose there does,” I say, kissing her on the cheek. “Do you fancy finishing off the rioja?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I may have mentioned that the cost of flying anything heavy up to Cloudbase is prohibitively expensive, so glass bottles don’t happen. I don’t often fly wine up either since we have the necessary ingredients and technology to brew our own and anything with the density of water is pretty heavy. The rioja in question is one of the station brews and comes in a wine box. Some of the base scientists are serious enough about their wine that they’ve improved the technology of the containers so no oxygen gets in till the bag is empty, so the wine has a decent shelf life after opening, and there is no hint of the flavour being affected by the polymers in the bags. They’re even reusable.

I pour us each a glass then go to shower and change. Rach has left a dress out on the bed for me which I know to be one of our favourites. I have a suspicion that we’re not going to make it to Thursday.

Clean and sweet smelling and looking like a million dollars, I reappear and set about laying the table. Rachael’s glass needs refilling so I top us both up.

I’m halfway through the meal when I notice her glass is empty again. She can hold her booze reasonably well, but much more and she’ll be in the realm of saying things she might regret.

“How do you want to do this?” I ask. “See if we can carry on living in denial for another evening, or would you like to address the elephant in the room?”

“Camel, you mean.”

It takes me a moment. “Because de Nial is in Egypt and dey only got camels dere?”

She smiles, but it’s a sad smile and she won’t meet my eyes. “You always were a sharp one, Chris.”

Whether that’s because I figured out her joke or because I figured out what was going on, I can’t say. It doesn’t really matter though.

“Coup de foudre?” I ask.

“What?”

“French,” I say. “Literally a thunder strike. Generally used when talking about love at first sight.”

“It’s a good phrase. I never meant it to happen, I hope you know that.”

“Of course. Do I know him? Or her?”

“Him,” she’s quick to point out. “He’s one of the new hydroponic technicians. Symphony brought him up while you were off fetching the new net. Brought him along to Ten Forward where I was having a girly night with Jen.”

“So, this last couple of days…”

She shook her head.

“Nothing happened that first night, apart from there definitely being chemistry. I told him I needed to figure things out. Told him to give me a few days.”

“They were a special few days, Rach.”

“They were, but even when we were together…”

“Well, the heart wants what the heart wants.”

“You’re so amazing, you know that? I’ve hated the thought of telling you, but you’ve made it so easy.”

“You should go find him.”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, Rachael. If that’s who you’re with in your mind, it’s who you should be with in your body too. I’ll be fine. I have the rest of a great meal and there should be at least a couple more glasses of wine in the box.”

“There’s a part of me that’s going to regret this,” she says standing.

I stand too and take her in my arms.

“I’ll still be happy to trade fresh fruit and veg for coffee.”

She laughs, but it ends with a sob. She leans her head against my shoulder.

I put a finger under her chin and raise it until she’s looking into my eyes. “Hey! Keep looking forward. If what we had was enough, you wouldn’t have found more with, what’s-his-face.”

“Peter. Peter Harris.”

“I hate him already.”

She laughs again and kisses me one last time on the lips. I don’t know what makes it so, but it is very much a kiss goodbye.

It takes her two minutes to pack an overnight bag with nightdress and toothbrush and other necessities and she’s out the door.

I drain my glass and look at the box, but I don’t feel like drinking more. I’ve even lost my appetite for the lasagne. What’s left goes into a couple of sealed containers and then into the fridge. I pull up a name from my contacts list.

“It’s late, Chris,” Laura says. “What do you want?”

“My short shift tomorrow. Can you give it to a hydroponics technician by the name of Peter Harris?”

There’s a long silence then, “I’m really sorry, Chris. Of course, but you’re taking a short day tomorrow as well.”

“If you like. When am I off to Cairo?”

“One of the reasons for the short shift tomorrow. I want you gone earliest possible Friday morning.”

“What do you have for me tomorrow?”

“Your atmospheric scientists want to know what you know about the demise of capitalism. You’re booked into the holodeck for an hour at ten, so you have the morning to prepare. After that, preflight Angel one and your gear and get in your bed as soon as you can persuade yourself to go to sleep.”

“Sounds good, boss.”

“I’m counting on you to say if you don’t think you’re up for this.”

“I’m up for it. Sorry to disturb you.”

“If it hadn’t been for a good reason, you would have been. Sleep well Chris.”

I shut off the link and change into one of Rachael’s nightdresses. It smells of her and it’s enough to help me drift off.

I wake ahead of the dawn, aware of an empty space in the bed beside me and another inside me. I find the coffee machine in the dark and set it about its business. With a strong mug of the brew warming my hands and filling my nostrils, I watch the sun broach the horizon. It’s a special sight from this high up and it’s been quite a while since I’ve been awake early enough to experience it. The broad horizon fills my soul, and goes a long way to filling the emptiness I feel inside me. There’s always some grief associated with any loss and even though I’ll still see Rachael around, and she’ll remain a good friend, there is loss even so. I don’t deny the sadness, but embrace it. I drift through the memory of our last months together. As I’ve mentioned, the sex was exceptional, but of itself, it’s not enough to build a life on. We’d had our moment of shared euphoria and it had been enough to hold us together for a while, but the companionship we’d found in the end hadn’t been enough. It had been all but inevitable that she’d move on before me, but she was right, we didn’t have enough to keep us together.

It still sucked though.

With enough light to see by I pick up my tablet and start making notes for the morning’s lesson. I have a couple of hours, but I’ve been fooled by that before. They’re only a useful couple of hours if you do something with them.

I arrive at the holodeck in good time and watch what’s left of the current lesson draw to close. We switch over on the hour and my class of atmospheric scientists is waiting for me, along with a dozen or so others.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the professor asks, “but everyone in my class from yesterday also takes a class on modern history. I find it essential to my course since, as George Santayana once said, ‘Those who cannot remember the past, are condemned to repeat it.’”

I greet the class and search through the faces until I find my American contributor from the previous day. I point him out, which isn’t quite as simple as it sounds when we’re both watching camera feeds of each other.

“What would you say was the American Dream?” I ask.

“Er, the belief that anyone, regardless of the circumstances of their birth, can be successful in a society where upward mobility is possible for anyone.”

“And that’s more or less what it became in the years following the Second World War, but it wasn’t the original concept.

“In his nineteen thirty-one book, ‘Epic of America’, James Truslow Adams described it as, ‘that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.’ It’s generally accepted that Adams did not mean materially richer, but spiritually. He wrote the book to make sense of the Great Depression and saw that valuing material gain over all other things was a sign that America had lost its way. He is quoted as saying that the American Dream was, ‘not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.’

“The lie was perpetrated, however, and rampant capitalism took over in the United States, leading to some quite disastrous developments.

“Not that America can be held solely accountable because opportunists the world over saw capitalism as a way to immense riches, very much at the expense of the environment.

“The global companies that resulted existed for one purpose only: profit. Like the dinosaurs of the late cretaceous, they grew to immense size and consumed everything around them, leaving little more than devastation in their wake.

“Once started it seemed impossible to stop. Those that benefitted most tended to be narrow minded and selfish so didn’t care for anyone else, including those from future generations. The wealth they gained also provided them with the political influence to maintain their momentum as well as influence in the media to present a distorted view of what they were doing so no-one would fight it.

“Those that tried were caught up in the wheels of the Juggernaut, chewed up and spat out.

“So how do you stop the unstoppable? Enter social media. Yet another product of consumerism – a digital forum for increasingly isolated individuals to make friends and communicate with them, but with an unusual twist. Individuals who gained a large following – known as influencers – became more trusted as sources of information than professionals, scientists and experts. The concept was used to sway a few major political decisions resulting in some alarming and unlikely results and it seemed the world was descending into self-destructive madness.

“Then something changed. It’s difficult to say precisely who or what caused it because the individual or organisation responsible was more concerned about effecting change than they were intent on gaining any degree of notoriety. Either that or they were aware of how unpopular their actions might appear in the distorted public eye and wanted to avoid any political flack.

“I’ve missed an essential part of the story. Around the time when civilisation looked on the verge of collapse, one emergent technology took an immense leap forward. This was the field of generative artificial intelligence which businesses were using to develop more relevant advertising content and thus more revenue. The implementation of large language models resulted in computer systems that appeared utterly life-like and capable of some very clever decision making. We still use them today to study highly complex systems and build models to predict the consequences of making changes, like with marine ecosystems for instance.

“The Gia-Mesaiah, as he, she or they became known – somewhat to the outrage of a great many religious groups who objected to the name – covertly connected multiple instances of a high powered artificial intelligence to the social media and gave them the task of gaining status as influencers then directing their followers down a route of increasing distrust towards the capitalist machine. The result happened slowly over a number of years and went unnoticed until pretty much the entire world population boycotted one business after another in favour of socially co-operative solutions.

“Without the means to feed themselves, the immense corporations imploded and the world went through a mini-dark age. It lasted less than a decade since the scaffolding for the structure of the new world was already in place and all that was needed was a will to rebuild.

“When the dust settled and the new Globalnet emerged from the wreckage of the Internet, all evidence of the AI influencers that had driven the revolution had gone, except in the place of each one was a kinetic typography video of part of a famous speech by the activist Mario Savio from December 1964. What was true enough for him more than a hundred years ago remains equally true today.”

I touch a link on my tablet and behind me the now famous video is displayed and Savio’s passionate rhetoric takes over.

“There is a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can’t take part; you can’t even passively take part, and you’ve got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you’ve got to make it stop. And you’ve got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you’re free, the machine will be prevented from working at all!”

“Capitalism enslaved the world, not by violence, but through the far more insidious route of economic and political manipulation. We know what that looks like now and have taken steps to ensure it’s not likely to happen again.”

I open the floor to questions, and they come thick and fast, taking up the rest of our available time. Again, I allow the session to run over until an indicator flashes on my tablet to tell me I’m out of time.

I apologise to the next person in line, but she tells me to think nothing of it. She’s an astronomer who has booked a conference with other major observatories to discuss their research program. Apparently, she hooked her colleagues into my feed and none of them wanted to interrupt.

“I thought you were a pilot,” she says in passing.

I shrug. “My father taught me as much as possible to know something about everything and everything about something.”

“So was that the something you know everything about or part of the everything?”

I smile. “Have a good conference. I hope I’ve left you enough time.”

I have an early lunch in Ten Forward. The grapevine has been spreading news so I have a lot of sympathetic hands rest on my shoulders and a double portion of dessert when it comes. – not the low calorie dessert I’ve been used to sharing with Rachael, I should say. I’m grateful for their support as much as for the space they give me.

After lunch, I head down to the hanger where I give my flight suit a thorough check before putting it on and heading out onto the hanger gantries to give my bird its pre-flight check. She’s been turned around and now faces West along the rail. The old net is loaded into the cargo bay. It’ll be loaded onto a cargo ship in Cairo for the last leg of its journey.

The plane is in excellent condition as always. I have a word with the chief engineer, who has inevitably heard about Rachael and me. Fortunately, he knows me well enough that he limits his sympathy to an understanding smile then keeps me distracted with his list of things to look out for.

The flight suit comes off, has another once over and is hung up ready for the morning.

I still have most of the afternoon free. I weigh my options and decide I need to blow off a little steam so head down to the gym. My sort of flying needs me to keep in decent physical and mental shape, but I’ve never been one to enjoy purely physical exercise. Fortunately, the gym has a number of options for a combined workout.

I go for a sci-fi story line which puts me on treadmill surrounded by screens showing space and a field of asteroids. Running moves me forward. Leaning in different directions gives me control over roll and pitch, sprinting gives me a short burst of speed and punching with gloved fists allows me to break up the asteroids. The first level involves clearing the asteroid feed as quickly as possible. Later feeds introduce alien craft which require agility and speed as well as a degree of planning to overcome. It’s immersive and the system AI monitors my heartbeat and breathing rate to maintain an exercise level appropriate to my fitness. An hour passes without me realising it and the session ends with me feeling good.

Home for a shower and a change of clothes. Rachael and possibly Peter have used some of their extra time off to move her things to a new shared accommodation and the place feels emptier with next to nothing to remind of her around the place. Laura will most likely give me a couple of weeks to sort myself out, but space is at a premium up here, so I’ll either need to find someone to share with or move into smaller quarters by then. I like this place too much to want to move, so open my mind to the idea of sharing with someone else. The place is highly reconfigurable, so I can easily split the double bed into two singles and put the partition back up to divide the large bedroom into two smaller ones. I’m not sure how long it’ll take me until I’m ready for a new relationship, so I set about the rearrangements. It’ll be odd sleeping in a single bed again, but life is change, and accepting the change is the quickest way to move on.

By the time I’m done with the alterations and have remade both beds, I’m ready for another shower. Then, because I don’t feel much like cooking, I dig out my newest dress, the one I brought back on my last flight, and head out to Ten Forward. The one Judith admired so much just a couple of days ago has been laundered and returned. I fold it neatly and drop it into her pigeon hole on my way to an early dinner.

It’s going to be a long flight so I carb-load a bit. Maybe it’s just an indulgence to help cope with my melancholy. I sit alone and acknowledge the nods of sympathy. A lot of them buy me a drink, which automatically adds to the credit on my tab. I’m flagged to fly in less than eight hours, so the system won’t allow me to buy alcohol even if I were reckless enough to want to. I don’t feel much like drinking anyway.

Judith appears in the bar just as I’m finishing off my dessert. She spots me and comes over, her lips smiling but her eyes sad and sympathetic.

“I bet you’re sick of people telling you how sorry they are,” she says settling into the seat opposite me.

“It is what it is,” I say, “and you’re right, a place this small couldn’t keep a secret even if it wanted to.”

“Well, I just wanted to say thank you for the dress. You really didn’t have to.”

“You’re welcome, and it has given me a little more space in my closet, so it works for me too.”

“Would you like some company?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think so. I have a flight first thing tomorrow, so should get some sleep.”

“Maybe another time?”

“Maybe.” I don’t want to raise her hopes. We’re all slaves to our bodies when it comes to the heart, and for all her positive attributes, one she’s missing is the ability to make my heart skip a beat. “You’ll excuse me.” I stand. It could just be the wrong time; my heart doesn’t feel like skipping right now.

Rachael noticed I’d worn her nightdress and left it for me. I wear one of my own and settle into bed with hers in my arms. Her perfume still lingers and helps lull me to sleep.

For the second day in a row I wake ahead of the dawn, beating my alarm by ten minutes. I dress in overalls and grab my go bag – bare minimum. Underwear, toiletries, travel documents. Usually I treat myself to new clothes wherever I’m going. This time I’ll probably just borrow some overalls at the other end since weight is such a premium. I imagine Professor Farouk and my mind conjures an image of a balding and above all portly gentleman in his fifties. I think of how much cargo I’ll have to leave behind because of him. Not nice thoughts. I clear my mind and start again.

Fruit and muesli for breakfast along with the essential cup of coffee, then down to the hangar and change into my flight suit.

Out to the plane, plug into on-board oxygen and start the pre-flight. A checklist is not a do list, I was once told. I run through a section of checks then read through the list to make sure I’ve not missed any, then on to the next and so forth.

“Angel One ready for startup,” I call on the radio when I’m ready.

“Good morning Melody, you’re half an hour early.”

“Any problem with getting a jump start on the day?”

“None at all. Angel One, cleared for engine start. Hangar crew, clear the clam shell, report when clear.”

A couple of minutes and they do just that, by which time my turbines have spooled up and are running in the green.

The clam shell separates. Dawn’s light stretches across the horizon behind me. The Sun’s not here yet, but it’ll catch me up slowly. I’ll be cruising at about half the speed the earth rotates, so sunrise will take twice as long.

Flight time should be around ten to twelve hours depending on the strength of the upper winds. Forecast today puts it at about eleven hours.

Final flight checks complete I call for burn and release. Take of is the usual adrenaline fuelled kick in the pants, then it’s just me and the sky. ISB control keeps me company for a while, but then their job has its lonely periods. The world brightens around me and I breathe in the immensity of it all.

Routine settles in and I turn on the autopilot. There’s not much air traffic in the world these days. Planes are one of the biggest atmospheric polluters in our recent history, and everyone has more time to get about these days, so more sedate forms of travel are used. Ocean liners, now largely wind driven, have made a comeback, and for those who still want a quicker journey, there are always the airships which stay a lot closer to the ground. There are occasional sub-orbital carriers travelling around half the world in a couple of hours, but they’re rare, and the only other thing I’m likely to encounter this high up is another Angel. Apart from the occasional electronic nudge from the AI autopilot prompting me to run through a check and report to ATC, I can do what I like. I doze a little, watch the world go by a little, read my book.

I’m reading Wind, Sand and Stars at present. Another pilot from nearly two hundred years in the past, but we have a shared bond in flying and I can see how hours of flying alone can turn you into a philosopher.

“Love,” I read, “is not so much looking at one another, but looking together in the same direction.”

I think of Rachael. Our relationship had definitely been about looking at one another. We had no thoughts to where our lives together might lead, so perhaps we were right to separate. I hoped she’d find someone to travel with in Peter. Who knew, one day I might find someone like that too.

This is flying. Described once by an American combat pilot, Pappy Boyington as, ‘Hours of boredom sprinkled with a few seconds of sheer terror.’ The scary associated with take-off and landing was manageable, but the boredom was the thing that could sneak up and stab you in the back. Regular checks and routines helped, but you needed something to keep you going. For me it was reading and occasional logic puzzles. Mostly reading though.

And napping.

A couple of hundred miles out from Cairo I put away my books and things and prepare for a long, slow descent. I’m earlier than expected, but traffic is almost non-existent, so my revised ETA is accepted without issue. I circle round wide to the south. The algae farms reach out into the distance to the south and west, painting the landscape a lurid green. I take in a brief view of the Great Pyramids before lining up for approach. In denser air the plane is almost sluggish with an approach speed of one hundred and twenty knots. It still needs delicate handling, but the landing is so much easier than at altitude. I taxi into my bay and shut everything down. It’s a hot day, even for Cairo, so I keep my helmet closed until I’m inside.

I trade the flight suit for borrowed overalls and clear customs and passport control. There’s just one person standing with a sign and it has my name in it. I approach a young woman holding it and offer her a questioning grin. She is perhaps an inch shorter than me and not too different in build.

She smiles back. “My grandfather used to speak of travelling on planes with several hundred passengers. The arrival gates would be flocked by people holding signs like this. I hoped you might appreciate the whimsy.” Her voice is slightly nasal and her words are slightly clipped, in a way I’d consider more Indian than common to this part of the world.

“I’m all about the whimsy,” I say. “I’d introduce myself, but evidently you already know me.”

“Know of you perhaps.” She holds out a tiny, delicate hand. “Surya Farouk. Pleased to meet you.”

“You’re Professor Farouk? You’re not what I was expecting.”

“Perhaps you had in mind someone like my grandfather,” her smile is mildly intoxicating.

“That all depends,” I say. “For all I know, your grandfather could be every bit as beautiful as you.”

That sets her laughing and it is a delightful sound. “Oh no, he’s fat, bald and wrinkly, so unless you like that sort of thing…”

I hold my hands up. “You’re absolutely right, your grandfather is very much what I was expecting. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see those expectations crushed.”

“You must be tired or hungry perhaps. How long was your flight?”

“Just under eleven hours, but I did dozefor a few on the way, so food would be wonderful, as would a chance to freshen up.”

“Then let me take you to your hotel. You don’t appear to have much luggage.” She looks at my grab bag.

“Maximising cargo space,” I say. “Normally I’d buy the clothes I want, but I understand every kilo counts this time. If there’s something I could borrow or rent, that would be appreciated, otherwise I could probably get by in these.” I indicate the overalls I’m wearing.

“You’ll do no such thing,” she says. “I have something in the car I think would look very good on you.”

She leads me to the short stay carpark and a small electric Mercedes, mercifully air conditioned.

The roads in Cairo have inductive chargers, boosting the battery charge every time you drive over one, so power hungry devices like aircon don’t affect the car’s range as long as you stay where the boost points are. It’s a pleasure to be driven after the long flight, even if I have to rely on my self control to keep from reacting to her driving. It’s appropriate to this part of the world, I tell myself. She’s smiling at me as we pull up into the hotel carpark.

“I don’t recall any non-Egyptian being so calm while I was driving,” she says.

“Inside I was screaming like a little girl,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm.

“I look forward to meeting her,” she says, taking a small bag from the back seat.

“I have a sense you know a great deal more about me than I do about you,” I tell her.

“Yes, but since the sum total of what you know about me is my surname, that’s not particularly hard, is it”

She leads me up to the check-in desk and I exchange my passport for a room key. Surya then leads me up to the room and all but pushes me into the bathroom.

When I reappear wrapped in a towel, it’s to find her resplendently dressed in a teal sari. She’s left a pink one laid out on the bed.

“I thought the colour might suit you better,” she says with dimpling cheeks.

“It probably matches my eyes,” I say holding up the blouse part which won’t cover much more than my non-existent breasts. “I’ve never worn one if these before.”

“Then perhaps you’ll let me assist you.”

“This is the last thing I expected to be wearing in Cairo,” I say as she helps me arrange the yards of fabric about me.

“Why? Because it’s Indian or because it’s women’s clothing?”

“Well, both arguments factor in.”

“My mother is Indian and I prefer this to the local fashions. It helps me to stand out, you understand.”

There at least was an explanation for the accent.

“I sincerely doubt you’d have any difficulty standing out anywhere.” The dimples return. They’re never far below the surface. “What about someone like me wandering about in a place like this looking as I do?”

“Well, you’re a little flat chested, so don’t expect too many men to hit on you, but I think you’ll fit in well enough.”

“I’m concerned about what might happen if they figure out who I am. I’m here representing the ISB after all and I wouldn’t want to cause an incident.”

“You’ll be fine. This is quite a broad minded section of the city, so even if they do see through you, which I sincerely doubt,” she leads me in front of a mirror and what I see delights me. She gestures at my smiling face, “they shouldn’t be troubled by it. Now, are you ready to eat? I have us booked into a restaurant just down the road.”

Walking around the station in a dress is one thing. Wearing a sari in public in a place like Cairo is on an entirely different level of scary, but scary has always been more exciting to me than terrifying. It only takes a few seconds before I’m enjoying myself and the appreciative looks both Surya and I are receiving.

“Should I call you Chris still?” she asks.

“It is my name.”

“Yes but…”

“It does well enough as a girl’s name and I can’t pretend about my ethnic origin.”

“I suppose not.”

I let the girl loose. Most of the time I’m happy to be just me in a dress, which means I tend to be my odd mixture of masculine and feminine, but today feels like a good opportunity to let my feminine side take over. I’m fully aware of how tongue tied the masculine part of me can be in the presence of a beautiful woman, so I let him go hide, and Surya and I spend the evening bonding entirely as girls.

I notice we’ve gathered quite a fan club during the meal. Several men are sitting at the bar drinking coffees, but their heads turn in our direction often enough.

“Are we safe?” I ask Surya.

She looks at the men at the bar then rummages in her handbag for her purse. Once she’s paid, she makes a show of taking out a stun gun and testing the sparks. No-one follows us.

On the way back to the hotel, she guides me to a lingerie shop and treats me to a diaphanous cotton nightdress. Fine Egyptian cotton and weighing just a few grams, it won’t make a measurable difference to the weight of my grab bag.

She walks me to my room and gives me a relatively chaste hug goodnight.

“Thank you, this was so much fun. I’ll come and collect you in the morning.”

“How long before we can return to Cloudbase?” I ask. “Laura seemed to think it was quite urgent.”

“She said as much to me. I’m gathering my supplies as quickly as I can. Tomorrow evening would be a fair guess.”

“Alright. I’ll need tomorrow afternoon to rest then. As soon as you can give me a confirmation when everything is likely to be loaded, I’ll file a flight plan.”

“Which leaves us tomorrow morning. You know, I’ve lived here five years and never visited the Great Pyramids? Would you care to accompany me?”

“As long as I don’t have to wear a sari again.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

“I think you know how much I loved it, but I’m not sure it’d be appropriate for trekking out in the desert.”

“It’s not even outside the city. We can have breakfast here than take a donkey trap out there. They are a little more conservative about dress, so you’ll have to wear something that covers your arms and legs. I’ve a few things in mind that might work.”

The night’s sleep is the best I’ve had since Rachael and I parted company. Alright, it’s only the third night since that happened, but by comparison, I feel amazing. The light cotton is deliciously cool against my smooth skin and the desert night is chilled enough that I can keep the balcony window open and enjoy the freshness. Almost exclusively electric vehicles means clean air and very little traffic noise.

I wake early with the sun streaming in and the temperature just right to need a sheet over me. A knock on the door has me feeling oddly self-conscious, but it’s only Surya with a breakfast tray.

“That looks so good on you,” she says.

“What, this old thing?” I reply giving her a delighted twirl, which draws out her exquisite laugh. I become acutely aware of how thin the fabric of the nightdress is. It occurs to me that she might well have chosen it for the amount it reveals in the sunlight and I offer thanks to whatever deity might have prompted me to wear a pair of my cotton boy cut briefs underneath it. Ordinarily, and especially in warmer climates, I’m inclined to sleep with nothing on under my nightdress.

I give her a level look. “How much of an experiment is this for you? Me, I mean. The sari, the nightdress, all this?”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” she replies unashamedly. She has transferred the breakfast – largely a tropical fruit salad – and coffee to the balcony table. She sits in one of the chairs and waves for me to join her, which I do. “I’m not into girls, unfortunately,” she says, ladling a helping of fruit into a bowl. “Too much cultural influence from my father’s side I think. And I have yet to find a man whose attitude I don’t consider to be utterly repellent. Before yesterday, that is.

“Then your base commander contacted me and explained what was happening, which was when I told her I’d need to come in person and went through the materials I was likely to need.

“Once we’d worked out what Cloudbase could provide and how much of the rest I’d need to bring with me, we had a load out that almost exactly matched what you can carry, given that you’re about twenty kilos lighter than the other pilots, or ten lighter than Harmony is it?”

“Yes, she hates that I weigh less than her.”

“I’ll bet she does. Anyway, in the middle of our discussion about how we could maximise the load, we reached the conclusion that we could manage it as long as both you and I kept our luggage down to the bearest minimum. It saves only thirty kilos, but that apparently is the difference between fitting everything I need onto the plane and leaving something potentially essential behind.”

“I still don’t know why we couldn’t do this as a two Angel flight.” I bite down on a piece of succulent mango and drift off into temporary rapture.

“I wondered that too, but your commander was quite adamant they couldn’t be spared.

“Anyway, I understand you’re very open about this side of your nature, which meant Laura didn’t feel like she was breaking trust in talking to me about your feminine side. She suggested that if I lent you some of my clothes while you were here, you might be inclined to reciprocate while I was on Cloudbase.

“I’ll admit, I find the notion of a man with a strong feminine side intrigues me, and I’ve been wondering if an experiment to investigate the nature of someone like yourself might be in order.”

“Even though you live here and I live up in the sky?”

“Proof of concept. I wanted to see if I could be attracted to a man like yourself. Laura mentioned that you were in a relationship, so I wasn’t expecting anything to grow between the two of us, but if the potential was there, I might feel inclined to look elsewhere. Cairo is a big place you know, and it has a significant trans community.”

“How would you say the experiment is going?”

“Considerably better than anticipated at the moment, though I am currently anticipating detrimental factors I hadn’t originally foreseen.”

“Is that your way of saying you may be falling for me?”

“Perhaps a little. Please don’t be alarmed though, I believe I can restrain myself if need’s be.”

My turn to smile, which has an effect on her not dissimilar to the one her laugh has on me.

“We should go if we want to make it to Giza and back before lunchtime.”

“I’ll need to get dressed first “

“Of course you will. I brought a selection for you to choose from in the bag.” She points at the sports bag she dropped by the door.

I’m not sure why I don’t tell her about Rachael. I pick up the bag and hunt through it. There are trousers in there which may well be practical, after all she’s wearing trousers today, but there’s also a skirt – Khaki, long, down to mid calf, full – and a blouse – white with three quarter length sleeves, but made of thin enough cotton that it’ll be possible to see if I’m wearing something underneath it. To that end, there’s also a bra, which I put on despite having nothing with which to fill it.

She doesn’t have boots in my size, but she has brought flip flops that fit well enough. They get me to the hotel shops which are able to fit me with what I need. They’re expensive and I won’t be able to take them back with us, but maybe I can find somewhere safe to leave them. After all, this is unlikely to be my last visit to Egypt.

The boots are a must. Snakes and scorpions are rare enough, but if you encounter either one, you’ll be glad of a decent pair of boots.

She smiles her approval at my choice of clothing. It covers most of my skin and looks modest. The skirt is heavier than I’d like, but the blouse feels cool. She adds a wide brimmed hat from the hotel shop to my ensemble, and it proves a good idea as the sun builds during the morning.

The Great Pyramid and the Sphinx do not fail to impress, and I’m enthralled despite the heat and the looks I’m getting from the locals.

“Don’t worry,” Surya tells me. “They just want to have their wicked way with you.”

“You say that and tell me not to worry.”

“They know better than to act on those sorts of impulses. If they suspected you weren’t all woman, then things might be different.”

By the time we return to our donkey trap we find a crowd and something of a commotion. My Arabic is limited to simple greetings and the Egyptian dialect is different enough that I would definitely struggle with it. I ask what’s going on.

She points at the ground a short way off where the crushed corpse of a fat tailed scorpion has been discarded. “It stung a young boy,” she says. “There’s not much to be done.”

“Maybe there is. Do you have your Taser with you?”

She gives me a wary look but digs it out of her bag.

I push my way through the crowd to where the boy is lying on an older man’s lap, whimpering in agony.

I lift him off the older man and press the stun gun down on the wound for a few brief seconds. The boy convulses and I can smell urine. The crowd start to make ugly sounds so I take my chance and jab down on the wound a second time.

Surya is shouting over the crowd who’ve pulled me off the boy. She’s doing her best to calm the angry voices when the old man calls over them all. He’s trying to get them all to look. The boy has stopped whimpering and is breathing more easily. His wound looks less painful despite the electrical burns.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” Surya asks as attention turns away from us.

“Something I remember reading a while back, about a missionary doctor in Argentina. He couldn’t afford the antivenin he needed to treat the number of snakebite victims coming into his clinic, so he developed a method of treating it using low current high voltage. The electric discharge causes the proteins in the venom to break down. As I understand it, it doesn’t work with all venoms, but it does with most African snakes and scorpions. I figured if the boy was in pain and likely to die anyway, it was worth a shot.”

“You didn’t mind that you’d have been lynched if it hadn’t worked?”

“I didn’t think about that.”

She takes the stun gun back from me. “We should maybe get out of here.”

We walk over to the donkey trap that brought us, and we climb aboard and wait. The driver notices us waiting while the crowd is still busy celebrating and marvelling over the latest miracle and helps us make a reasonably discrete exit.

I’m asleep in my room when the news breaks, then awake and dressed in my borrowed overalls by the time journalists locate the trap driver and descend on my hotel. I make my getaway before anyone figures out a link between me and the mystery woman and meet Surya at the airport. The plane has been preloaded, so all that’s needed is to change into my flight suit and check my passenger has hers set up right. We’re taxiing out to the runway when one of the journalists finally figures it all out.

Halfway through the flight Laura’s voice wakes me from a nap.

“Care to comment on this?” she asks and pings a news story about an angel with lightning coming from her hands saving a young boy’s life at the Great Pyramid.

“Looks like someone needs to take more water with their whiskey,” I say.

“And now without the bullshit.”

I sigh and give her my side of it.

“You have an interview with this journalist a couple of hours after you get here. I want you in your best frock.”

“Yes boss.”

“How’s your passenger?”

“Sleeping at the moment. You could have told me about her.”

“Didn’t want to spoil the surprise. You managed to bring everything?”

“I didn’t have room for the mail and I had to leave a decent pair of boots behind.”

“We all have to make sacrifices in life, Chris.” She signs off and leaves me to contemplate the stars.

“Cloudbase, this is Angel one, ten miles out, inbound from the West.”

Some aspects of flying don’t change. Communication is one of them because occasionally the equipment fails and you have to resort to more primitive methods to exchange essential information. At Cloudbase that means using light signals. I’ve only had to do that the once and it was no big deal.

“Angel one, this is Cloudbase, we see you on approach. Cleared for zero-niner south. Good to have you back again Melody.”

Of course there are minor variations once you’re past the essentials.

“Cleared zero-niner south. I have the rail in sight.”

Surya is awake behind me. I gave her a nudge shortly before sunrise. The jump seat on Angel aircraft is a little behind and below the pilot’s seat and offers only very limited visibility through the windshield. Generally, I have to request my passengers remain strapped for the entire flight to prevent the weight distribution from shifting. This can be critical when flying close to the limits of the envelope, but I drop a few thousand feet just before dawn to give myself a little extra leeway and invite her to stand on her seat to share the sunrise with me. It’s magical the first time and I gain some vicarious pleasure from her breathless wonder.

Afterwards, I talk her through strapping back in, which isn’t necessary since she paid attention the first time, then we chat for the last hour while I gently bring us back up to altitude.

“Sky hook deployed, approach speed four hundred and fifty knots relative.”

I’ve already checked her straps are tight. One of the things we talked about was the landing. The half g deceleration is nothing special but it can be uncomfortable if they aren’t snug.

“Contact and secure.”

This is the point where I need total focus. Anything even the slightest bit out of the ordinary and I’ll have to abort. I’ve briefed her on that too, the almost zero likelihood of recovery. The short period of extreme discomfort while we tumble into denser air. The ejection, controlled by me for both of us, the parachute drop, the rescue that should come to our beacon whether we end up on land or sea. She’s nervous, but fortunately she’s one of those people who goes quiet when worried.

We slow to a safe speed, taking just a little longer than usual since we’re at maximum landing weight, and I let go of the emergency release.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at Cloudbase. I must ask you please to remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for flying Angel Air, and hope you will travel with us again soon. Welcome to Cloudbase where we have the usual clear skies and a slight chill in the air today with outside temperatures down to minus thirty five degrees Celsius. We are currently over the South Western Pacific Ocean in the vicinity of the Solomon Islands, so the on-board time is UTC plus eleven hours. Due to station drift, we should cross the international dateline at some stage in the next twenty-four hours, so this time tomorrow it will be today again.”

“Stop it,” Surya says, laughing a little too hard, but that’ll be relief of tension following the safe arrival. “You forgot to tell me to make sure my seat was in the upright position and my tray table was put away, not that I know what one of those is.”

The clamshell closes around us and I go through the shutdown procedure then talk my passenger through the process of switch her suit’s air supply before popping the canopy. My seat folds forward so she can climb out. I remain where I am to assist her, though in the cramped space with the bulk of our flight suits, I probably provide more hindrance than help. It does give us a few moments of intimate proximity during which my body provides me with a unique cocktail of hormones that have a decidedly enjoyable effect.

We manage to extricate ourselves with a little contortion and more than a little laughter. I forego my usual post flight inspection, but instead grab our go bags and lead her to the airlock.

“Welcome to Cloudbase,” I say, cracking the seal on my helmet. “There are a few differences between here and Cairo, but we have our share of spectacular views as well as a decent eatery.”

“I look forward to your showing me around, assuming you have the time, of course.”

I help her out of her flight suit and indicate where she can find a set of overalls. The sight of so much dark smooth skin is prompting my glands to produce more of that heady hormonal mix. I turn my back to her and set about stripping my own suit off.

“I’ll make sure I do,” I say. “I mean, it’s only fair, right? You showed me around your city.”

“I’d like to meet your significant other too. Perhaps we could eat together later? My treat?”

“Ah. That might be a little difficult, as I suspect she’ll want to spend time with her new boyfriend.”

She turns to look at me. “You didn’t say anything.”

“It’s, er, kind of recent. I’m still coming to terms with it.”

“I’m sorry. How long were you together?”

“Two years. Perhaps a little less.”

She puts a hand on my chest where I’m wearing a sports bra and fingers the material with a quirk of a smile.

I turn away again and grab a set of overalls, which I pull on clumsily.

“This probably disrupts the parameters of your experiment,” I say, trying to sound cleverer than I feel.

“It changes them, certainly. I shall probably have to be a little more circumspect to avoid distressing my test subject.”

I finally have the zip on my overalls drawn up. “It may be a little late for that,” I say with a nervous smile. I open the door into the station where Laura is waiting.

She smiles in greeting. “Welcome to the International Stratospheric Base,” she says. “I’d have preferred station, but we already have an ISS. I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up and maybe rest for a bit. We are a little tight for space up here, so I hope you won’t mind sharing accommodation with someone.”

Surya looks at me and quirks an eye.

“I reconfigured my quarters before I left,” I say to Laura. “I’d be happy to oblige if you like.”

“Great. That makes it easier. Settle in and I’ll want to see you both for a briefing at, say eleven hundred local?”

That gives us four hours, not counting that interview with the journalist. Her diplomatic duty done, Laura heads off for her next appointment and I lead Surya to my apartment. It’s not far, but then nothing is up here. I open the door and wave her in.

“Welcome to my home. What’s mine is your… Ow!”

She closes the door and punches me in the arm. It’s a girly hit, intended to show displeasure rather than cause harm, so my response is more an acknowledgement of that rather than an actual cry of pain.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your girlfriend?” she says into my face. “And what was that about when we were getting changed? ‘It may be a little late for that.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Answering in the order you asked, when should I have told you? My first opportunity was at breakfast yesterday, and to be honest, I wasn’t particularly in a mood to talk about my relationship issues, especially with someone I’d just met. And what that’s supposed to mean is that I think we’ve gone beyond the point where you can just step back and expect there to be no consequences.

“That being said, I acknowledge my part in putting us in our current predicament, so if you feel the need to back off, I’ll deal with…”

She takes hold of my face in both her hands and pulls me into a kiss, which shuts me up quite effectively.

“Don’t be fooled by that,” she says, turning her back on me. “I’m still mad at you.”

I put a hand on her shoulder and turn her to look at me. She tries to brush me off but I catch hold of her wrist. With my free hand I cup her cheek and lean in to kiss her back. Softer, gentler, decidedly not angry. She doesn’t want it to, but the ire drains from her.

“You should freshen up,” I say. “This is the shower,” I guide her round the apartment, “and these are the bedrooms. I slept in this one before coming away, but I’m happy to swap if you prefer it. This is my wardrobe, and you’re welcome to anything in it. In the other room, there’s a fresh towel and a bathrobe on the back of the door. Would you like a coffee?”

“Not if it’s that ghastly stuff I was given last time I was here.”

“I don’t remember you coming here before.”

“It was about twenty months ago. Harmony brought me up and I kept myself to myself while I was here supervising the application of the photovoltaic coating to a number of test balloons.”

Twenty months ago Rachael and I would have still been in our honeymoon period. I could easily have overlooked a visit by a reclusive scientist.

“It’s not the same stuff,” I say, dragging the conversation back to the original topic. “Instant coffee barely registers as drinkable on the Palmer scale. If I’d had enough weight allowance to bring those boots, I’d probably have brought coffee beans instead.” I pick out one of my reserve packets and show it to her.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“You make it very difficult for me to stay angry with you when you do things like this.”

“Is this part of the parameters of the experiment?”

“Grr! I don’t even know what I can throw at you in this place! You are so irritating!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nooo! Don’t apologise when it’s me that’s being unreasonable.”

“I’m sorry for being sorry?”

“You’re impossible! Make the coffee, and you should know, this is a test.”

“It sounds very specific. I doubt you’ll learn anything generic about people on the trans spectrum from the way I make coffee.”

There’s a thump as one of the cushions from the sofa hits a wall close to me. It’s not an action that requires retaliation though since she’s disappeared into the bathroom.

Test or not, there’s only one way I know to make coffee. Fresh ground and steeped in hot water between ninety and ninety-six degrees centigrade. Pressure in most of the stations is equivalent to ten thousand feet where water boils at just over ninety degrees, which is just hot enough. At sea level boiling water draws out all the bitter oils, but up here it’s just right. By the time Surya emerges from the shower, it’s brewed and ready to pour.

“Milk or not?” I ask. “If so, how much and would you like it frothed?”

“I haven’t had a decent latte in ages,” she says as she enters my room.

I pour out two cups to half full while I wait for the frother to heat up. This doesn’t take as long in the lower pressure.

“Do you own any trousers at all?” she calls from the vicinity of my wardrobe.

“I think I may have a couple of pairs of cotton harem pants in there somewhere, but otherwise no. If I want to go bifurcated, I usually use overalls.

She appears wearing the dress I bought on my last trip. She looks stunning.

“What?” She’s still towelling her mass of dark hair.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I say handing her a coffee. “You make it very hard not to fall head over heels in love when you look like that.”

She takes a sip of the coffee and her eyes close as her other senses take over.

“This is perfect. I hate you so much right now.”

“But in a good way, I hope.”

“Nobody makes a better cup of coffee than me. How do you do it?”

“Up here it’s easy.” I explain the pressure thing briefly as I disappear into the bathroom.

I don’t bother with my hair, which means I’m washed and comfortably dressed in a floral summer dress before my coffee has cooled too much. Surya has finished hers and is looking far more relaxed.

“So, how do you want to do this!” I ask.

She doesn’t need a signpost. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“I realise you didn’t intend to go too far with your flirting, that you expected my being paired up would provide a natural barrier, or maybe turn you off me if I looked ready to abandon an existing relationship for one with you.”

She spread her hands. A gesture that indicated I was on track so far.

“From my point of view, I had no intention of looking for a new relationship this soon after the last one ended. From yours, you were gathering intel with no intention of using it with me.”

Again, she indicated I wasn’t far off.

“You’re here to work, and I wouldn’t want to provide a distraction that might interfere with that work.”

“So…”

“So we could be entirely professional and act as though there were nothing between us.”

“We could, but on the other hand…”

“On the other hand, we could accept that there is something between us and explore it in our private time, and still act in a professional manner when we’re on duty.”

“Do you have a preference?”

“I do.”

“And…”

“And I would hope you could guess what it is. Besides, it’s your experiment. You should decide what happens next.”

“Would you join me on the sofa? I have a short practical activity that might help decide the next step.”

I walk over to her. My dress is as short as I’ve ever dared wear, but I love the way it looks. I keep my legs together as I perch on the edge of the seat beside her. She reaches for me and draws me into a long, drawn-out kiss.

A pearl diver’s kiss we used to call it. Not quite the seven-minute record, but certainly measurable in minutes. When she resurfaces, she leans her head on my chest.

“I think I would favour your second proposition.”

My heart is pounding like a steam train at full speed. I’m pretty sure she can hear it from her vantage.

“I’m inclined to concur.” My words come out thickly and I have to cough and try again.

“You must believe me; this was not my plan.”

“I believe you. I had no idea I could feel like this, especially so soon after a breakup. It leaves me feeling far more forgiving towards my ex.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What? Why?”

She looks up at me. “It’s so much easier when you can hate them.” She smiles taking all the venom from her words.

“What would you like to do with the next few hours? Take a nap?”

“I slept long enough on the journey.”

“Grab some breakfast?”

“Maybe in a while. My body has no idea what time it is.”

“Take a tour of the station.”

“That sounds like a great idea. I didn’t take the time to look around last time and I always regretted it. Maybe end with a light breakfast before we meet your commander.”

“I do have one other commitment.” I tell her about my exchange with Laura during the flight while she was sleeping.

So I take her to all my favourite places, including the holodeck where she sits giggling while I squirm uncomfortably in front of the camera as the child and his parents thank me profusely.

After that, we don’t have as much time as I’d like, so I take her on the whistle stop tour. We sample each location for just long enough that Surya should be able to pick and choose her preferences over the few days she’s going to be here.

We reach Ten Forward around quarter past ten where I’m greeted by a ballistic hug from Mary.

“I was so sorry to hear about you and Rachael,” she says. “What happened. Why would she do that?”

“It just happens sometimes, Mary. We’re still good friends, just not in love anymore.”

“Well she’s stupid. I can’t imagine anyone not loving you.”

“By the way, Surya, this is Mary. She’s my favourite person on the station bar none.”

“I can see why, hello Mary. Nice to meet you.”

Mary disengages and offers Surya one of her world class grins. “Pleased to meet you too. Surya’s a funny name.”

“Not in India where my mother comes from. You can call me Sue if you prefer.”

“Hey, how come she gets special treatment?” I say.

“It’s because I’m special,” Mary says with the widest of smiles, “and you’re not.”

“Hey again! I thought you were being nice to me.”

“I was, but I’m all done now.” She walks off back towards the kitchen.

“Everybody loves Mary,” I say towards her retreating back.

“I can see why. Now, show me what’s so special about this place.

I order us a couple of fruit specials for breakfast. The fruit salads in Cairo were spectacular, but the fruit we can grow up here has the edge in my opinion. By the end of breakfast, Surya agrees.

“Hey Chris, what happened to the post,” someone asks in passing. “You’ve never left it behind before.”

“It was a special run, Lynn. I had an absolutely full load coming back. Outside the cargo and my passenger, it was just my grab bag and me.”

“Oversized passenger, was it?”

“Judge for yourself. Lynn, this is Professor Surya Farouk. Surya, Dr Lynn Middleton, high altitude crystallography.”

“I’ve read some of your work, Dr Middleton. Exciting discoveries you’re making.”

“Er, yes. I’m so sorry, that must have sounded so rude.”

“Not at all. I didn’t have room for more than a grab bag myself. Chris has kindly lent me some of his clothes.”

“I thought I recognised your dress. It’s like that one Mary’s been so excited about.”

“You buy Mary clothes and you’re only lending me some!” She punches my arm gently.

“Ow!” I play along. “It’s like I said, Mary is my favourite, bar none.”

We can tell she’s listening from the giggles back in the kitchen.

“I expect to be heading out again in a couple of days,” I say to Lynn, “when I promise normal service will resume.”

“I’ll hold you to that, or I’m going to come steal some of your coffee.”

“You seem well liked,” Surya says.

“Rice Christians the lot of them.” I smile to show I don’t mean it. “It’s easy to be liked when you keep bringing the mail. I would have this time if Laura hadn’t forbidden it. Speaking of whom, we should go.”

It’s just five minutes to eleven, but it takes us all of those five minutes to get to the control centre.

Laura’s briefings were notorious for being precisely that, but this one beats all previous records. As soon as we are both seated, she swipes a live feed of balloon telemetry from her tablet onto the display screen and looks at us.

“That’s not good,” Surya says.

It’s an understatement that even an unqualified layman like me can see. The readings are bouncing about all over the place, seemingly with no pattern. The figures are an unreadable blur, but the voltages are a blur of six figures whereas the temperature readings are spiking momentarily in four.

“These readings are a lot worse than the ones you sent me five days ago.”

“That’s because the situation has become a lot worse in the past five days. We have five of the six test balloons behaving similarly although this one is the worst.”

“Are they like this all the time, or do they settle down in the dark.”

In answer Laura puts up telemetry for the six test balloons side by side and winds it back to an hour after the sun would have gone down. Apart from one set of readings, all show a steady surface potential between two hundred and five hundred thousand volts.

“Can you speed it up to one hundred to one?” I ask. I’m beginning to get an inkling of why I’m here.

The night’s readings pass by in the space of five minutes. The voltages drop by five to ten percent but no more. Once the chaos of the daytime readings returns, I ask for things to be slowed down as much as possible. The one that’s apparently working as it should reads a steady ten thousand or so volts, the others show voltages rising rapidly into the hundreds of thousands then building more slowly until there’s a sudden drop to zero, then the process begins again. Most of the charge build up takes place over a number of minutes or seconds, but the one we’ve been looking at is fluctuating several times a second.

“It looks like the membrane is breaking down somewhere, preventing the circuit from completing,” Surya says. “I’m going to need a sample to figure out exactly what though.”

“Chris?”

“You’d like me to go and fetch you one?”

“I’d like to know if it’s possible to do so safely.”

“Not during the day for sure. The EVA suits wouldn’t handle a half million-volt discharge. After sunset may be possible, but we’ll need to drain the residual charge beforehand.”

“I’m not sure that’ll be possible if the membrane is turning capacitive,” Surya says.

“The top layer has to be at least partially conductive if you’re getting complete discharge every time it arcs.”

“True.”

“What would you need?” Laura asks.

“I’m assuming they’re arcing onto adjacent support cables?”

Another set of readings showing small voltage spikes read at the base of the support cables.

“Can you bring up the telemetry on some of the adjacent balloons?”

Laura did so. I pointed.

“Temperatures elevated and spiking. I think we need to know what the flashpoint for hydrogen is up there.”

“I’ve already checked with John and Jean. We’re safe for now, but if it rises another twenty or thirty degrees, we may start to see blowouts.”

Apparently not something I needed to know until I worked it out.

“They’ll accelerate after the first one,” I say.

“How do you figure?”

“Everything’s jiggling about up there so the discharges are shared between the nearest half dozen cables. Once one goes you’re sharing between five, then four…”

Laura says something exceedingly rude.

“Have you sent a drone up to look at the cables?”

There’s a lot of static on the footage. The drone went up one of the cables beyond the range of the arcing discharges, but there’s interference enough to disrupt the feed, and the brilliance of the arcs messes with the camera resolution. It’s just about possible to make out scoring on the affected cables. Nothing structurally unsound yet, but getting there.

“I’ll want thin conductive chain mail over my EVA suit and I’ll want helox instead of the usual air supply. I’ll also need a wire long enough to reach from the support cable to the nearest part of the solar membrane on the balloon. Also a decent crossbow, a bolt with a pulley on it and a monofilament reel.”

The chainmail would act as a Faraday cage if I did get hit by a discharge and the helox would be less explosive, although heavier, than the more modern oxygen rebreather CO2 scrubber combination.

“We should be able to put that together by nightfall.”

“Can we make up enough for five of us so we can deal with them all at once?”

“Two maybe. You do proof of concept, then you take the other two in pairs. Who else would you like?”

“Three minimum. Wang and Michael from my last team. I’ll take the nasty one and retrieve a sample from the membrane, the guys make the other two safe.”

“Okay, agreed. You’ll be briefing them an hour before sundown. Anything else we can do in the meantime?”

“The one that’s still working right. It should be safe enough to visit in daylight. Either it doesn’t have the same problem as the other two or it’s about to go wrong. Either way, taking a sample of the membrane might give us some clues, plus it would be worth connecting a discharge conductor in case it starts to fail.”

Laura looks at Surya who shrugs and nods.

“Fine. Come up with a plan to do that safely this morning. Get your specs for the equipment you’ll need tonight to fabrication. You do one ascent to sort out the good one, then you rest till tonight. Surya, I’ve set aside a lab for you. Let me show you.”

They leave me to my planning. The visit to fabrication just needs me to let them know what I want and then leave it with them. They do manage to put together what I need for my trip to the functional installation using pre-existing equipment, so I go straight to the closest lift and change into an EVA suit. I’m not that keen about going up on my own, but Laura wants as few people as possible in the know, and I respect her judgement.

The elevator ride is quick with just me on board, but the next bit takes a bit more time. I have to traverse a couple of walkways to reach the balloon I need, then climb a hundred yards on built in rings to the point where they divide and reach up either side of the balloon. From there I hang underneath and pull myself up until I reach the membrane. It’s long, slow and tiring especially with the constant shifting of safety tethers, but I make it.

Arc distance at five thousand volts is less than a centimetre, so a six inch clamp along with the insulation in my EVA suit gloves is enough to keep me safe. I activate the remote short which grounds the high voltage on the support cable, then set about peeling off one layer of the solar membrane. With my sample stowed, I back off and remotely break the shorting cable connection.

A short breather and a chance to enjoy the view. Up here the sky is dark enough that I can make out the occasional discharges in the malfunctioning membranes, especially the worst of them which is flashing away like a strobe.

The journey back down in the elevator is slower than usual for much the same reason as the ride up was faster. The magnetic braking is the same so the lower mass of the elevator results in a lower terminal velocity. It doesn’t bother me since I can rest as easily in a space suit as on my bed.

Back at base level, everyone is milling around after a full evacuation drill. That says a lot about Laura’s state of mind. We don’t do many full drills, preferring to run them by section for the sake of reduced disruption. Running a full drill now means that if the alarms go again, no-one will take it for an exercise.

Surya gets lost after the drill, so I’m waiting in her lab when she returns. She thanks me for the sample and I offer to cook her dinner prior to my evening excursions.

“I should cook for you,” she says. “You’ll have enough on your mind this evening. I won’t have anything to do but worry until you come back down.”

“Okay, how about this? I bring you lunch and you come back to the apartment around six to cook while I’m briefing my colleagues.”

“You have a deal,” she says and kisses me before shooing me out with a playful slap to my rear.

I check in with Mike and Wang to confirm a briefing at six for a trip into the rigging, then check with Fabrication to make sure the drill hasn’t messed up the time my equipment will be ready.

It’s close enough to lunchtime that there’s no sense resting right now. I stop by hydroponics and beg some decent veg for entertaining our guest. Rachael provides everything I need and inevitably asks about what’s going on. I inevitably tell her that I’d tell her if I could before assuring her it isn’t time to worry yet. I’m not sure I’m right on that score, but if it’ll keep the rumour mill from grinding…

Lunch is a simple salad so doesn’t take long to prepare. I take it to Surya who guides us to the office away from the clean room part of her lab so we can eat and talk. I’ve also brought a flask of coffee which suffers a little from the journey in the thermos, but otherwise meets Surya’s high standards.

“It was a good idea to take that sample,” she says. “It’s showing signs of degradation and will probably fail in the next day or two.”

“Can you tell what’s causing it?”

“Ionising radiation. I accounted for the higher levels of UV, but not X and gamma.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that would have much of an effect. I mean, higher energy but much lower absorption.”

“Lower, but sufficient. The membrane is designed to self repair, but the damage caused by the higher energy rays is occasionally too much. The degradation is slow but regular, which is why everything is failing at once.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Of course. I should have a formulation by the end of the day and enough for all the installations by the end of the week.”

“Is that going to be soon enough?”

“We’ll have to see. I’ll want samples from at least the two worst affected membranes before I can see what needs to be done.”

“You’ll have them.” I gather the remains of our meal. “You have a little more to do than worry now though, don’t you? I expect preparing this formulation is going to take the rest of the day.”

“Quite likely.”

“So why don’t we meet in Ten Forward at seven? Let them feed us.”

“That may be a better idea, as long as you let me cook for you sometime soon.”

“Now you have a deal.”

I head back to my apartment, wash everything and put it away, then settle into my bed for a few hours. Egyptian cotton is deliciously smooth against my skin and chases me into happy dreams for a few hours.

Seventeen hundred local finds me awake, caffeinated and in my overalls down at the fabrication plant. The helox cylinders are ready, the crossbows are made with a selection of bolts. The monofilament reels have been modified to spool out more easily and two of the three mesh over-suits are ready. I take what’s done along with the promised completion time for the last suit and head off to the briefing.

Michael and Wang are matter-of-fact about the briefing. Like everyone on the base, they’ve had a sense that something wasn’t quite right, and once they have the details explained, they’re happy to keep them to themselves until after the fact. They don’t have much to add to the plan other than Wang being a slightly better shot, so we divide targets accordingly.

Wang’s first will be the easiest of the lesser problems to reach. He’ll fire the first shot and provide proof of concept while Mike and I are getting into position. Once we know that the principle is sound, we’ll all press ahead, Wang to his second target, Mike to his two and me to mine. Mike’s are closer together so he should have time to fetch a sample once he’s done. I only have the one target, but it’s likely to be unpredictable, so I’ll have to be more cautious about what I’m doing.

I leave them with their equipment. They’ll be going up in the same elevator so will be able to buddy for each other.

Surya and I eat in silence. The food is good, but I don’t taste much of it. I’m preoccupied by my coming mission and my company has her own distractions.

She follows me to the lift and begins to put on a suit as well.

“What are you doing?”

“You think I’m going to let you go up there by yourself?”

“I didn’t know you were rated for EVA.”

It’s a bit of a legacy term. It stands for Extra Vehicular Activity and we’re not really on a vehicle. The same could be said for the ISS though, so it has extended to mean any activity in or near space.

“How different is it from a flight suit?”

Not very, it has to be said, but there are some dangers. She’s not going to be persuaded though, and this could count as probationary suit time.

“You stay in the elevator and you do everything I say,” I tell her.

I show her the buddy checks and the elevator controls.

“You monitor from here,” I say when we get to the spar. “I have a Faraday cage to protect me from any discharge, and I’m breathing helox which is less likely to explode.”

“I was wondering why you sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks. Don’t worry. I don’t have a death wish. I’ll keep my distance.”

“You’ll stay in the elevator. You don’t know how to move about outside.”

“Two tethers. Keep one attached at all times. It’s not rocket science.”

“Stay in the lift.” It’s really hard to be persuasive with a squeaky voice.

I carry my spool and crossbow out onto the spar and start making my laborious way to my target.

Wang reaches his early. The potential on it is just under two hundred thousand volts so shouldn’t be too bad. His first shot lands precisely where he intends. He tells us how to aim to counter the slight drag from the spool. The reel has let out a double length through a pulley in the bolt. This allows him to attach the discharge cable and reel it out. It arcs when the cable is about a foot away then is safe.

Wang reports his success so I move into position. Discharge cable secured to support cable, other end wrapped around my leg, I take aim and fire.

The resting voltage on my balloon is over four hundred thousand volts. It arcs across to the bolt and down the monofilament. I can see sparks dancing across the metal mesh over my suit but I don’t feel anything and my heads up display flickers only briefly.

The filament survives the current, I attach the grounding wire and pull it up to make contact. All looks good, but the voltage sensor on the balloon still reads high. That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.

“The membrane is fractured,” Surya says in my ears. She’s been monitoring and understands better than me. “There are at least two isolated sections up there. You discharged one, but there’s at least one more near the sensor still holding a charge.”

“What do you suggest?” I ask. “I mean with the voltage that high, why haven’t the two sections arced across?”

“I don’t know, but right now it’s too dangerous to climb up and take a sample. Can you fire another bolt closer to where the sensor is? If things go as before, you should get a second discharge.”

I reel in the filament then set up for a second shot. My head’s up display shows me roughly where the sensor is located. I take aim and fire.

A second brilliant arc passes down the filament as before, but my first bolt pierced the skin of the balloon and now there is hydrogen mixing with the thin atmosphere. It ignites and starts to spread. It starts slow but experience tell me that won’t last.

“Emergency descent!” I yell at Surya while detaching both my safety lines. “Free fall till you’re at least halfway down.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see the lights in the elevator drop out of sight. Emergency protocol pulls the magnets away from cable so there’s next to no braking. They’ll re-engage a mile above the base if nothing else overrides them. If she re-engages earlier, the deceleration won’t be as punishing. I put it out of my mind, I have to think of myself now.

Safety training does cover extreme situations like this, but the required actions go against ninety-nine percent of everything else you learn. I have to fight every instinct in me as I detached both my tethers and deliberately jump off the gantry into the dark. I don’t fall more than twenty feet before the explosion catches me up and pushes me groundward.

With the atmosphere so thin, it feels more like a gentle shove than the force you might expect from several hundred tons of hydrogen and oxygen erupting. Yellow flame overtakes and engulfs me, but the suit is built for extremes of temperature. There may be some singeing, but no real damage.

The worst of it is the tumble. The explosion starts it and the thin air makes it seem impossible to bring under control. We’ve all studied Felix Baumgartner’s record-breaking jump though. I focus on the techniques he said he used at the beginning of his jump and the base lights beneath me eventually settle down.

I’m falling fast though. With nothing to slow my descent it takes me just half a minute to reach that buffet that tells me I’m through the sound barrier and a half minute more to reach the level of the station. I manage to steer clear by half a mile as I streak past, but now I have next to no reference.

Beneath me lies the Pacific Ocean which is almost entirely inky black. There are a few islands with lights scattered below me. One or two might be in range, but I’m going to have to pick one very soon.

“Cloudbase, this is Melody,” I call, still struggling to keep from spinning.

“Not a great time Melody. You must have noticed the explosion.”

“Yeah, I kind of caused it.”

“You what?”

“That sonic boom you just heard? That was me too. I’m kind of out here without my Angel.”

Her next words aren’t exactly approved radio protocol, but this isn’t exactly usual circumstances.

“Any chance of a vector so I don’t have to swim too far when I’m done falling?”

“Er, three four seven looks best. Not much around where we are right now. Closest place is a place called Kiritimati. About a hundred miles away.”

“Yeah, I’m heading that way. I doubt I’ll make it.”

“It has an airfield. I’m sending them your transponder code, so they should be on their way to you by the time you touch down.”

I’m losing control of my stability again. Baumgartner used a drag chute to stabilise himself. My suit has one too for use below fifty thousand feet. I’m not surprised to find I’m already below that. I deploy the chute and everything settles down again.

“Runway big enough for an Angel?” I ask.

“Possibly. Just get down safe, okay? We’ll get you back up here as soon as we can.”

“Thanks. Professor Farouk is in elevator one, closest to the explosion. She was in emergency descent when I jumped.”

“We’ll look after her. You look after yourself.”

The atmosphere is becoming denser by the second. My terminal velocity drops back below Mach one. This is where the weather happens, but fortunately it’s clear and calm. I roll onto my back and remove my chain mail and helox tanks, letting them fall away. This drops my weight significantly which also brings my terminal speed down. My altimeter reads fifteen thousand feet which should be breathable for a while but I’m still going too fast to open my main chute. I’m no expert at skydiving but I know the risks of damaging my canvas if I open too early. I remain in free fall until my altimeter reads six thousand then pull the chord.

I glide for nearly six minutes before my helmet lamp picks up a reflection from the waves below. I close my visor and release my harness when I judge I have less than five feet to go. The suit’s built in floatation bags inflate automatically and I resurface lying on my back. Any jump from Cloudbase has a better than average chance of landing in the water, so floatation aids have always been essential.

I crack my visor and lay back to wait. A glint of lights high in the sky reminds me to check in.

“Cloudbase, this is Melody. Down safely and floating.”

“Okay Melody, help’s on its way. Hang tight.”

“How are things up there?”

“Returning to normal. Professor Farouk made it down safe. She’s a bit shaken, but more worried about you by all accounts. She’s here if you want a word.”

“Go on then, I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Chris, you utter…” her next word is lost in static or incoherent sputtering. “I’ve been so worried.”

“Me too. I’m glad you’re okay. I hope we only lost one balloon.”

“A fair amount of hydrogen lost from the ones nearby, but they self repaired. The south end of the base sagged a few feet, but nothing that won’t fix itself in a day or so.”

“The other compromised membranes?”

“They’re stable as far as I can tell. If the shunts your colleagues put on manage to syphon off the charge surges and stop them arcing, I should have time to repair them before they get too bad.”

“Sounds like you’re doing alright without me.”

“Chris?” Laura took over. “Hang tight. There’s a search and rescue craft heading your way now. Should be with you in ten minutes. I’ve also sent Harmony to collect you. She should be landing about the time you get to the island. I want you back up here as soon as possible.”

“For the court marshal?”

“What? I swear you spend too much time in those blasted history books of yours. Of course there’s no court marshal. You did the best you could with a bad job and I have no need of a scapegoat. What I do need is someone who can make sure that we only lose one balloon. I have your team ready to rig the spare, but I need you to lead them.”

“I’m sure you could find someone else.”

“Not anyone I trust the same way I trust you, and your team feel the same way.

“I’m guessing the island medico will want to check you over. Jump through whatever hoops he or she puts in front of you, then as soon as you have a clean bill of health, I want you back up here, are we clear?”

“Yes colonel.”

“Less of that too, or I will bloody court marshal you.”

“Whatever you say boss. Oh bums.”

“What?”

“I think something just nudged me. How long till S and R get to me?”

“Three minutes. Chris this had better not be your sense of humour acting out.”

Something grabs my arm. I raise it out of the water to find a sizeable shark latched onto it. Its teeth have punctured my suit but there are quite a few layers before it reaches my flesh. I swing my free arm across and punch it as hard as I can in the gills. It lets go and swims off.

“Not joking,” I say. “If they have anything to draw the local wildlife away from me, I’d appreciate it.”

The second shark is larger and grabs hold of my left leg, trying to pull me under. I give it a double straight finger stab in each of its gills and again it races off.

There’s not much I can do but respond to the attacks. In the dark I have no way of telling how many there are or where, just that if they take out enough of my floatation bags or if there’s a great white among them, then I’m done.

Nothing happens.

Nothing continues to happen for more than a minute.

“They’re a minute out, Chris. They dropped what they call an interference drone. It’s supposed to draw sharks away.”

“Seems to be working, not that I want to jinx it.”

“Just hang on Chris. Less than a minute.”

I start counting up. After twenty seconds I can hear the whine of a turbine. After forty, I can see lights. After fifty, the water around me is being whipped up by a strong downdraft.

“Either they’ve arrived or I’m being abducted by aliens,” I say.

“And there’s that lousy sense of humour.”

A craft settles into the water beside me and willing hands pull me into a dry cabin and out of danger. Whatever the craft is, it starts to move, turning about and accelerating to a pretty decent speed for a ground hugger. The stress of the last hour or so fades away and I let myself drift into unconsciousness.

The next thing I remember is a pair of pretty brown eyes looking down into mine.

“I wish my doctor was as beautiful as you,” I say.

It’s the girl in me speaking. The man in me wouldn’t have the confidence, nor would he know what to do with the response.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” The voice is almost as pretty as the eyes. “You had quite an experience.”

“Cloudbase…”

“Is fine, as are all of your friends. We have a rare visitor from Cloudbase here too, but she still has to wait till I’ve checked you out.”

“Samantha. Harmony.”

“I understand she answers to both names. As for you, physically, I have nothing to complain about. A little underweight, but within acceptable limits. What I need from you is something to convince me you’re just as well adjusted mentally.”

“Strawberries,” I reply.

She bites down on a smile. “Sorry flyboy, but you’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Who’re you calling boy?”

“Better, but still not good enough. Or perhaps you’d like to slip into something more comfortable.” She indicates a wardrobe in the corner of the room.

Among the other things hanging in it, I find a pretty ruched skirt with a primrose pattern and a white halter crop top. I discard the remains of my EVA suit for the cooler garments, changing while the doctor is still in the room.

“Alright, I owe you an apology. Are all Angels like you?”

“You’d have to ask them, but I suspect not. Harmony’s probably closest, but more because she’s a girl than because she’s mixed up.”

“Is that how you see yourself? Mixed up?”

“More a blend than a muddle.”

“You have all the answers, don’t you?”

“I’m not trying to handle you. If you have access to my records, you’ll know I’m well adjusted.”

“So, tell me about your experiences.”

“We’ve been experimenting with a new solar charging membrane on some of the support balloons. One of them malfunctioned and blew out while I was trying to stabilise it. I had to jump before the explosion developed.”

“So you just did a ten mile freefall in the dark?”

“Twenty. The support balloons are ten miles above the ISB.”

“I’m guessing there’s not much difference between ten miles and twenty.”

“Apart from the first minute and going supersonic thirty seconds in? Probably not much. I think the worst bit was the shark attacks.”

She picks up my spacesuit and removes a tooth from the left thigh. She hands it to me.

“Would you mind telling me about it?”

I find I have a lot of detail to share. Beneath the flippant exterior, I had some genuine terror squirming about. By the time I’m done talking about it, my eyes are streaked with tears.

She has her arms around me as emotions I had no idea I was burying swell to the surface.

“Don’t let me girlfriend catch us like this,” I say as the tidal wave of emotion finally ebbs.

“Or my husband.” She pulls out of the embrace and smiles. She really does have pretty eyes.

“He’s a lucky man.” It’s a genuine observation with no flirting involved.

“Your girlfriend’s a lucky girl.”

“Yeah, tell her that.”

Maybe there’s a little flirting.

“I’m sure she knows. Your friend’s in the next room. You’re free to go.”

“What about your things?”

“I hate to say it, but you look better in them than me. I’ll trade you if I can keep the spacesuit.”

I look at it. There’s a lot of expense in that suit, but between the flame damage and the shark bites, it’ll take a lot of repairing.

“I may be able to swing it if I hang on to the helmet.”

“All I want is a trophy. Evidence of the day an angel fell into my back yard.”

“Your back yard is pretty wet.”

I pick up the helmet and aim for the door where Harmony’s waiting.

“OMG Chris! How long have you been here and you’re already in a skirt.”

I hold up the shark tooth by way of explanation. It wouldn’t have been enough for me, but she shrugs and tosses me my flight suit.

“I’m guessing your cargo bay’s empty.”

“The Colonel wants us back up there straight away. We don’t have time to wait for the mail to get to us out here.”

I lean back into the doctor’s office. I tell her how much space we have available. “How much coffee can we put our hands on at short notice?” I ask.

It turns out to be quite a few kilos but nowhere near our capacity. She suggests a few other luxury items like vanilla pods, different herbs and spices, several cases of vintage whiskey that happen to fill one of the base warehouses. A selection of clothes for both men and women, including a fair selection of women’s trousers and lastly a small quantity of rare elements. By the time we’re loaded to capacity, I’ve managed to recoup at least a measurable fraction of the cost of my EVA suit.

It’s one of the shortest flights I’ve ever made in an Angel, which is probably as well because the jump seat is seriously claustrophobic. Not that I am, particularly, but sitting back in the dark while Harmony picks up the rail is almost as nerve-racking as falling twenty miles to Earth in the pitch black.

Surya is waiting at the airlock when we arrive and doesn’t mind letting anyone know how involved we now are.

Laura’s there too, and not overly happy that I’ve left most of my EVA suit behind. I hand her a fifty-three year old bottle of Bunnahabhain which mollifies her a little.

“Briefing first thing tomorrow,” she says, “and the rest of this goes to Ten Forward.”

I shrug. Easy come, easy go. Besides, she doesn’t know how many bottles came up with us. One for Harmony, one for me and the rest can go to Ten Forward. The herbs and spices the same, along with the coffee and the means to brew it properly.

Surya’s been cooking, so the apartment smells of curry, not that I’m complaining – It’s a fantastic aroma. She’s also managed to co-opt a little help from somewhere and joined the two bedrooms back into one. There’s a challenge in the way she looks at me so I don’t ask if she’s sure. Her side of the wardrobe remains pretty bare until the selection of clothes I set aside from our haul appears. It turns out I have a fairly good eye for both sizes and styles that will best suit the professor because she’s delighted.

The meal is exquisite and of course there’s dessert. Surya’s approach to bedtime is very different to Rachael’s. She’s more inclined to take the lead for one thing, and that suits me fine. We crack the bottle of whisky open and explore the pleasures of vintage malt. You may think it a waste after spicy food, but Surya’s cooking was flavoursome rather than nuclear and ended up sensitising our taste buds rather than destroying them. One small glass is enough to ease us both off to sleep.

The room is filled with light when I wake. Surya is draped across me and I discover that the one thing better than wearing an Egyptian cotton nightdress to bed is sharing that bed with someone similarly attired. The bedside clock tells me it’s seven thirty – time zone automatically adjusted. We’ve missed what Laura would call a first thing briefing. I put a call through to her – voice only.

“Sorry boss, overslept.”

“Given the circumstances, I’ll overlook it this time. I’ll want you here in an hour though.”

I ease Surya off me which rouses her enough for me to kiss her gently. She wrinkles her nose and murmurs, “Go brush your teeth,” at me.

Which I do while the coffee’s brewing, as well as showering and dressing in one of my newly acquired pretties from Kiritimati.

Surya dresses while I put together a breakfast of fruit and yoghurt for us both, then I walk her to her lab on my way to the operations room.

I’m scheduled for another trip into the rigging. The spare balloon is currently on the southern gantry taking on a load of hydrogen. The gas is formed from a catalysed reaction of steam with an alkane polymer. Hydrocarbons are the easiest and most compressed way of storing hydrogen, but it does use up a fair amount of water. We pick that up by trailing immensely long tubes down into the weather, but when the skies are clear below as they are now, we aren’t able to top up our water supplies. We’ll be in rainforest territory within the next couple of days though and we need the extra lift now.

Once the balloon is inflated enough to carry itself, it’ll be raised slowly up to the rigging where I’ll be leading a team to secure it properly and complete filling it. We’ll also be topping up the balloons that lost some of their contents in the explosion.

There’s not much to the job other than it’s not one that’s had to be done in all the time I’ve been on the station. There are some extreme no spark protocols that need to be obeyed, but apart from that, it’ll involve sitting around waiting for the infaltions to complete.

From Laura’s point of view, it’s getting me back on the horse as soon as possible. From mine, it’s pretty much a day off, though I’ll probably use it to monitor the other balloons we’ve been worried about. That’ll be a bit of a trek through the rigging, but it’ll be good exercise.

The new balloon’s already on its way up when I head off to meet my crew. It turns out to be something of a reunion as Mike, Wang, Phil, Saneeta and Judy are waiting for me outside elevator one. I ask Wang to do the pre -ascent briefing then ask Mike if he would have done anything differently. He shrugs and shakes his head.

We buddy up the same way as before and I’m glad to have Mike’s experience as I find I’m still a bit shaken by the previous day’s events. We have packs of polyalkane to take out from the lift. I put Wang and Saneeta on the job of topping up the few balloons nearest the elevator and let Phil and Judith take the filling of the new one. Mike and I take on topping up of the rest and standing ready if Phil and Judith need assistance. It’ll give me a chance to assess Phil’s potential as a team leader at the same time Judy gets some valuable experience.

The refuelling part of the day goes without a hitch and we end up working together to secure the new balloon cable in place.

We’ve all done enough world watching by the time we’re done and have taken what breaks we need. I can’t remember the last time I’ve spent this long aloft and had everyone still this fresh.

We sit and watch the Ecuadorian coastline approaching. There are some nice clouds a few miles inland which bodes well for refilling our water tanks.

“Who’s up for some extra credit?” I ask.

“What do you have in mind?” Saneeta asks. She seems a lot happier up here.

I outline my plan to go check on the other balloons with the experimental membranes. It’ll mean a couple of hours traversing the spars before coming down in a different lift. Everyone’s agreeable though, so we set off in pairs. As part of the exercise I have us all switch rolls so Saneeta, Judith and Mike are nominally in charge. The more experienced can take over if needs be, but in the meantime they know their job is going to be to simulate problems for the named leaders to solve. It’ll be good training for the girls and it’ll be a full assessment for Mike.

Saneeta and Wang get the two closest. I’m still a little wary of Saneeta’s problem with heights and don’t want to push her too far, besides they have the least to learn this time.

Phil on the other hand could do with an opportunity to be creative and Judith would benefit from a few simulated problems.

As for Mike and me, I choose the furthest targets for us, and I give him the works. Simulated radio failure, air leak, suit fire, careless disregard for safety, attack of the happies, I reproduce just about every problem I’ve seen and several I’ve only heard of and he handles them all really well. I even repeat the hypoxia problem with symptoms showing only very gradually. He still picks up on it quickly and checks my air mix long before the problem becomes an issue.

Simulated problem that is. I have my suit controls set to show problems. The rest is acting.

Wang and Saneeta are done after an hour and a half with just one balloon to check, Phil and Judith have two including the one that was working properly. They’re finished after two and a half hours. The two target balloons for Mike and me are towards the far north of the station. It takes us a while to traverse the rigging and I manage to keep Mike sweating for a full four hours.

The balloons check out within acceptable parameters until Mike and I reach the last of them. Again the reading looks normal, but we’re about a hundred yards away when there’s a bright flash ahead of us.

“What was that?” Mike wants to know.

“Trouble,” I say and switch my radio to include Cloudbase command. “Control, Melody here.”

“Hi Chris. Problems?”

“You could say. We’re getting sparks from one of the membranes. Northern most installation.”

“All readings looking stable. Are you sure?”

“The one that exploded on us yesterday, the membrane had split into at least two fragments. I shorted out one of the fragments but the one with the sensor attached stayed isolated – kept showing several hundred thousand volts. What’s the chances we have the opposite going on here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You dealt with this one, didn’t you Mike?”

“Yes.”

“I’m guessing you aimed close to the sensor.”

“It seemed like the sensible thing to do.”

“If the membrane is split, the sensor will be reading the fragment that’s shorted out. Any other part up there is going to be building up charge without giving us an indication that it’s happening.”

“Apart from when it arcs like that.” Mike’s figures it out. “Are we safe here?”

“Not sure. The arcing tends to be a little erratic. We don’t even have much of a clue on how quickly it’s building up.”

“No clue you mean?”

“Did you notice any other sparks on the way here?”

“No but…”

“Chances are we’d have seen one if they’re close together.”

“What do we do?”

It would be a good teaching exercise to see if he can figure it out, but safety overrules.

“We back off. Head for Elevator Two. Quick and careful as if I need to say.

“Control, can you check out the sensor logs on the support cables. They should show some indication of when the arcs are happening.”

“There are small pulses. Looks like thirty to forty minutes apart.”

“Can you loop Surya in.”

“Sure.”

“Hi Chris, what’s up?”

I let her know what we’ve found.

“We’re on our way down,” I finish.

“Er…” Not the kind of response I was hoping for.

“Go on.”

“The period between arcs is shortening quickly. It looks like it’ll be up to one a minute inside an hour.”

“We don’t have any equipment up here,” I say.

“Not quite true,” Mike says. “I left my crossbow and filament reel up here yesterday.”

I’m not sure if I’m pleased or not. It means we can actually do something about it, but it also means we don’t have an excuse not to.

“Where?”

It’s not far from where we were.

“Can you give us an estimate on when the next two arcs are likely to come, Surya?”

“You’ve about ten to twenty minutes before the next one, then maybe a ten to fifteen minute window.”

That’s going to be tight.

“Is the crossbow ready to fire? Spool reeled in etc.”

“Mostly. We’ll be quicker if we both go.”

“Ten minutes means we’re going to have to go tether free to get there.”

“What’s life without a bit of excitement?”

“You should be able to get a little closer guys,” Surya said. “The logs show the discharges striking as far as the third support cable either side.”

“We were pretty close to that,” Mike says, looking worried.

We make our way back to a point just outside the danger zone. “See if you can see where the spark comes from, otherwise we’ll be guessing.”

“Are we likely to cause an explosion again?”

“It’s arcing on its own. If there was any hydrogen leaking up there, we’d already have a fireball.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so.”

“On the other hand, if we stick an arrow in the balloon without shorting the part that’s building up charge, the next spark will most likely go bang.”

“Okay, so no pressure.”

“Just keep your eye’s open. How do you feel about taking the shot? I think your aim’s better than mine.”

“Not sure my nerve is though. I’d rather you did the firing.”

“Fair enough. Glare shields down.”

Everything goes dark as I pull down a filter designed to reduce direct sunlight to a safe level. We still have a couple of minutes waiting in the dark before a brilliant discharge jumps across my field of view. I snap open the visor and mark a point on the balloon surface.

We already have our tethers detached. At Mike’s suggestion, we’re linked together with the spare in hand so if one of us misses his footing, the other has time to latch onto a rail before we both go. As it is, we’re both pretty sure footed and make it to the crossbow without mishap.

We both snap onto the safety rail, then I cock the weapon while Mike sets up the filament.

I pick my target and aim.

“Take your time,” Mike says with just the level of calm I need to hear. I breathe out and squeeze.

The spark is nowhere near as bright as the two we’ve just seen, which suggests I really did have plenty of time.

We back off to a safe distance and wait, but there’s no more excitement. Elevator Three is closest and hopefully safe now. We head to it and head down.

I’m ready just to collapse, but like I mentioned earlier, when you’re tired is when you most often make mistakes. These are the times when protocol and routine can save lives. We give each other a buddy check and Mike finds a snag in mine. Small enough that the drop in pressure has gone unnoticed, but not so small as to be insignificant. I’d likely have been genuinely hypoxic by the time we reached the base.

Most people have symptoms that either they or their buddies can notice. For some it’s a tingling in the fingertips, for others, the lack of oxygen makes them behave as though drunk. I ‘m one of the few less fortunate who just gradually become unresponsive before losing consciousness. Not easy to spot.

With the snag patched and reported to maintenance, we settle back. After a moment’s reflection, I start to ask him to evaluate his performance one incident at a time.

He sighs. “Could we not do this right now? I think I’ve had enough for the day.”

“Excursion’s not over till we’re sharing the same air,” I say. Just because I didn’t find a snag on his suit doesn’t mean I might not have missed it. Keeping up a conversation is a good way of spotting hidden problems early.

He sighs but responds to my questions. He’s a little overly critical of his own performance, which is normal, but something that needs to be addressed. Once we’ve been through all the exercises, I bring up the one’s he’s least happy with and discuss what he might have done better. In just the one case he learns something new. In the rest I show him that he did better than most and well enough.

“Perfect is something to strive towards,” I say, “but not something to criticise yourself over when you don’t achieve it. Self-criticism is a luxury you can’t afford up there; it leads to poor decisions. There wasn’t much you could have done better up there in the moment, and everything you did resolved the issue before it became dangerous. Remember, good enough is still good enough.

“I rode you pretty hard up there. If you have half those problems on a normal EVA then you’re having a really bad day, especially if you’ve done all your checks before you start.”

“All the Ps eh.”

“All the Ps.”

Prior preparation prevents poor performance. There’s a rather crude adjective relating to a bodily function that can be added before the last two words, but I’ve never felt the need.

“Then we had a real crisis at the end and you stepped up with no hesitation. Not everyone would have done that.”

“Yeah, well you weren’t going to back off, so what was I going to do?”

I smile. We’re almost at the end of our ride. “Well, I’m glad you did Mike. That could easily have gone worse without you.”

“But maybe still good enough?”

I laugh. There isn’t really a response to that so I watch the base approach for the last few minutes.

Laura wants a debrief and I offer Mike the option of being included. He shrugs and nods and with a little prompting, does most of the reporting. Surya’s there for some of it and has an explanation for the issues we’ve faced.

“The membrane’s designed to operate as a single unit. It only has one point where the build up of charge is tapped off which is also where the sensor unit is attached. It looks like higher levels of hard x-rays and gamma rays slowly degrade the interface between the membrane and feed cable, so it becomes harder for the charge to be drawn off.

“Eventually the charge build up is faster than the rate it can be drawn off and the voltages grow until they start to arc off on the surrounding superstructure. These high voltage discharges begin to damage the membrane until there are multiple isolated areas, all charging up and discharging. I don’t know how many there would have been on the worst of the balloons, but it’s likely we wouldn’t have been able to prevent what happened. In fact it’s quite possible that, had the balloon not exploded the other day, the final outcome would have been far worse.”

“Thank you, professor,” Laura responds. “Now that you’ve told us what the problem is, I hope you have a solution for us.”

“I do. I’ve formulated a new conductive resin that should be considerably more resilient in the presence of hard radiation…”

“Should be?”

“Theoretically, yes. I obviously haven’t had time to test it, so I should like to stay and monitor it first-hand…”

“You wish to remain on Cloudbase? What about your responsibilities in Cairo?”

“I can delegate most of the administration. My teaching and tutoring commitments I hope I’ll be able to uphold via your holodeck. I don’t want a repeat of this situation where the problem was too close to critical before I heard anything about it.”

“What about the fracturing of the membrane?” I ask. “We have at least one up there still with that problem.”

“Instead of one point of contact, I propose that the cable be split into many and each one attached to the membrane at multiple points, each with its own sensor cluster. I believe I proposed that in my original design.”

“Yes, but when we built them initially, you agreed with our engineers that a single cable contact would be sufficient.”

“I did. At the time the argument was simpler construction meant less likelihood of failure. I’ve reviewed my position on the matter and now believe that multiple points of contact are preferable for the redundancy they offer and for the solution they’d offer to the fracturing.”

“So what’s the course of action?”

“I have sent specifications to fabrication for upgrade units that will bolt to the top of the existing feed cables and branch out to a couple of dozen spots on the underside of the membranes. The connectors and sensor clusters at the end of each branch will be secured using the new conductive resin. They will need to be deployed at night with the Northern most installation being the one we fix first.

“I have a few new ideas for safer units which I’d like to trial as well.”

“You want to trial new ideas with the existing ones not working yet?” Mike asked.

“I have proposals that will allow the new projects to be implemented safely. If you will grant me the opportunity to discuss them, you’ll see.”

“Let’s fix what’s broke first. Chris, Mike, you and your team are stood down from active duty for the next twenty-four hours at least, but I may want you to brief the next teams to go up. For now, get some rest and I’ll call on you when I need you. Excellent job up there, all of you.”

Some curries seem to improve every time you reheat them. This was true of Surya’s efforts. I’d have to watch my intake or I’d lose my weight advantage.

“Did you mean that about staying on Cloudbase?”

“Of course.” She leans across and kisses me on the lips. There’s an added tingle from the spices. “If the opportunity to further my research isn’t incentive enough, I have the pleasure of your company to look forward to every day.”

“Not every day. My flying takes me away from the base often enough.”

“It wouldn’t say much about my level of maturity if I couldn’t adapt to that, would it? Besides, your regular travels ensure a regular supply of coffee, so there’s a silvery lining.”

“I thought I took care of that yesterday.”

“Yes, the whole station’s talking about the goodies you and Harmony brought back. That supply won’t last forever though, so I’ll be relying on you in the long run.

“I do have a thought for you though, Chris. Do you feel ready for a new challenge?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems everything you do, you do extremely well. You fly one of the most challenging aircraft ever built without difficulty, you seem at home working on the edge of space, I’ve seen and even used recordings of some of your teaching sessions, which cover such a wide range of topics in which you seem so totally at home that you can enter into deeply involved debates in all cases without preparation.

“Now there’s nothing wrong with settling back and enjoying your accomplishments, but life without challenge is at risk of becoming dull, don’t you think?”

“It hasn’t been particularly dull this past week.”

“I won’t argue with that, but what about next week, when the issue with the trial solar membranes is resolved and you’re back to flying ferry runs to different parts of the world. I seem to remember you spending much of our flight back here reading a book.”

“Antoine de Saint Exupery, yes.”

“A French aviator who lived nearly two hundred years ago. Perhaps it’s time we saw another aviator philosopher. One with experience walking in the upper stratosphere, with a propensity for pretty clothes, might offer the world some quite unique insights. Or maybe there’s another area of study that might be clamouring for your attention.”

My first inclination is to respond facetiously, defensively, but first inclinations are the ones that tend to get you into trouble, especially with women. I pause in my eating to give it some thought. It gives my digestion a chance to catch up and I realise I only want a bite or two more before I’m full.

“That’s going to take some thought. You may have something though.”

“So, what did you plan to do tomorrow. After you’ve briefed the crews who are going up to fix my mistakes, I mean.”

“Not mistakes, unless you can tell me there was any way you could have predicted the outcome.”

“Okay, fixing the unforeseen problems then, and don’t deflect.”

“I’ll find myself a quiet, comfortable spot and give your idea some thought.” I pick up my plate and hers since both of us seem to have finished eating. “For now though, how do you feel about dessert.”

The briefing happens first thing and only lasts a half hour. I sketch out the membrane and indicate where the existing sensor array sits as well as where yesterday’s spark came from and where my arrow went. The balloons are self healing so there should be little or no hydrogen leakage by now, supported by the steady pressure readout. Mike adds the location of his arrow to the sketch and we sit by politely while they discuss how best to complete their task. There’s nothing we can contribute that they can’t sort out for themselves, so we stand and back away.

Laura waves me over, indicates an email I sent her yesterday.

“Are you sure? Because you didn’t seem to be a few days ago.”

“Exercising my woman’s prerogative,” I say.

She snorts but doesn’t risk commenting.

“You’ve read my report. He’s still a little too self-critical, but yesterday I’d have been just as happy if he’d been leading.”

“Fine. Fresh team?”

“I think so. Wang belongs as second with a more experienced first, Judith also needs a mentor. Phil and Saneeta would be okay, but when you split a team up it’s best to go all the way.”

“You should write some of this stuff down.”

“Nah. Who likes to be preached at?”

“I’m guessing you’ve had your fill of spacewalks for the time being?”

“I wouldn’t mind giving them a break for a while.”

“Your girlfriend wants a few bits and bobs. I’ve already spoken to her about her proposed research and approved it. The things she wants will be waiting for you in Manaus tomorrow, as should the mailbag.”

“I’ll head down this evening then.”

“You’re on twenty-four hour rest, remember?”

“Yeah, starting nineteen hundred yesterday, which means I’ll be active again from eighteen hundred.”

She shakes her head and sighs. “Then take a couple of days while you’re down there. Go check out the Amazon a bit.”

“Is that an order Colonel?”

“I’m warning you Chris, I’ll get my own back. No it’s not an order, but it’s a recommendation, born from genuine concern. You’ve been through a lot recently, and if you don’t take some R and R, I’m going to assign you some time with Meredith.”

The base psychiatrist.

“Doesn’t Surya need the equipment I’m collecting?”

“She’s going to have her hands full for at least a week.”

“Okay, a couple of days. Any ideas what I could be doing while I’m there?”

“Do I look like a damned travel guide?”

“You look like the sort of person who wouldn’t make a suggestion without having something in mind.”

“Alright. I have a friend down there who’s heading up part of the reforestation project. He’ll sort you out a tour to your interests. You’ll have to save the frocks for the evening though. He recommends canvas trousers and walking boots for where he’ll be taking you.”

I head off to the hydroponics section and settle down with a flask of coffee in a quiet space Rachael and I used to use on occasions.

Surya’s right, there is no challenge to my life. Flying an Angel, despite it being a handful, is well within my capabilities as are the excursions up in the rigging. None of the things I’ve done in the last few years have stretched my capabilities. Even the twenty-mile jump into the dark hadn’t stretched me to the limit.

Dealing with the sharks maybe, but I have no aspirations to reprise that particular activity.

I allow my mind to drift through possible areas of study. Plants don’t interest me particularly. I love them for the way they look and taste, but I have no interest in their cultivation. It was one of those areas where Rachael and I agreed to differ.

“Chris?”

Speak of the devil.

“Hi Rachael. How are things with Peter?”

“They’re good. He’s nearby if you’d like to meet him.”

“Another time maybe. Listen, if I brought back a coffee bush or two, do you think you could get them to grow up here?”

“I could give it a try. We’d need a whole pod full of them if you’re thinking of harvesting enough for the base.”

“I guess I’ll have to work on the colonel then. See if I can persuade her it’s in the best interests of the base.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Do you fancy a mug?” I hold up the flask.

“Thanks. I should get back to work. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

There’s a firs – refusing the coffee I mean, not the other. Then again, you can get decent coffee in Ten Forward now.

She leaves me to my musings and I watch Ecuador slip by beneath us.

Mid-afternoon, I head back to the apartment and make an early dinner for Surya and me. Around five I take it to her lab and we chat quietly as we eat.

“Laura wants me to take a couple of days off,” I say.

“Sounds like a good idea. I wish I could come with you, but I have enough to be working on right now. I have to justify my being here, don’t I?”

“Just as I was getting used to having you around.”

“I plan to be here when you get back, you know.”

“I’ll bring you a souvenir. Anything you’d particularly like?”

“Surprise me.”

“I’ll see what I can manage. I’m back on duty in half an hour. I want to get away as soon after that as I can.”

She kisses me and smiles. “I’ll see you when you get back then. What do you fancy for tea when you do get back?”

I kiss her back and smile. “Surprise me.”

There’s rarely much to take down, and this isn’t one of the exceptions. It takes me half an hour to check my flight suit and pre-flight the Angel. The flight plan’s already been logged so once I have the outgoing mailbag, I climb aboard and call for departure.

The flight is one of the shortest in my logbook, almost as short as my recent flight with Harmony, and the destination airport is like landing on glass. I taxi into the waiting hangar and power down. Barely an hour in the air and I’m done.

As usual, there are overalls to borrow. As usual, most of them are too big for me, but one of the female mechanics is kind enough to lend me a pair. She’s near the end of her shift so I invite her to go shopping with me and repay her kindness by buying her something while I’m kitting myself out.

Boots and trousers and hard-wearing shirts for my excursions into the rain forest, but a few pretty frocks for the evenings.

I check into the hotel about ten, wearing a short frilly skirt and crop top. My newest friend tries to persuade me to join her and her friends and go dancing, but I’ve a message from Laura’s contact telling me he’ll pick me up at five thirty the following morning for a two-day excursion into the jungle, so an early night seems like a better idea. I make my excuses and escape into my bed.

The following morning I’m awake in good time and kitted out safari style for the day. My grab bag suffices to carry my nightdress, spare underwear and toiletries and the hotel provides me with a packed breakfast and lunch. I’m waiting outside when one of those vehicles you have to climb up into pulls up alongside and a good-looking man a little older than me reaches across to open the door.

“There must be some mistake,” he says. “I thought I was picking up a bloke.”

“Did Laura tell you to say that?” I say with a smile. I’ve never tried to disguise my voice but I’m not sure I come across as particularly masculine.”

He grins back and puts his monster truck into gear. “Get comfy, we’ve a six-hour drive ahead of us.”

The day is very different from my usual. My host doesn’t seem to believe in air-conditioning, so we spend the day with the windows open to the insects and the dust with sweat stains spreading down our backs. We have a little respite on a couple of occasions when we drive across rivers, submerged up to window level and some of the cool water sloshes in. Other than that, the trees trap a high degree of humidity which combines with the temperature to make the experience less than comfortable. At times we squeeze down tracks that seem narrower than the vehicle, but somehow we make it through.

Six hours later, as promised, we come out onto an escarpment looking over acres of deforested land. He pulls up and climbs out, indicating that I should do the same.

“You’re looking at a couple of million acres,” he says pointing out to the vast cleared area in front of us. “In the years before the reforestation incentive was introduced, around five million acres of rainforest was being destroyed every year in Brazil alone. It’s taking a long while to fix.”

“How are you doing it?”

“World government funding for local farmers to take on the role of forest guardians instead. They have a better standard of living and the forest is encouraged to grow back. The forest guardians collect seeds and plants from existing rainforest and scatter them over their land. Plants grow wild and over time, trees begin to re-establish themselves. These two million acres will begin to look more like the rainforest it used to be in about five years, by which time we’ll already be pushing onto the next bit. We’ve a long way to go. We lost about twenty two percent completely before we started reversing the trend along with maybe another twenty percent on top of that severely damaged. The estimate is we won’t be back to anything like it was for at least a century.”

“But you’re getting there, and it’s rebalancing the atmosphere.”

“The atmosphere’s going to take a lot more than regrowing trees to fix it, but we’re doing our part. What we should see improved in our lifetime is the extreme weather patterns though.

“Let’s walk down to the camp and I can show you around.”

We leave the vehicle at the top of the cliff and walk down a narrow switchback path carved into the cliff. The forest at the bottom is even hotter and more humid, but the variety of plants is astonishing, even for someone like me.

I’m introduced to several of the forest guardians and they proudly show me around their plots of land.

Several pharmaceutical research teams have mobile labs established about the place, adding their own contribution to the reforestation from the value of the drugs they discover. The locals are aware of where the wealth of their country now lies and are more inclined to protect it.

During the afternoon I’m invited to climb up to the top of the canopy from where I watch the sunset. It’s magical, but the heat and humidity have left me feeling somewhat the worse for wear.

Back at the camp, one of the women indicates where I can take a camp shower. A bucket full of cold water hoisted some feet above my head gives enough pressure to bring me blessed relief and wash away my sweat. Three refills leave me feeling cool, clean and refreshed. I return to my tent to find my clothes gone. In their place is a choice. Either a pair of brown slacks and a red flannel shirt, or a skirt and blouse.

The skirt reaches mid calf, falling in multiple tiers of thin cotton. The blouse is equally thin and loose fitting with long sleeves to protect from the evening insects, but remarkably cool. I have a choice of sandals too, both in my size, but with one pair at least decorated with flowers.

I emerge from the tent to be greeted by smiles from everyone. The women beckon me into their company where it becomes evident that a noticeable percentage are similar in nature to myself.

I join in with the preparation of the food and before long we’re all sitting around a roaring fire, chatting away as much as my limited Portuguese and their limited English will allow.

When we’re done eating, some of the men bring out musical instruments and I get my evening’s dancing after all. I probably drink too much beer, but you learn to be wary of water in the tropics and I need to rehydrate a lot after all the dancing

Sometime after midnight, I excuse myself and ask if I might have another shower. My host reminds me to check the trees and the tent for snakes. I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me, but I’m thorough nonetheless. Somewhat to my relief there are none.

Morning comes and I wake to find my safari clothes freshly laundered and sitting on the camp chair just inside my tent. Which means someone must have come into my tent and most likely seen me sleeping. When I emerge from the tent, I notice a small group of young women looking my way and giggling. I thank them for my clean clothes and leave them to their fun. After last night my nightwear shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

After breakfast, my host leads me back up the cliff to his vehicle. A couple of hour’s drive brings us to a stretch of river where a boat that’s much too large for just the two of us waits to take us on a tour of the river and the villages along its bank.

I meet medical aid workers in each village, some of whom catch a ride with us to the next village. A great deal of their work centres around the children, since most of the villagers have agreed to limit their families to just two children.

I also spend some time with educators who seem to spend at least as much time listening to the village elders recounting folk lore and customs as they do teaching. It is evident how much effort they put into making their lessons culturally appropriate.

People change over time, you can’t stop that and you wouldn’t want to. What’s important is to allow people to change at their own pace.

I think of the upcoming sessions I have with a couple of Louisiana classes and their parents. It strikes me that a great deal of what’s going on here might be relevant to our discussion. I borrow a video drone from my host and, with the permission of both elders and villagers, I video myself interacting and learning about each different culture we encounter. Despite the proximity of the villages, there are distinct differences between them.

The afternoon is wearing on and I wonder when we’re going to head back to the vehicle. My companion accepts an invitation to dine which prompts me to ask when we’re likely to be heading back to the city. For the second day in a row I’m filthy and sweat stained and so looking forward to standing under a shower.

He tells me not to worry, that we’ll be on our way after we’ve eaten. Preparing the meal takes several hours and I resign myself to spending another night in the bush. The pace of the place seems not too dissimilar from parts of Africa where I’ve encountered a similar disregard for precise time-keeping. There the simplest thing to do was to go with the flow, and it seems a similar attitude will work here.

I’ll just have to refile my flight plan for later the following day, recalculate the amount of fuel I’ll need and what my load out will be. No big problem.

It doesn’t come to that. Shortly before mid-afternoon, a group of young women find me and indicate I should follow. My host throws me a package, explaining that whoever lent me her clothes the previous night decided I looked better in them than her.

The women take me to a bath house where cool water once more washes away the day’s filth and I re-emerge very much a new person. The villagers here are not so used to people like me, but they’re no less welcoming. There are elders in the village who still remember Emerson Pontes who’s visual art stood as a powerful protest against the capitalist regimes of the early twenty-first century and their destructive exploitation of the Amazon. On her behalf I receive a special welcome.

The sun is low in the sky when we are finally led to our boat and given a royal send-off. I’m not sure how much further we’ll be able to travel in the swiftly descending equatorial dusk, but I’m glad of the cool breeze through my cooler clothing, so I don’t much care.

It’s almost full dark when we swing around yet another wide sweeping bend in the meandering river, and the lights of the city appear through the trees. Perhaps it shouldn’t come as such a surprise, after all the city is right on the banks of the river. It’s a welcome sight nonetheless. Fifteen minutes more and we run onto a sandbank beneath my hotel.

“What about your truck?” I ask my host.

He shrugs. “One of the guys in the camp will bring it back tomorrow or maybe the day after. This is a much nicer way to make the return trip, don’t you think?”

“It’s magical. Thank you so much, it’s been an amazing couple of days.”

“It’s been my pleasure.”

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you. I have a wife to go home to and I wouldn’t want to give her a reason to be jealous.”

It’s early enough that I treat myself to another long cold shower, then change into one of my recently purchased and otherwise neglected dresses. This one’s all sparkles and sequins and very much a party outfit. I take a taxi to where the night seems most alive and allow myself to be drawn into it. I’m not usually into partying, but there’s something about that Latin American rhythm that won’t be denied.

Conscious of my flight the following day, I stick to non-alcoholic drinks, but there are a lot of fruity concoctions to be had that fit that description. The dancing is intoxicating enough and it’s late before I make it back to the hotel.

The following morning, I wake early and check out after a light breakfast. I call the airport to find out what the final load-out is on my plane including the mail and plan out the extra goodies I’m going to take back with me. Coffee obviously, plus a couple of small coffee bushes for Rachael to work with. I add a rather attractive and sweet-smelling plant as a gift for Surya. The rest I fill from a long list of, ‘if you ever get the chance,’ requests I’ve accumulated over recent months. I top the whole lot off with a few extra outfits for me, something for Mary as usual and a number of trouser suits for my girlfriend, since she’s expressed a preference.

No sense in flying below maximum weight and Cloudbase isn’t so far ahead that I need much fuel.

“Cloudbase, this is Angel one, ten miles out, inbound from the West.”

You know the rest.

Laura’s mail includes a rather bulky package.

“Ah, good. Great timing,” she says, but doesn’t say more.

Mary is delighted with her gift, but then she always is.

Surya is appropriately appreciative of her tropical flower, but considerably more pleased with the rest of what I’ve brought her.

“Thank God,” she says. “I’ve been getting so sick of wearing skirts every day.”

The dinner she prepares for us is more oriental in nature than Indian and is a genuine delight.

It comes with a generous serving of our usual dessert.

Life is good, but I’m increasingly aware that, even with someone new and exciting in my life, there’s a sameness to it all. Strange how, you can be oblivious to something until someone points it out to you, then you can’t ignore it.

Surya is lying on my chest, tracing circles around one of my nipples. It’s having an effect on another part of my body and I feel more dessert on the way.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

Why do I have to be thinking anything? Fortunately, I am though, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the what’s happening between my legs.

“Oh, about my future,” I say. “You were right about it being a little too safe and too routine.”

“So,” she props herself up on my chest and looks at me, “who am I to be sharing my life with then? A new pilot-philosopher perhaps?”

“I don’t think so. At least not intentionally and not at first. I thought I might have a go at historian.”

“But Chris, you already know so much about that.”

“Perhaps, but I’m a long way from knowing it all. I have a good start, enough to write a few chapters, but I want to explore the ways things are getting better in the world. I know how it started, how we found our way out of the Darkest Age that almost destroyed us all, but now I want to write about all the things that are bringing us hope now.

“There’s so much. I learnt new things over these past few days and my role as an Angel gives me access to the whole world.

“In a few months time we’re going to have to alter our path around the world. We’re going to have to shift so we spend more time over the tropics and stay away from the equator with the filament from the space elevator coming down over Thailand. It’ll give me an opportunity to visit more places, find out about more projects.”

“Hmm. It has mileage. Certainly more than I thought you had in mind, but you’re thinking too small. Angel flights shared between the four of you will be too few and far between and won’t always give enough time on the ground. I think it’ll take a lot longer than you think to gather your material.”

“What do you suggest I do then?”

“I don’t know. But I think you have the start of something worthwhile. All you need to do is figure out how to turn the dream into reality.”

“Maybe I should have a word with the colonel, see if she has any thoughts.”

“Maybe. And that reminds me. She wants you in control this evening to pass on your EVA team leader position.”

“What time?”

“Nineteen thirty hours local. We still have an hour.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste it.” I cup her cheek in my hand and lift her beautiful face towards me.

There’s a fair representation of the base’s section leaders in the control centre when Surya and I turn up. Mike’s standing in the middle of it all looking rather bewildered. He heads over to me as soon as I arrive.

“What’s this about, do you know?” he asks.

“Nothing terrible,” I assure him, but leave the rest for the announcement since Laura’s just held up her hands for silence.

“As you know,” she says, “we’re all about encouraging individuals to develop their gifts and skills. Today’s short ceremony is to recognise a couple of individuals who have done just that.”

A couple of people? I look around trying to guess who the other person might be. I don’t really have time to speculate though as Laura turns to me and asks me to take over.

I haven’t had much time to prepare a speech or anything, but I’m not sure Mike would appreciate being put on the spot for long.

“Some of you may have heard about a few incidents that took place in the rigging recently.”

There’s a smattering of polite laughter.

“Mike here was part of the EVA team involved in pretty much all of them, though I should hasten to add that he had nothing to do with the explosion that may have disturbed you all about a week ago.

“Mike has been part of my EVA team for some time now, quite a lot of it as my second. His performance in recent days has been exemplary and on our last trip into the rigging, he was instrumental in preventing – at some risk to himself, I might add – a second and potentially more dangerous explosion.”

Polite applause and a very red necked Mike.

“I also took the time to check out his response to just about every difficulty I’ve faced in my time aloft and found it to be quite exceptional.

“As a result I have no hesitation in recommending you be promoted to EVA team leader in your own right, and I’m delighted to tell you that our base commander agrees with me.”

The applause that follows is considerably more enthusiastic.

“I don’t know what to say,” Mike stammers when the noise has settled.

“Then let me say it for you.” I hold out a hand. “Congratulations, you earned it.”

He pulls me into a hug rather than taking my hand and the applause renews for a while.

“And this couldn’t be more timely,” Laura takes back control of the room, “since it’s quite likely that one of our existing EVA leaders will be taking on additional responsibilities which will mean he won’t be able to spend quite so much time closer to heaven.”

I turn to her, confused.

“You all know Chris.” She puts a hand on my arm. “And those of you who know him well know that he’s capable of much more than he’s been doing in recent years.

“I’ve been doing a considerable amount of thinking this past week. You all know I’m not as young as I was, and it seems past time that I started delegating some of my duties here. As a result, I’ve decided to institute a new programme appointing captains to act as my representatives.

“You all know I’ve never been that keen on the whole Cloudbase thing, especially when it comes to the moniker you have all chosen for me. Some battles you don’t get to win though. We already have our Angel aircraft and their pilots Rhapsody, Symphony, Harmony and, of course Melody which means the whole thing is already beyond my control, so I figured if you can’t beat ‘em…”

She smiled at me and picked up a package that looked suspiciously like the one I’d brought up in the post.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you, altogether way too appropriately given his recent death defying dive into the night, the indestructible Captain Scarlet.”

She hands me the package and it’s my turn to blush.

I open it up to find a uniform that’s closer in appearance to one of the original Star Trek uniforms with long sleeves and a short skirt, but the emblem on the front is a stylised S on a bull’s-eye coloured from red in the centre to violet on the outer band.

I duck out of the control centre for the few minutes it takes me to change, then return to renewed applause and champagne.

“So, what precisely does this mean?” I ask when I have Laura to myself, “and how am I supposed to appear in uniform every day if I have only the one?” I love the feel of the tights and short skirt. It has build in shorts for modesty which are tight enough to keep everything neat and tidy.

“The uniform’s not compulsory, though I could order a few more and make it so if you wish.

“Alternatively, just keep the badge on when you’re about station business.”

“What station business do you have in mind?”

“Ambassador for one. Now I know what you said about bureaucratic rolls, but that’s not what I’m giving you here. I delegate to you, you have your own people to delegate to. You focus on the things only you can do.”

“And what are they?”

“Winning friends and influencing people.” She smiles at my incredulous response. “Face it Chris, you’re a likable person, and you understand this world better than most. People trust you because they can see you’ve nothing to hide, then you open your mouth and you change people’s minds.

“We need someone like you reminding people why so much of the worlds resources go into projects like this one, and we don’t just need you promoting Cloudbase, but every project. Even the less popular ones like reducing the world human population and promoting meat free diets, and the less glamorous ones like cleaning up the oceanic gyres.”

Gyres are great, slowly swirling currents within the ocean. There are five major ones between the tropics with two each in the Pacific and Atlantic and one in the Indian. They tend do be where the vast majority of the three hundred plus million tons of floating plastic rubbish ends up. On the plus side, we know where to go to deal with the rubbish. On the minus side there’s such a lot of it.

Sorry, I’m interrupting Laura and this is important.

“I’ve been talking to project leaders the world over and they agree we need a spokesperson. They also agree it should be you.”

“I still don’t get why.”

“I showed them the reviews of your recent teaching sessions. You’re thorough, you’re well prepared and well informed, you’re persuasive. I showed them footage of your sessions with those young children from the Bible Belt and everyone is impressed.

“You still need to follow up on that by the way, and we’re getting new requests almost daily, and from more than just schools. Word’s getting out and we have churches and community centres putting in requests. What would you say about conducting those sessions in person?”

“How long would that take? Could we justify being without an Angel for that long.”

“Three weeks initially, and no, which is why I’d like to introduce you to the new Melody. Chris, this is Maria Sanchez. She needs one last check flight to gain her Angel wings. Best of all is she actually weighs less than you.”

“Congratulations on completing your training,” I offer my hand to the petite Mexican girl who appears next to Laura. The final check ride is no rubber stamp, but if the colonel thinks she’s ready for it then she should have no difficulty with it.

“Thank you,” She has an astonishing smile. “I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Well, enjoy it as best you can,” Laura says, “because next time Chris will be giving you your qualifying check ride.”

Laura leaves me to chat aviation politely with Maria for a few minutes, but I eventually guide her over to the other Angel pilots and leave her in good company. For once I have more important things to talk about than flying.

“Why do I have the feeling I’m being railroaded here?”

“Because you’re perceptive and astute. You need a new challenge in your life Chris, and this is a good fit.”

“It sounds like I’ll be Earthbound if I take it.”

“Not at all. This is your home. Lockheed have a new prototype capable of getting up here. it’s smaller, lighter, faster, a lot more fuel efficient. Not so much cargo space, but it is a two-seater. They’re calling it the Cherrub, and there will be one waiting for you once you’re done with your tour of the Deep South.”

“Yes, about that. How will they expect me to look?”

“Exactly like you. Your appearance is a challenge to their beliefs and a gateway to opening up more reasoned and reasonable lines of thought.”

“I’m reminded of an incident David Bowie spoke of in nineteen seventy-one when a man in Texas pulled a gun on him because he was wearing a dress.”

“That was over a hundred years ago.”

“And this is the land of conservative fundamentalists. How much do you think they’ve change in a hundred years?”

“Quite a lot if you’ll take the time to read the requests I’ve been getting.”

“It only takes one extremist.”

“Did the guy shoot David Bowie?”

“Well… no.”

“You have a whole lot more charisma, Chris. You’ll be fine.”

“What about Surya?”

“What about me?”

I hadn’t realised she’d been standing behind me.

“Er, well, it’s just that Laura was telling me that the new role she wants me to take on is likely to involve me being away for longer as ambassador for the plethora of world repair projects…”

“We prefer spectrum,” Laura interjected with a twinkle in her eye.”

“Spectrum of projects then, which would mean more and longer trips to the surface, and I was concern…”

“But that’s brilliant Chris! You have to say yes.”

“Erm what?”

“It’ll make it so much easier for you to gather information for your book.”

“Book? What book?” It was rare for Laura to be unaware of anything on her base .

Surya tells her what I have in mind and the Colonel’s eyes sparkle with excitement.

“She’s right, Chris. We were planning on factoring in visits to the different projects to see first-hand what’s going on and to talk to the people making it happen. It’ll make your presentations better informed, and it’ll do the same for your writing.”

“But I thought…” I look at Surya.

“You thought I asked to move up here for you? You’re cute, but not that cute. It was all about the opportunity to advance and monitor my experiments first-hand. I’ve been on the waiting list for over a year now. Besides, you’ll be around enough, and when you’re not, I’ll have a comfortable amount of space to enjoy in our apartment.”

“I did also say the Cherub was a two-seater,” Laura adds. “There’ll be times when Surya can accompany you, once she has her projects settled. What do you say?”

I can’t pass up on this opportunity.

“Spectrum is green?”

It’s been a couple of days, so we’re out over the Atlantic with a four hour flight to New Orleans ahead of us. It feels odd sitting in the jump seat again so soon, especially since this may be my last time in an Angel. I’m not going to be just a passenger this time. I have the aircraft tricked out for the check ride and have every intention of making this a very long four hours for Maria Sanchez.

“Cloudbase, this is Angel One ready for departure.”

“Good luck Melody. Angel One cleared for departure, no traffic to conflict.”

“Cleared for departure, see you in a couple of days.”

The acceleration feels more intense when you’re not behind the controls. I wait till we’re just past the abort point and give her a simulated flameout in the left engine.

Maria questions my parentage in Mexican, but the word is almost the same as in English. I smile and monitor her response.

The natural reaction is to kick the rudder to keep things straight. The thing to remember is dead leg, dead engine. She leaves the left engine and pushes the right as high as it will go while maintaining control. This gets us up to almost flying speed by the time we reach the end of the rail. Now we’ll see if she’s worthy of my call sign.

You need to pitch forward so that gravity can give you those few extra knots. At this altitude that means pitching a long way forward. Between sixty and seventy degrees, and it feels horribly wrong.

You can’t stay that way for long either. As soon as you’re five knots away from the speed you want, you need to start pitching up. Quickly so that you don’t keep accelerating too fast, but not so quickly that you pitch into a stall. It takes precision and nerve. I’m ready to take control if it looks like she’s even half a degree of pitch off, but she holds it just right until we’re precisely at our optimal speed in a controlled glide.

“Full engine control back to you,” I say. She replies with something I don’t understand, but from her tone has to be rude. I flip a switch and her GPS goes dark.

It’s not quite as much fun as it sounds because even though I have complete control over the aircraft’s systems and instruments, I don’t have the same when it comes to the pilot. I have to make sure I don’t push her past her breaking point, but at the same time I do need to test her up to the limit.

We’re both sweating when we approach the New Orlean’s terminal manoeuvring area and I give her a full electrics failure. It’s almost as mean as the way I started because it leaves us with no electronic navigation aids, no means to communicate and only very limited instrumentation. It also means manual gear extension and a faster flapless approach.

In reality the transponder continues to work and I’m in contact with ATC throughout. I also call for a missed approach on short final following a flawless performance. The truth is, a competent pilot can land an Angel without flaps, but the additional twenty knots on approach speed means it’ll need a full airframe check before being permitted to fly again. With a real flap failure, the important thing is ensuring a landing you can walk away from and accepting any damage to the craft.

I give her back full systems and we take a wide tour around the airfield before coming in for the gentlest of landings.

I finish the paperwork while she taxis us home. It’s not just pass fail these days but merit and distinction are possible, though with an excessive amount of written evidence needed.

The engines spool down and Maria climbs out of the cockpit ahead of me. I follow her out, removing my helmet and gauntlets as I do.

Down on the tarmac she rounds on me and punches me in the jaw.

“What the hell was that? Were you trying to kill us?”

The punch isn’t entirely unexpected. I seem to recall Rhapsody actually knocked his examiner out. I came close to doing the same, though I’ve always been more inclined to resort to verbal abuse rather than physical.

“Feel better?” I ask, settling my jaw back into place. “When the bruise starts to show it’s going to make my job down here a little more interesting.”

“I don’t care! You damned well deserve it after that crazy stunt you pulled at launch.”

“Challenging, not crazy. The check ride includes a review your training performance, especially simulator logs. Your assessment has to reflect the full standard of your flying.”

“Nobody in their right mind pulls an engine at sixty thousand feet.”

“The plane was well under maximum weight; you had an acceptable envelope within which to operate.”

“You have no idea…”

“On my assessment, I was given a simulated full flameout on the port side just after the commit point. I did everything right and still slid off the rail twenty-five knots short of flying speed. When you get back to Cloudbase, the others will want a blow by blow and they’ll tell you about theirs. We all had similar experiences. I had to be thorough otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to give you this.”

I pass her a piece of plastic with her name on it and a pair of wings over a halo in the top right corner. The wings are gold. I have two more in my pocket, coloured silver and bronze, which will go back in the recycling.

She stares at it for a full twenty seconds then shakes her head. “I thought you…”

“I’m thorough, not vindictive. Congratulations, you deserve it.

“But, it’s too hot to be standing around in one of these flight suits. I need a shower and a change of clothing, then I’ll give you a thorough debrief down by the pool over a couple of mojitos. Sound good?”

This is the Bible belt where fashions tend to be modest. I don’t much care for the designs I see in the shop windows – they try too hard to be distinctive in my opinion – so I’m glad I’ve brought a case of my own things this time. I settle on a pale blue sundress with slightly puffed sleeves and hemline to the knee. The light cotton is cool and comfortable and appropriate to the Louisiana weather. Maria’s choice is made up of vibrant colours that look stunning against her dusky skin while showing off quite a lot of it. I pass her a drink and we spend a couple of hours going over the flight. Pretty much the only thing I can take issue with is her use of language and her fists. The bruise has begun to show, but then that’s what concealer is for, right?

I don’t really have anything to offer about her flying ability other than the warning against complacency. The most dangerous time in any pilot’s career is in the two to ten thousand hour range, the time it takes to get from thinking you know everything to realising you never will.

“I’m sure you’ve heard all the old sayings,” I tell her. “Like, ’There are old pilots and there are bold pilots…’”

“’But there are no old, bold pilots,’” she finishes.

“How about, ‘The superior pilot is one who uses her superior judgement to avoid getting into situations that require the use of her superior skill.’”

“I haven’t heard that one.” She smiles and sips at her drink. Then she asks about my check ride and by the end, I manage to convince her she got off lightly.

“I have one more thing for you.” I pull a name patch out of my handbag and pass it over. It’s brand new because I’m keeping my old one for sentimental reasons.

“You really don’t mind me having this?” she asks.

“Not as long as Melody keeps the reputation as being the best Angel in the squad, and you know what that means?”

I raise my glass and she does the same. Together we chorus, “Never forget the mail,” and end up laughing together.

She has some partying to do. She invites me along, but I’m not feeling much like it tonight. Any change involves losing something and right now I’m feeling a slight melancholy over a part of my life I’m now leaving behind.

My new life starts tomorrow and I have plans. I make a call through to ensure that my order will be ready for the following morning and receive assurances that it will be delivered to my hotel room at seven-thirty in the morning.

That’s another reason for skipping on the partying. I have an early start

There’s a knock at my door at seven-thirty sharp. I’ve already been up for an hour. Wash, deodorant, perfume, makeup to conceal the bruise and working my way into the undergarments that were waiting for me when I woke. I’m not sure the bloomers and chemise are absolutely necessary, but they provide me with as much modesty as I need as well as the required support for my false boobs. I don’t tend to bother with them a lot of the time, but this dress will look very wrong without them. I open the door and invite a half dozen or so women in with armfuls of cotton.

The dress is inspired by something Vivien Leigh wore in the vintage classic, ‘Gone With the Wind.’ It involves a corset – which does wonders for my figure and nothing at all for my ability to breathe – multiple hooped petticoats and a bustle of all things. It’s made from an ivory cotton with a liberal spray of green leafy designs and ruffled green chiffon around the short sleeves and neckline. A wide belt and a broad brimmed hat tied in place with a large green ribbon finish off the outfit. An inch and a half of heel is enough to lift the hem off the floor.

It takes half an hour for the seamstresses to alter the dress to fit, and the final result is a credit to their skill.

It all seems a little melodramatic, but following my two lessons with the Louisiana classes, the number of requests from adults to talk to me has increased to the point where Laura chose to book out the New Orleans Saints football stadium and invited any interested parties to attend. The place seats eighty-three thousand so I’m a little nervous about what’s awaiting me. It’s also my reason for the costume since I know I need to make something of an impact. I have no intention of hiding or apologising for my nature, but hopefully they’ll meet me part way. With that being said, the further I go, the further they’ll have to go to meet me.

Hooped petticoats and modern cars were never intended to work together. I accept a little last minute advise from one of my dressers and manage to climb in and out of my limousine without losing too much dignity. It’s not likely to make much difference as it seems anyone who might have witnessed my struggle and cared is currently making up part of a very vocal crowd in the stadium. There’s a considerable amount of chanting going on and not much of it seems friendly.

I’m led through to one of the tunnels that feeds onto the pitch. The chanting forms a wall of noise I’m reluctant to climb over, but if they’re angry now, they’ll be livid if I don’t show up. I step out onto the pitch.

Silence falls almost immediately and follows my slow progress to the platform that’s been raised in the centre of the playing field.

I review my opening remarks as I traverse the short distance to the stage. The crowd don’t seem in the mood for flippancy so I toss any of a number of joking remarks in the bin along with my admittedly atrocious southern drawl.

“I’m overwhelmed,” I say into the microphone, “to see such a large turnout. Thank you for…”

The rest of what I have in mind to say is lost in an incoherent roar as the crowd gives its delayed response to my arrival. I endure it for some minutes until it settles into a short but unpleasant chant.

I remove the microphone from its stand and lower it in front of one of the foldback speakers. A squeal of feedback emerges from the PA system. I wait for the chanting to cease and I retrieve the mike.

“I apologise,” I say lightly. “I was under the impression that you came here today to listen to me and perhaps to ask some questions. I’m not sure how we’ll achieve that second part with there being quite so many of you, but if you’d like to appoint a few spokesmen or women from your number, I’ll be happy to respond to what they have to ask. In the meantime, I do have something to say if you have ears to hear, but I won’t stay where I’m not welcome.”

The crowd settles. There is a little movement as individuals are identified and stand uncertainly.

“If the spokespeople,” there are one or two women among them even though the crowd is almost entirely male, “would make their way down to the playing field, somewhere near one of the tunnel entrances,” I point them out from my vantage point,” I’m sure the organisers will tell you how you can reach the stage.”

I take a breath and compose myself.

“In the New Testament, there are a number of incidents where Jesus challenges the religious leaders of his day. He allows his disciples to pick and eat corn on the Sabbath. He heals a man on the Sabbath. He objects quite violently to the people in the temples making a profit from the poor people coming to make sacrifice. His teachings challenge the establishment. I’m sure I don’t need to give you chapter and verse. This is, after all, the Bible Belt and most of you will know the contents of the book at least as well as I.

“There are similar examples in the Old Testament. Nathan challenging David about Bathsheba for one, then any of a number of the prophets crying out against injustice.”

Something changes in the texture of the silence. It becomes less begrudging, more attentive. Any lesson has to start at a place of common understanding, and I’ve come to theirs.

“We human beings have a tendency to get things wrong,” I say. “Sometimes it’s accidental, born from misunderstanding, sometimes it’s based on a feeling and feelings can often be misguided. Sometimes it’s deliberate, originating in greed. Greed for power, greed for wealth.

“It doesn’t matter where the error comes from, once it becomes established in our cannon of belief, it becomes all but impossible to dislodge, because we all want to see that basis of faith as being without flaw. We come up with arguments to support the infallibility of our beliefs, which means that we can’t challenge them, even if we feel the need to.

“It’s an uncomfortable truth, but we need heretics.”

The crowd responds. I step towards one of my foldbacks and raise my hands, microphone in one. On the surface it seems placating but it threatens another painful squeal of feedback if they don’t settle. They choose to do so.

“Not the sort of heretics who spring to mind when the word is mentioned – individuals who get a kick out of stirring up trouble or individuals with their own agenda. The sort of heretic I’m talking about is like the prophet’s of ancient time who were prepared to speak out whenever they saw something wrong in the world. Like Jesus himself who spoke out against a system that had been twisted to benefit those in charge, that relied on legalistic interpretations of scripture that made it all but impossible for ordinary men and women to please their God. Like Jesus who was ultimately willing to give up everything he had, even his life, in order to make it clear what God wants from us.

“You know it. The prophet Micah spoke of it. ‘He has shown you, oh man, what is good, and what does the Lord require of you. To do…’”

“’Justly,’” came the obedient reply.

“’To love…’”

“’Mercy.’”

“’And to walk…’”

“Humbly with your God.’”

“I don’t presume to tell you what the Bible says. I know full well that each and every one of you has spent more time studying it than me, but I will tell you what I have read from it.

“Time and again, the people of God, be they Israelites or Christians, have misunderstood what God himself has told them. Time and again, the Lord has had to repeat that love is what matters, not legalism. Even then, time and again, the words within the book have been taken out of context.

“I don’t presume to tell you what those words should mean, but I do presume to tell what seems apparent to me. You need to reconsider what they mean.

“Let me ask you, above all things, what marks the nature of your God?”

There is no immediate response.

“Is He a God of rules and any who break the least of His rules will be condemned?”

There are a few murmurs.

“Is He a God of anger, given to destroying people utterly for the least misdeed?”

I can here a few murmured no’s and a fair increase in grumbling.

“Or is He a God of love?” I say it quietly. No loud declaration. I leave that to them and they don’t disappoint.

“You were angry with me before I came, because you heard I had the temerity to teach your children while wearing a dress. You were incensed with me when I dared to appear before you wearing this costume. You believe that by coming to you dressed as I am, I offend God and all who follow him, would you agree?”

There is a roar of agreement, which dies down soon enough when I raise my hand.

“I’m aware of only one verse in all the Bible that appears to deal with the matter. It’s in Deuteronomy, mixed in with other random verses about helping your neighbours when their animals go astray and having tassels on your underwear. Furthermore, when you look into the original meaning of the words, they quite clearly have nothing to do with men and women dressing as each other, but more likely are concerned with cross contamination of blood between men and women, which is when you tend to come along that phrase, ‘abomination unto the Lord your God.’

“As I say, I don’t presume to tell you what to think, but I do presume to challenge your current beliefs and respectfully challenge you to reconsider your stance on these matters. There is no shame in admitting when you’re wrong. If we weren’t wrong from time to time, we wouldn’t be human. There is, however, great shame in refusing to consider evidence that you may be in the wrong, refusing to admit when you are wrong, refusing to accept that it’s possible for you to be wrong.

“Let’s go back to this same chapter in Deuteronomy. Most of it seems to focus on what to do when a man and woman marry and the man claims that his new bride was not a virgin. Amongst other things, it says that if the woman’s parents can’t show proof of their daughters virginity – which I can only imagine means keeping the soiled bedclothes from the wedding night – then the woman is to be stoned to death. I’m assuming you’ve all outgrown that particular law?”

There isn’t a great deal of response.

“I raise this particular issue because it’s the most obvious one in front of us today. It’s also one that generates the strongest response, because you all have a sense that what I am doing is offensively wrong. Well, hopefully not all of you, but I did have a feeling that a few of you objected when I first arrived.”

There’s some laughter in the crowd. I’ve earned a little respect so now humour is an option.

“If I can show you that an issue like this is worthy of deeper inspection, then I am confident that you will be prepared to examine other matters.

“Religion tends to distrust science, even though our ultimate goals, to understand the truths of our universe, are the same. In the past we have boasted of having better methods and of discovering greater truths than you, so there is no question you should distrust us. We have different methods of searching for the truth too, which tends to promote contempt between us. However, one of the best among us is often quoted as saying, ‘science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind.’

“We ignore each other at our peril. Einstein said he couldn’t conceive of a genuine scientist without profound faith, and I would say also that there can be no genuine person of faith who does not apply rational thought to his or her understanding of the truth.

“I stand before you as a representative of the world scientific community, holding out an olive branch, a gesture of friendship and cooperation, in the hope that we can at least agree to look for common ground and reconsider what we believe we know, in no way compromising our principles, but rather seeking to affirm them.

“I’ve spoken long enough. I would gladly accept questions from your spokesmen and women.”

It takes a while. Most of them had been preparing to challenge me on topics I had already dealt with, so they need to focus elsewhere. The questions do come though, and I’m glad I’ve prepared. Some of them are tough and one or two I own up to being unable to answer.

The first time that happens, I put on my best Vivien Leigh accent, which is probably a worse imitation of the southern drawl than mine, and say, “I don’t want to think about that now. I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Enough people catch the reference, despite the slight paraphrase, to fill the stadium with laughter. It’s quite something to hear eighty odd thousand people chuckling at the same time.

It’s almost noon when the questions finally dry up. I announce my intentions to stay in the area for several weeks and my willingness to teach or attend discussion groups, and not necessarily on the sensitive subject of alternate lifestyles. I thank them for their kind attention and walk out to a standing ovation.

Perhaps there’s something to be said for Laura’s view of me after all.

The weeks swim by in a mad muddle of meetings. I visit a good number of schools, including the two classes I taught from Cloudbase, and manage to focus on topics like challenging preconceptions, arguing logically, and scientific process. I speak at women’s meetings, where they bizarrely often insist on awarding me honorary womanhood before getting down to business, and I attend church leaders’ discussion groups where my input is accepted with good grace. Towards the end of my time in Louisiana I acquire celebrity status and appear on local radio and television talk shows. My Scarlett O’Hara costume makes a reappearance for some of the latter, but for the most part I allow myself cooler, more comfortable clothing.

Eventually the day comes when I receive a message From the Lockheed factory in Marietta, Georgia, to say that my aircraft is ready. I have a few last commitments to keep, then arrange transport to go fetch it.

It’s not just a case of turn up, grab the keys and go though. It’s a new design with its own little quirks and foibles, and I’m booked in for a week’s type training, most of it in simulators, before they’ll let me have it.

“She’s better looking than the Angels,” I say to the chief designer.

“Yeah” he agrees. “Shame about the name. I mean, okay, she’s smaller, but she’ll fly rings around anything in the sky”

“Whose idea was it to give it that name?” I ask.

“I assumed it was yours since she’s your craft.”

“More likely my bosses. Do I get any choice at this stage?”

“You can do what you like with her, except paint her of course.”

The range of temperatures and pressures she’d experience between ground level and sixty thousand feet, zero knots and Mach four would burn off any paint. She has an attractive multi-coloured hue that you only find in titanium alloy though, so paint would spoil her appearance.

Canard style delta wing with pronounced anhedral gives her an appearance much more like the craft from the original Captain Scarlet series. I suggest a different name for the class of craft and he nods his head appreciatively.

“Won’t your boss mind?”

“I don’t really care. It’s like you say, she’s my craft.”

The training is gruelling. Like the check ride I gave Maria, only lasting eight to ten hours each day for seven days. The last two I do get to fly for real, but with simulated systems failures from start to finish.

I have to unlearn a lot of habits peculiar to the Angels, but it’s very much worth it for the added performance. She may not carry much, but what she does carry, she carries fast.

At last I’m signed off and file a flight plan for home. Cloudbase is approaching the west coast of Africa which means a few hours in the air to catch up. I have to keep below the sound barrier until I’m over international waters, so I spend as much time climbing to altitude over the continental Re-united States as I do crossing the Atlantic. There’s a glint of sunlight on a Mylar balloon in the distance.

I have the best job in the world.

“Cloudbase, this is Archangel One, twenty miles out, inbound from the West.”

The extra distance is necessary because of my faster approach speed.

“Archangel One? Not the call sign I was expecting. We see you on approach. Cleared for zero-niner south. Hi Scarlett, welcome home.”

Yeah, Captain Scarlet didn’t last long after my appearance at the football stadium, but I don’t mind. In fact I kind of like it.

“Cleared Zero-niner south. Where’s Angel One?”

“Tucked up in the clamshell. We’ve rearranged it a little to squeeze your runabout in there too.”

“Zero-niner south, short final,” I announce. Banter can wait a while. The skyhook extends upwards from the leading edge of the tail and I ease my way onto the rail.

Landing is trickier with the Archangel. She doesn’t like flying slow so I have to bleed off the last fifty knots in the half mile before catching the rail. Even then I’m landing fifty knots faster than an Angel. That means harsher breaking. The shorter wings are built to withstand higher forces so I push the envelope a little.

Surya is waiting for me at the airlock ready to demonstrate the effect my absence has had on a certain part of her anatomy.

“Tell me you didn’t forget.” Her words diminish the effect of her greeting somewhat.

“The coffee or the spices?” I hold up packets of both.

My usual routine of showering and changing before heading for the control centre is extended slightly when Surya joins me in the shower. It turns out she did miss me after all.

Refreshed and wearing my captain’s uniform, such as it is, and with mail bag in hand, I head for Laura’s office.

“Archangel eh? What happened to Cherub?”

“She doesn’t look like a cherub,” I reply. The chief designer gave me final veto on the name and I think he prefers mine.”

“He would. Nobody particularly likes cute these days.”

“Oh believe me, if she’d been kind of tubby with little wings and a rosy complexion I’d have gone with your choice, but I assume you’ve seen her.”

“Pictures of her, yes, and maybe I even agree with you. Never mind, did you bring everything?”

I hand her the three letters that made up her part of the mailbag. The everything she referred to was the two hundred and fifty kilos of cargo I’d squeezed in. An empty seat and short fuel load out meant spare carrying capacity, and you didn’t waste that. Limited space meant mainly small and dense, like condenser units, electric motors that made up the major component of air pumps, air conditioners and a whole load of other things like foodstuffs we couldn’t easily grow up here. In my new role I had a constantly updating list of things to pad out my load sheet.

There had been some talk about simplifying the passenger seat, making it disposable so it could be left behind when we needed the extra space, but the seat was your life support system if you had to eject. I was okay with having it removable, but that was as far as I was prepared to compromise. If they wanted to replace it with anything, it’d be another high-tech seat.

“What’s on the agenda, boss?”

“You have a week’s liberty to get started on your book. I do have a few Spectrum meetings I’d like you in on, and I may ask you to take on some teaching. Otherwise you’re on reserve for any trips into the rigging.”

“And next week?”

“Egyptian Solar wants both you and Surya to attend a conference. Your girlfriend will be speaking and heading up discussion groups, you’ll be gathering information for your book and appearing on the media, talking about global solar projects. You get to justify what we’re doing and why we’re doing it.”

I nod, content enough with my workload. “I’ll want some time in one of the smaller holopods to discuss detail with a few professors.”

“I’ll give you priority, but try to book early. I don’t like bumping slots.”

“Of course. You know this book was supposed to be a private project.”

“Yes, but everyone likes the idea and it’ll get out their quicker if we support you with it. I can assign you office space if you need it. Better to separate your workspace from your home.”

“I was hoping to do the creative bit in hydroponics. There’s a quiet spot with an inspiring view and I prefer working on a tablet. Anything that needs more computing power, I’m happy to make use of shared resources.”

“Wait till you see what some of the shared resources are like, but yet again book early and you’ll get the better equipment.”

“Would you mind if I gave some time over to upgrading the shared stuff? Modular upgrade kits don’t take up much space or weight, and sometimes I need something to do with my hands while my mind is working on other things.”

“Well, it wasn’t at the top of my priority list, but if it helps you out…”

“Thanks.”

“You did amazingly well in Louisiana. A lot of church institutions have opened up to working with STEM education already and I have requests from Texas, the Carolinas, Kansas and Arkansas for you to do something similar with them.”

“It won’t be as effective without the element of surprise.”

“I’m sure you can come up with some other surprises. I thought Kansas next. I’m already looking for an appropriate little dog you could use.”

I smile. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road? I wonder how much mileage I can get out of that.”

“Squash the wicked witch of dogma, stand with your companions, passion, courage and intellect against the evil witch of controlling rhetoric and follow the road to the Emerald City of enlightenment. The material pretty much writes itself.”

“Where you’ll find the wizard of science hiding behind a curtain and trying to trick you with his clever manipulation of the evidence. Some analogies cut both ways you know?”

“I suppose they do, but that’s why you’ve been given this job rather than me.

“We should wrap up. Mary’s been looking forward to your coming back. She’s been telling everyone who’ll listen how much she’s hoping for a dress like the one you wore at the football stadium.”

“I hope she won’t be too disappointed then. Time to find out, assuming we’re done.”

“We are. Good to have you back Chris, or should it be Scarlett now?”

“Frankly, Colonel, I don’t give a damn.”

Mary’s smile is broader than usual, but it slips a little when I pull a small velvet case from my bag.

“Laura’s been telling me what you were hoping for,” I say with an apologetic smile, “but you know, I only rented that dress. It had these big hoops in the petticoat that would have made it impossible to walk down any of the corridors around here, plus it was so bulky and heavy I’d never have squeezed it onto even an Angel. I’m pretty sure you would have hated wearing it in any case. Corsets make you look good, but they’re not comfortable. I thought this would make a better gift this time.”

I crack open the box and show her. The pendant inside is made from an amber resin from reclaimed micro plastics. It’s set in one of a number of moulds that trap an air bubble image, in this case it is a miniature of me standing with my arms held out. Too small to see much detail beyond the dress. The setting and necklace are nine-carat gold which is harder wearing.

Mary is delighted. She has no capacity for subterfuge, and her smile at the end is back to full width.

With the rest of the day to myself I put the evening meal together, using a Cajun recipe I picked up in New Orleans. Spicy enough to appeal to Surya’s pallet while being different from usual.

She makes all sorts of appreciative noises and we crack open a new box of Pinot Noir to go with it. I ask about her research and she tells me how well it’s going. The remaining five of the original test balloons have been stabilised and coated with the revised formulation. They are working well for now but will need several months more monitoring before we’re likely to increase our power input that way

The new test balloons are smaller and attached by cables that put them another couple of thousand feet higher than the support structure. That’s far enough away not to cause any damage should they explode. Each one has an emergency release built in along with a spark detonator to destroy it once it’s clear of the station. The smaller size of the balloons means the explosions will be considerably less of a threat.

“I thought the plan was to test in normal working environment,” I say.

“Yes, we’ve revised the plan so we can run long term studies on the degradation of different coatings in near space. Once we have something we know will withstand the environment, we’ll put it where we want it. I honestly didn’t consider the problems we faced here, and neither did my peer review team. Lesson learned, hopefully.”

“What lesson?”

“Choose your reviewers from a wide range of disciplines. Mine was too narrow so we didn’t consider hard radiation.

“Anyway, it’s all working as it should now, so I can afford to take a few weeks absence. Sort out my affairs and make the move up here more permanent.”

“I suppose we should raise the issue of quarters. I’d be more than happy to carry on sharing with you, but if you want your own space, I’d understand.”

“Thank you for not assuming, but you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Shared accommodation is considerably larger than single, plus you have this great view and coffee on tap – where else am I going to find that? Besides, if I want some alone time, I can always bolt the doors on my lab.”

“As long as you’re happy with the arrangements,” I say, fighting to keep a brave face. I had been hoping for a little more than material benefits in her reasoning.

She gives me an impish smile. “You have no idea how happy.” She snuggles next to me on the sofa. “But if you are so desperate for reassurances, you’re so very different from the person I thought I’d end up falling for, but I’m learning to trust that my heart has better judgement in that area than my head.”

“Oh? What does your head tell you is wrong about me?”

“Well, you’re not Indian, for one thing, and I know my mother will have something to say about that.”

“You’re not entirely Indian either, so I’m not sure exactly what she thinks she can say about it.”

“Don’t make the same mistake as me, maybe?” Her dimples take all the sting out of the words. “She does love my father – we both do very much – but cross-cultural relationships are hard.”

“Will I have the opportunity to meet your parents while we’re in Cairo?”

“My parents live in Jeddah, but I’m hoping to invite them over to visit while we’re in Egypt.”

“What do you think they’ll make of me?”

“Does it matter?”

“They’re your parents. Of course it matters.”

“Well, as long as they meet the real you, that’s what matters to me. My mother will love you, I think, once she gets over your pasty white skin, but I expect my father will take a while longer learning to accept you. Which is not a reason to hide who you are though, okay? He’s a little old fashioned, but you can’t be Saudi married to an Indian without making some concessions. If he can learn to live with a strong willed woman like my mother, he should be able to adapt to your girly side.”

“If that’s the way you want to handle it…”

“It is, now tell me about your Scarlett O’Hara moment. Do you still have the dress?”

“No, I rented it. Like I told Mary, there’s no space for hooped underskirts up here.”

“Shame. I really wanted to see you in that. Maybe we can hire something like it in Cairo and I’ll take you on a river cruise.”

“And what will you wear?”

“I haven’t decided. Do you have anything in mind?”

“I’ll give it some thought, but if I’m wearing a corset, so are you.”

“Deal,” she says with a smile.

It takes some getting used to, having almost complete autonomy over my time. The teaching slots go in first – no flexibility in organising those. Then I contact the academics I want to talk with and arrange a series of conferences and one-on-ones, working around the availability of both the professors and the holopods. Finally, I book in a couple of afternoons on the communal equipment. It still leaves me with hours of free time and takes quite a lot of self-discipline to fill it productively.

Writing is something new to me, so I book in a call to my grandparents. There’s not much time difference between where we are and England, so the main constraint is availability of holopod slots. You’d have thought communication would just be the case of picking up a phone or a tablet these days, but the ISB has bandwidth issues which limit how many video calls can take place at any given time. Voice only calls are pretty much unheard of now since so much nuance is lost without body language.

The call goes through after lunch, by which time I have a depressingly empty page in front of me.

“Oh, hi Chris,” my grandmother greets me. “We’ve been following you on the news these past weeks. We are so proud of you.”

“Thanks Grandma. I’ll admit, it was something else.”

“You look really pretty,” she says with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’re looking so well. We heard about Rachael, that was such a shame.”

“Yeah well. Her choice, so what can you do? I’m seeing someone else now. Professor Surya Farouk. We’ll be in Cairo next week, so maybe we can arrange a VR room.”

“We’d really like that. One minute, your grandfather wants a word.”

My granddad looks a lot like my grandmother. Same grey wavy hair in a sensible shoulder-length cut, same touch of makeup on a wrinkled elderly face, same style of floral print dress. They don’t look like sisters, but they do coordinate so they look like they should be together.

“Hi Chris. Looking stunning, son.”

“You too Granddad. Love the glasses.”

Grandma has never needed them, but Granddad wasn’t so lucky. I forget the reason why he couldn’t have laser surgery, but he’s made the best of it with decidedly girly frames. They offset the slight masculinity of his face nicely.

“Chris was saying he has a new girlfriend,” Gran says.

“I know. I heard the name. Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”

“Her mum’s Indian and her Dad’s Saudi. I don’t know much more there is than that, but maybe you can ask her about it next week.”

“We’re already looking forward to it. Give us some warning though. Your grandma will have to book out some time in one of the college VR suites.”

“Could you maybe invite Mum and Dad too? I don’t know what our schedule is right now, but I’ll email you as soon as I know.”

“We should be able to work with that. Now what else can we do for you?”

A sign that I don’t call them enough, when they expect an ulterior motive for the call.

“I was hoping I could have a word or two with Granddad. I’m, er, trying to write a book and could use some advice.”

“I’ll go put the kettle on dear,” Grandma says and steps out of the frame.

I’m sure I mentioned earlier, my grandfather is Steven Palmer, renowned author of the Night and Day books. They were one of the first transgender series to make it in mainstream literature. Inspired at least a little by a children’s animated story from his era about a princess who turns into an ogre at sundown.

Inspired was about it though. Granddad’s storyline went a whole other way with the concept. My parents wouldn’t let me read them till I was in my teens, by which time my own trans nature was pretty well established, which meant Mum and Dad couldn’t blame my choices on my grandparents’ corrupting influences. If anything, it meant they ended up asking Grandma Portia in particular how to deal with me, which led to a reconciliation between my parents and my grandparents. My folks were latecomers in the acceptance of LGBTQ as an integral part of humanity. Now we’re down to just a few isolated places on the globe.

I explain what I have in mind for the book and Granddad is immediately excited by it. I explain my difficulties with how and where to get started and his expression immediately turns sympathetic

“It’s not something I can tell you how to do,” he says. “Every writer has his or her own process. For me, I start with an idea – a sort of verbal doodle – and elaborate on it until it grows enough to become a story. At times I get stuck, so I pick out a different part of the story and write that while my hind-brain figures out how to dig me out of the hole I’ve put myself in. Sometimes I scrap whole chapters because they end up going in the wrong direction. For me the process is very organic and quite often I don’t know where the story’s going until we turn the final corner. You can do that with fiction, but it needs you to be fairly merciless when editing.

“Your project’s very different because it’s factual. I’d say you might do well by starting with a spider diagram. Start in the middle of the page with your title and what you aim to achieve with it, then branch out in all directions to list the different things you want to cover. It doesn’t have to be complete before you start using it, just substantial. Then pick a few of the topics you’ve branched off and start writing about them the way you talk about them to a class. Dig out some of your old recordings if you need inspiration.

“Each of those can become a chapter, and as you flesh them out, you’ll be able to put them in order with appropriate commentary on how they link together.

“If my ideas don’t work for you, adapt them. This is your story, Chris. Write it the way you feel is right. Just start writing though. It’s only once you start getting those words down on paper that you’ll start to discover your voice.

“I hope you’re as excited as I am over this, sweetheart. I’ve watched some of the recordings of your lessons that have made it onto the Globalnet, and you have such a gift for storytelling, I can’t wait to read what you come up with.”

“I don’t know, I still feel kind of stuck.”

“So, what’s your inner voice saying to you at the moment? If you’re anything like me, you’ll have a sort of inner voice noticing little details and whispering them in your ear.”

“Well…”

“Don’t trip yourself up. Just say what you’re thinking.”

“I was thinking about the way I still call you Granddad even when you’re, well…” I gesture towards him and the way he’s dressed.

“Go on.” He reaches off screen for a moment and comes back with a mug of tea.

“It set me thinking about that time in the twenties when the whole trans argument started getting hung up on trivialities. Toilet arrangement, personal pronouns that sort of thing.

“There’s something they teach you as a pilot. You’re more likely to hit what you focus on. Landing on unregulated farm strips, if you focus on the puddles and rocks and divots, they’re the things you’re likely to run into. Instead you look for a safe path through the obstacles and focus on that.

“The whole trivia nonsense thing evaporated when people started focussing on solutions. They weren’t particularly easy solutions in some cases, but solutions are more often compromises that both sides will accept than one side getting exactly what they want. Those are the sorts of ‘solutions’,” I didn’t do finger quotes but rather emphasised the word in my head, “that lead to bigger problems down the line.

“The toilet issue was dealt with by adding a third, smaller facility for those who didn’t feel they fitted in one but weren’t welcome in the other. Now we have his, hers and theirs facilities everywhere. The pronoun issue was dealt with by agreeing it should be applied to physical gender only, the plural pronoun only relevant to people with multiple personality disorder.

“The whole concept of gender became so complicated with the invention of terms like gender fluid, non-binary and the like that it became unmanageable, and the insistence of individuals clearly in the central part of the spectrum that they deserved special consideration sounded more like the rantings of spoiled children than rational arguments.

“I recall a piece of archive footage in which a non-binary individual declared that not agreeing to use they, them pronouns to address them was an act of violence against them. At that stage it was evident that the argument had become too polarised and the only way forward was for mediation between the pro and anti trans and gay points of view.

“That led to the Great Mediation in which the most vocal on both sides were subpoenaed and required to attend a public discussion moderated by respected members of the legal profession who could demonstrate impartiality. They were given a month to agree solutions that would then be enacted into law.

“It forced both sides to focus on what was important, not only to themselves but also to the other side. It led to both sides becoming more understanding towards one another, and it finally established a place in the world for LGBTQ folk. Not exactly what they wanted, but do any of us get exactly what we want? When is it good for us to do so?”

Granddad reaches off camera again. “That was terrific. I’ll send you my recording of that, unless you already have one your end,” he says.

“It feels preachy,” I say.

“I’m not sure there’s any other way you can deal with history. What happened, happened and should be explained in exactly the way it happened.

“Chris, you have this. All you need is a little more faith in yourself. If ever you feel you don’t have enough, call us. Your grandma and I have quite a bit of spare.”

“Thanks Granddad.”

My time in the pod is up. I take the recording and head back to my spot in hydroponics. In passing, I notice the coffee bushes I brought Rachael a while back flourishing. It even looks like she’s cloned them as there appear to be a few smaller ones as well.

It brings to mind a poem I’d come across, framed and hanging in a coffee shop. I’d completed a series of aptitude tests for the Angel training programme and was nervously waiting to hear how I’d fared against the hundred or so other shortlisted applicants. The coffee had been among the better shop bought beverages I’d enjoyed up until that moment, and when I asked about the poem, the waitress had smiled, disappeared into the back of the cafe and reappeared less than a minute later with a freshly printed copy.

“No charge,” she’d said, her smile widening. “Call it… For having good taste.”

“Did you write it?” I’d asked.

“I wish.” Her laugh had been genuine and unrestrained. “It’s by a poet from last century by the name of Steven Turner. Everyone who works here is allowed to add one decoration to the cafe. This is mine.”

I thanked her. As moments go, it might well have turned into something, had the cafe not been so busy, had I not been so distracted, or so far from home – the assessment had involved a trip down to London and, at the time, the British rail network had still been some way from sorting itself out.

I still cherish the poem. It currently hangs in a frame I’d had manufacture on the station, taking pride of place on my kitchen wall. Of course, since I see it every day, it has become something I ignore. At least until something like this brings it to mind. I don’t remember it all, but a few lines come to mind.

Coffee is something to dangle your lips in when conversation is scarce.

Coffee is a good place to take a new friend.

Coffee is a multi-lingual, multi-racial, liquid esperanto.

There’s something quite religious about coffee.

The poem had inspired me. Poetry’s never been something I’d enjoyed before, but this one had rung so many bells with me. I’d been in the process of promising myself I’d look into this guys other works when my phone had rung. The results were back and everything else in my mind had been relegated to a lesser importance.

Then I’d been told I’d not only been accepted into the training program, but that I’d scored highest of all applicants. By a significant margin.

That had led to celebrations, then a lot of hard work and ultimately a very fulfilling career. The poem may have made it onto my wall, but I’d never followed through on the promise I’d made myself to look up anything else this Steven Turner had written.

I tap a search into globalnet. It comes up with a few promising leads that I investigate, then after I’ve rejected several and spent a while on a couple that have a selection of the sort of thing I’m looking for, the AI takes over and presents me with an archive of his poetry.

My page is still almost empty a couple of hours later. I’ve enjoyed myself immensely. The man had (I presume since he was writing over a hundred years ago) a delicious sense of humour, with something of a bias towards Christian belief. I’ve earmarked a few for future visits to Southern America, but there was one that stood out as a possible introduction to my book. Best of all, it was short. I’d have to look into copyright issues if I wanted to include it. It went:

History repeats itself.

Has to.

No-one listens.

I stare at the page for a few moments more, then start writing. It’s like when you’re in a conversation with someone. They say something which hooks a memory, so you respond. In most conversations, this leads to an exchange of ideas. Sitting by myself, I find that my first memory snags others, and before long I have a wealth of past experience all clamouring for my attention, and my difficulty is not so much thinking of something to write, but rather picking what makes most sense from the cornucopia of ideas overflowing in my mind.

It’s dark when Surya finds me. I barely acknowledge her presence, but I do look up long enough to take in her indulgent smile. She says nothing and withdraws. Half an hour later, she places a plate of finger food beside me and risks a kiss.

“Thanks,” I say and turn to kiss her properly. It’s all the distraction I can afford though. My mind pulls me back to the matter in hand and I turn back to my writing, absently popping an onion bhaji, spring roll or vegetable samosa into my mouth. The flavours are attention grabbing, but not so much as to distract me totally.

Some hours later, the plate is empty, my flask equally so, and I’m feeling a little tired. I pick my way through the quieter sounds of the night time station and ease into our apartment. And it is ours now. In the time I was away, Surya added her own stamp to the place. It meant some of my things had to go – some to storage, most to other people or recycling – but the poem, “White with two sugars (please)” still holds pride of place in the kitchen area.

Surya is in bed, so I keep as quiet as I can. Automatic night lights give me enough light to see by, so it takes no time at all to hang my clothes, change into my nightwear and brush my teeth.

“Mmm. Minty,” Surya says, rousing enough to kiss me in greeting. She settles her head on my chest and says nothing more. I take the hint and hold her close, shutting my eyes letting Morphius in.

I wake to the smell of coffee. A brief search of my immediate surroundings locates its source. Surya is sitting next to me in bed, a mug of the stuff in one hand and my tablet in the other.

“Mrrk!” I say to her.

She waves a distracted hand into the living area of the apartment where a jug awaits with sufficient life-giving brew to cudgel my reluctant brain cells into activity. A deep breath of the stuff wakes me enough to load up the electric milk frother and set it to work. Half a minute later I return to bed, coffee in hand – some in stomach – and awake enough to realise the sun’s only just rising above the horizon.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Early,” comes the less than helpful reply. “This is really good, Chris.”

I look past her shoulder. She’s about two thirds through my efforts from the previous day.

“You think so?”

“Good enough that I’m prepared to forgive you for deserting me last night.”

“But not so much that you thought it worth waking me at the crack of dawn and torturing me with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee.”

“I hadn’t read it yet when I decided to do that. Chris, I’ve read a lot of textbooks in my time and never anything like this. It’s informative, accurate, obscure enough in places to be intriguing, and it reads like you speak. It’s such an easy style to read.”

“That’s good. Can I go back to bed now?”

“Not if it means you’re going to come to bed in the early hours of the morning again.”

“What if I write better at night?”

“Then we’ll find a dark room for you to work in and you can pretend. Besides, don’t you have those Spectrum meetings to attend this morning?”

I groaned. “Why did I ever agree to those?”

“For one thing, because you know more about the issues than most people sitting on the committee, and we need someone like that. For another thing, it means you have a genuine opportunity to influence the process of fixing our world. And if you need anything more, you know you have to give a little to get a little. You have the sweetest deal of anyone on Cloudbase right now, so man up and pay a little back into the kitty.”

“I hate it when you use logic.”

“Why, because I’m a woman?”

“Of course not! Because I can’t argue back when you make sense like that.”

“You could always simply stop trying to argue back and accept that I will always be right. I believe that’s how it usually works with marriage.”

Enter an awkward pause.

“That rather assumes that one of us will have asked the other to marry them, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. And that the other has said yes.” Surya won’t meet my eyes. “Is there a problem in this?”

“It’s just… I mean it feels a little soon, doesn’t it?”

“You forget, in my culture – one side of it at least – it’s common enough for couples to meet for the first time on the night they become engaged.”

Indians still practices arranged marriage. Admittedly, not in most cases. I’m not sure how to respond.

“What would you consider to be an appropriate amount of time?” Surya asks, still not meeting my eyes.

I cough nervously. “Well, I mean… It’s not as if I’ve done much research on the subject…”

“You’re avoiding the question. You can have an opinion even on a small amount of research.”

*Well, er, sure. I mean there are couples in my culture who don’t wait, but, er… I mean, my mum always told me, ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’”

“And now you’re procrastinating. Put a number on it.”

“Er, I think typically, er, six months to a year?”

“Seriously? And how long have we been together?”

“A couple of months maybe?”

She drops my tablet onto the bed and turns away from me. “This is going to be a very awkward four to ten months.”

“Well, er…”

“Yes?”

“Give me a break, would you? This is a hell of a topic to ambush me with after a short night and too little coffee.”

“Ambush you? Is that what you think this is?”

“No, just… Case in point, though. Give me a chance to start thinking clearly.”

“Do you even have an opinion on the matter?”

“Of course I do, but…”

“And what is it?”

“A bit unfair asking now, don’t you think? Could we just drop it for now?”

“I wish I could, Chris. Look, I never meant to say anything. It just slipped out, but it’s out now.”

“Does it have to be me who does the asking? I mean I know we don’t have our roles reversed exactly, but…”

“Are you expecting me to go down on one knee as well?”

“Of course not. I mean you can if you want, but…”

She dropped onto her knees. “Chris,” she said her face very serious. “I know we haven’t been together long. Only long enough for me to be certain. I know without doubt this is what I want, so only one question remains. Will you marry me?”

There’s a trick to answering a dilemma like this. Choose your answer. It doesn’t really matter what your choice is, you’ll know pretty quickly whether you think you chose the right one.

A drop to my knees in front of her. “Will I really have to start accepting that you’re always right?”

She punches me in the shoulder. “Answer the damned question,” she demands.

“Yes. Of course, yes. It’s the same with me. Not long, just long enough to know.”

She punches me again, this time hard enough that I nearly spill my half-drunk coffee. “So, what was all that rubbish just now then?”

“I don’t know, cultural inertia, perhaps?”

She rolls her eyes. “My mother told me cross cultural relationships take a lot of work.”

“Aren’t we supposed to do something right now? I mean we did just…”

She grabs the coffee out of my hand and puts it down on the floor, then she launches herself at me. I’m not quite flexible enough to go all the way over backwards without rearranging my legs, but we do sort ourselves out with her lying on top of me, kissing me hard.

“You don’t make it easy sometimes, you know?” she says when we come up for air.

“I could say the same for you.”

“This was supposed to be a beautiful moment.”

“We could still make it one.”

“What do you mean?”

I’d found it while I was doing my tour of the Deep South. A lot of American jewellery I find brash and showy, but every now and then they get things exactly right. I’d known then that I was going to give it to Surya one day, just that I’d imagined that day being a little further into the future. I’d even planned a little ahead, noting what rings she wore on which fingers when we were dressed up to party, and measuring the appropriate ones with an engineer’s precision.

I ease her off me and dig it out of its hiding place at the bottom of my grab bag. Settling back on to my knees, I take her left hand and slide it onto the fourth finger.

I don’t know if it was the exquisite setting of diamonds – the central one flawless, bright and clear as mountain air, the smaller ones around it a dusky light green – or the fact that it fits so perfectly, but I feel her melt inside.

The kiss she gives me is all I could have imagined for such a moment.

“I have something for you too,” she says and does her own brief disappearing act.

It’s exquisite. Diamonds around a central sapphire in an old-fashioned setting. My fingers have always been slender, but only for a man. It shouldn’t go past the first knuckle, but it does. It slides on all the way, and now it’s my turn for my insides to turn to mush.

“It belonged to my grandmother,” she says. “When she gave it to me, I had no idea what I would do with it. Then I met you. The guys in fabrication resized it for me.”

I can’t keep my eyes off the stones. “So, this isn’t something we’re going to be able to keep quiet for long.”

The guys in fabrication were okay with discretion, but only for a while. Stella especially tended to have a short half-life when it came to hanging on to other people’s secrets.

“Do we particularly want to?”

“No.”

“You seem a lot more decisive now.”

“Coffee’s kicking in. Speaking of which…”

She retrieves my mug and hands it to me.

“I’m going to take a shower. See how waterproof this thing is.”

I drain what’s left of my coffee and follow her. “I should do the same.”

I mean water soluble jewellery? I suppose it’s not the craziest idea anyone made up, but it’s definitely out there. It turns out both rings pass the test, and believe me, we test them thoroughly.

We don’t manage much productive work after that. The day is filled with smiles and congratulations, and the odd look of concern. Laura has her concerns that maybe we’re moving too fast with this, but I’m holding out for a longish engagement. I’m not expecting things to go wrong, but if there are any cracks likely to appear, they should crop up in the next six months or so.

It’s as well we have this event in Cairo. Cloudbase is a little too small a place to be surrounded by people who don’t know when to stop grinning at us.

Laura’s engagement gift is a week’s all expenses paid vacation in and around Cairo, which enables us to leave a week early and escape the incessant grins and well wishes. We’re a small community with little enough to celebrate most of the time, so what are you going to do?

She does have a bit of fun at my expense. Apparently the time since my last visit hasn’t been quite long enough for the life giving angel news story to have faded into complete obscurity and, thanks to my boss tipping off the media, we find a crowd of reporters plus the young boy and his family waiting to pounce on us as we clear the bureaucratic process accompanying any one entering or exiting a country. It’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be, but it persists nonetheless.

Borrowed overalls after several hour in the air is not a great look on either Surya or me, and the reporters take a little pity on us by limiting photographs, in exchange for the promise of a TV interview later in the evening.

It’s not too bad. A little embarrassing, but with Surya beside me as the proud and doting fiancée, as well as an eye witness to the event, I escape without having to say much.

Laura’s expenses for the trip end up being considerably smaller than they might have been since our short-lived notoriety grants us a few generous gifts from the people of Cairo.

We manage our river cruise in large hooped dresses, and I’m delighted when Surya makes more of a meal of the corsetry than I do.

The river cruise is considerably different from the way it used to be because of the amount of water being diverted to the algae farms, but the boat – for want of a better term – operates as well in ground effect over the sand as it does floating in the shallow water of what remains of the Nile. Vectored thrust ensures that very little of the sand blows back onto the boat or obscures the view.

The big dresses are for the evening only, of course. During the day we visit all of the popular tombs and ruins. Surya inevitably prefers trousers to skirts, and once she’s reminded me of the scorpion, I’m persuaded to go the same way.

“I do have my taser just in case,” she tells me, but I’ve read enough about what being hit by one of them feels like. If being stung by a scorpion is worse, again as I’ve read, then I’m not keen to experience either.

It doesn’t make much difference. My fiancée is full of ideas on how to go bifurcated and still look girly.

We also manage the virtual meeting with my parents and grandparents. Surya’s mother and father make it in person, so we’re four and four in the virtual room. Surya lends me her pink sari again, choosing a pale green one for herself.

Surya’s father is a little stiff mannered with me, which makes for an awkward introduction.

“I’m sorry you find this difficult, Dr Farouk.” Surya had at least warned me of her father’s preferred title.

“If you were genuinely sorry, you would have dressed more appropriately,” he replies.

“But this is entirely appropriate, sir. At least for me.”

“Well, as you surmise, I do not approve.”

“Yes sir, I realise that. As I say, I’m sorry I cannot be the sort of person you would approve of, but this is who I am, and I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not in an effort to try and change that. For one thing, it would be a lie and I would not wish to show you that sort of disrespect.”

“What is the other thing?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said, ‘for one thing.’ That implies there is another.”

“There are a good many more, sir. Perhaps the biggest is that Surya would not want me to. She accepts me like this, prefers me like this even, so I believe she would not want me to pretend to be anyone else merely to seek your approval.”

“You believe?”

“It was your daughter who lent me these clothes for this meeting. I would say that’s grounds for belief.”

I glance over at Surya, who has paused her conversation with her mother, and is observing us with a minxish grin.

“He’s right, Daddy.” She saunters over and plants a kiss on her father’s cheek before taking my arm. “You know how little time I have for the sort of man you do approve of. Chris is the first person I’ve met who has met all my criteria.” Slight emphasis on the my. “I would not want him any other way.”

Surya’s mother follows her daughter over to us, giving me a full top to painted toe examination as she advances. She stops, tilting her head to one side, and smiles.

“Don’t be so hard on him, Rashid. I’ll admit I’d prefer his skin to be a shade darker, but other than that I see nothing to dislike about him. It is him, isn’t it?” This last is to Sarya whose dimples reappear as she grins and glances at me.

“I’m tempted to suggest say what you see, Mrs Farouk, but I’m not sure what that might suggest to you. Male pronouns are appropriate. Female ones are fine too, if it helps you to feel more comfortable.”

“What would help me feel more comfortable would be for you to call me Chanda. Mrs Farouk is my mother-in-law. As for pronouns, I’m not sure either helps. One way my daughter is a lesbian, the other she’s engaged to a girly-man.”

“It sounds like you don’t approve either, Mrs… er, Chanda.”

“What I approve of, Mr girly-man, is the spark of happiness in my daughter’s eye. Since you evidently put it there, I am prepared to overlook a great many things. Even your not being Indian. Even your wearing my mother’s engagement ring.”

I’d asked Surya about the ring earlier and she’d told me quite emphatically that I was to change nothing about my appearance for the sake of her parents. “Give them even the slimmest end of the wedge and they will hammer on it until they drive you open.”

So instead, I hold the ring up to the light. “It is an exquisitely beautiful ring,” I say.

“You know what the sapphire symbolises, don’t you?” she asks.

“All sorts of things. Kindness and wise judgement are my favourites.”

She laughs. It’s almost as musical as her daughter’s and is enough all by itself to lift some of her husband’s mood. “I’m not sure I can beat that,” she says, “and I don’t think I’m going to try. I believe I will learn to like you, Mr girly-man.”

“Chris, if you wouldn’t mind, Chanda.”

Her smile softens. “Of course, Chris. Yes, I can definitely see why my daughter finds you so appealing.”

The VR room lights brighten and one of the long walls turns into a mirror, or at least something like one. The room is reflected, but not the people or furniture in it. A flicker in the lights and four figures appear in the reflected room, along with a few pieces of furniture. Not so much a reflection, then, as another room behind a glass wall.

The focus on the figures and furniture sharpens, and we’re looking at my parents and my grandparents, just as they are looking at us.

“Hi Mum, hi Dad,” I greet them. “Grandma, granddad.” I’m the only one who knows everyone, so it falls to me to make introductions. “I’d like to introduce you to Dr Rashid Farouk and his wife Chanda. And, of course, their daughter, my fiancée, Surya.

“Dr and Mrs Farouk, my parents, Miranda and Jonathan, and my grandparents, Dr Portia Allen-Palmer and Steven Palmer.”

It seems Surya hasn’t seen fit to inform her parents of my pedigree. Both their eye’s widen perceptibly as they realise who my grandparents are. My mum and dad are happy enough living unremarkable lives – which I fully understand of my dad. Growing up in the shadow of both his parents’ success must have been difficult. Chanda and Rashid gravitate towards my grandparents giving me an opportunity to introduce Surya properly to my parents.

They both give me worried looks, largely, I suspect, because of my clothes. Mum inevitably spots the ring. The one on my finger, I mean. The concern in her eyes deepens.

I did mention that my folks came to the whole LGBTQ thing late in life, and they’re still adapting. Just very slowly. I lift up my left hand to give Mum a better look.

“Surya gave it to me,” I grin

“Exchange is no robbery,” Surya chips in from beside me and holds up her own ring.

“Oh, Chris!” Mum says quietly. Dad puts his arm around her protectively and scowls at me.

“It was my idea, Mr and Mrs Palmer,” Surya rides in to my rescue.

“And whose idea was the pink frock?” Dad’s as close to disapproving as I’ve seen him, at least since Grandma persuaded me to tell him and Mum about my nature.

“That was me too,” Surya smiles.

“Actually, the frock was my idea, Dad,” I say. “The colour and style of the frock were Surya, but I think she has pretty good taste, don’t you?”

I’m bating him a little, perhaps, but then I thought we’d resolved this a long while ago. Maybe I’m just a little peeved that he’s only okay with it as long as we keep it to ourselves; as if that were an option.

“Chris is quite a hit here in Cairo,” Surya says, trying to keep things from going down the tubes. “Last time we were here, he saved a young boy’s life.”

“You didn’t tell us about that, Chris,” Mum says, curiosity roused.

“It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“Don’t sell yourself short sweetie. You took quite a risk doing it.”

So, of course I have to give details, and both Mum and Dad end up being a little shocked and subdued by the time I’m done. Surya’s parents pick up on the story and join us with my grandparents towards the end.

“I saw this on television the other day,” Rashid says. “That was you. I didn’t make the connection before, but now I see it was you. I thought it was a young woman. It was a very brave and very clever thing you did. I would not have thought to do the same.”

Which, of course, turns the whole evening around. Surya’s father starts to see past my surface, and my parents probably realise that if they’re going to worry about me, they should probably choose something on a slightly bigger scale than my clothing preferences.

For my part, I stop being such a prat. I doubt I’m unusual in that my parents are very much my kryptonite. Dad and I exchange apologetic looks. I mean we both saw the cliff coming, and we both chosen to drive the conversation directly towards it. Mum still gives me worried looks, but then I understand worrying is a major part of a mother’s role, especially when her only child reaches my age.

Surya steers the conversation onto the topic of my book, which proves to be a great hit as a conversation piece, especially after my grandparents show their enthusiasm, so I spend much of the remaining time online fielding questions from just about every direction on what I’ve done so far and what I plan to do with it. In the end, I promise to post them updates as I write them in exchange for their promises not to share the drafts with anyone and to give me their honest feedback.

I’ve begun to realise that feedback is essential to the writing process. Encouragement when it’s good and a sharp prod to the ego whenever it decides to take a trip. Everyone is in a better mood by the time the call ends.

“Thank you,” I murmur to Surya as we follow her parents out of the VR suite.

“And I didn’t even have mention how you saved Cloudbase,” she murmurs back.

“Don’t you ever mention that to anyone,” I hiss, but it’s already too late. One almost universal thing about mothers seems to be their superhuman hearing, and Chanda’s ears have already picked up our exchange.

That then becomes the next topic of conversation. At Chanda’s insistence, we join them at their hotel for dinner. I’d love to comment on the quality of the food, but most of my time goes into telling the tale. Surya doesn’t even offer any details about the problems with the balloons, despite knowing so much more about it than me.

I end with a vivid account of my night time plunge from twelve miles up into shark infested waters, showing off the shark’s tooth I recovered from my EVA suit.

“So,” Chanda said once I’m done, “perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us what other ways have you risked your life recently?”

I protest that there have been none, but Surya, now that she’s eaten her fill, delights in taking over and telling them about my appearance dressed as Scarlett O’Hara in front of a hundred thousand – I let her have the slight exaggeration – rabid bible thumpers in America’s deep south. When she’s done with that, she gives a nail biting description of what it’s like to land an aircraft on Cloudbase.

I ignore her as much as I can and focus on enjoying what I can of my dessert. She thinks hooking the rail in an angel is bad. Just wait till I introduced her to the experience in the archangel.

“Well, it seems all is not lost after all,” Chandler says with an indulgent smile. “Once your reckless lifestyle meets its inevitable end, perhaps my daughter will see the error of her ways and settle down with a nice Indian man after all. Please just do me one favour.”

“What’s that?” I ask around my last mouthful.

“However you choose to kill yourself in the end, please make sure we can recover my mother’s ring.”

Rashid is shocked, but that only makes it funnier. It’s evident where my wife to be gets her sense of humour.

A week is never quite long enough for a holiday. Two weeks and you’re ready to go back to work at the end of it, but one still feels like you’re not quite done; like when a waiter clears away your half-drunk cup of coffee.

Once we exhaust the parts of Cairo and the area around it that we want to see, we spend some time around the pool. I end up with tan lines which Surya finds hysterical because I have no reason to wear the bikini top, except that I don’t feel properly dressed without it.

A part of me still feels like it could benefit from a few days’ more rest, but as we settle down for our last day relaxing in the sun, my mind starts going over the events to come.

Surya has a few loose ends to tie up at the university and I have a trip out to the algae farms. It’s a place I’ve wanted to visit since the project started up, and now I have a VIP tour to look forward to. It’ll most likely be better than any holiday, but it won’t be relaxing, and I’ve been doing that for just long enough to know I’ll miss it.

For our last night at Laura’s expense, we go all out. Cocktail dresses and an evening cruise into the delta. It’s a very different piece of Egypt, where the river branches out into multiple channels before spilling into the Mediterranean. Even with the great river as diminished as it is, there’s still enough water to turn the rich soil into an expanse of welcome greenery. Reeds and palm trees for the most part, but still lush and fertile in a way that is very different from most of the country. Not much wildlife, but quite a bit of tame.

There’s a cool freshness to the place which contrasts dramatically with the dry heat we’ve enjoyed through all the rest of our time here. Despite this, the evening air does not hold much of the desert chill.

We are approached by several young men, but that’s happened every time we’ve gone out together. Fortunately for us, chivalry is alive and well in this part of the world and a polite refusal is enough to cause our would be suitors to withdraw with good grace. It only takes three failed attempts this evening before the wolves decide to hunt elsewhere for their prey.

The cruise lasts the whole night. Around midnight we retire to our suite and spend all together too little of what remains of the night sleeping. Whether or not the other passengers have much of an idea what we do spend our time doing, I doubt we’ll ever know. Chivalry may survive here, but a lot of prejudice does too. It won’t matter if they end up thinking we’re two girls who are into each other that way, or if one of us is only pretending to be a girl, should the wrong kind of people find out.

We’re getting there. There are bound to be a few places that hold out against the inevitable, and they’re bound to be the most religious. So the deep south of the United States is one, the Muslim world is another, and Africa is the last. Each will needs it’s own approach, but at the heart of it, patience and perseverance will win the day. For now, it’s enough to see evidence that we’re moving in the right direction. That’s actually true of most of the current efforts to save the planet.

There’s a lovely saying Surya introduced me to a while back. Blessed are they who plant trees under whose shade they will never sit. It feels like that’s what we’ve been doing for the last couple of generations and will likely continue to do for some generations to come. We may not live long enough to enjoy the shade of the trees, but there’s pleasure enough in watching the saplings grow. If anything, I’m glad I live in a world where there’s something to strive for. I hope we don’t lose that this time around. I guess that’s part of what I’m trying to achieve with my history though; doing my best to make sure we don’t.

Surya’s asleep, lying with her head on my chest. Most if this week has been too hot for us to sleep together, but here in the Nile delta it’s cool enough and I am so much at peace simply feeling gentle movements against me.

The secret to happiness. Find something you love and do it with all your heart, and find someone you love and give them all your soul. Life never feels so worthwhile as when you have something and or someone to care about.

Contentment fills me and very slowly I drift into the night.

“Wake up sleepy head. We’re about to dock and your ride out to algae plant leaves in twenty minutes.”

All the peace and contentment of our last night is shattered by the rude awakening. Outside the air is filled with heat and the hubbub of early morning traffic.

Surya has our cocktail dresses packed in their garment bags and ready to be returned to the dress hire place. We brought a couple of changes of clothing with us and she’s already wearing the slacks and blouse. That leaves me with the a cotton skirt and top. I’m not complaining – my brain’s too befuddled to do anything of the sort – but I’m beginning to wonder how appropriate it’ll be for what I have planned. I mean it’s both smart and respectful enough. Loose three-quarter length sleeves, high enough neckline to hide any hint of cleavage, hemline down below the knees, and it’ll be cool, made from finest Egyptian cotton, but I won’t have much protection against the wildlife, should there happen to be any.

Breakfast arrives by the time I’ve completed my refreshingly cold shower. It comes with small but immensely strong cups of black coffee. Instead of the usual smooth, silky gentle wake up, this gives a short, sharp kick to the brain.

A piece of juicy mango clears the palette and I’m awake and ready for the world.

“Different,” I say. “I prefer our usual.”

“Don’t be a baby,” she says, then more softly, “You look good enough to eat.”

“I’m game, if you think we have time.”

“Sadly, we don’t.” She grabs a slice of melon and picks up the dresses and the rest of our things. “Come on, I’ll just have to wait till later for my feast.”

Despite the turbo blast of caffeine – or perhaps because of it – I can’t think of a rejoinder before she’s through the door. I grab my bag with tablet and other daily essentials and follow her out.

Separate cars, separate destinations. Open displays of affection are not generally considered acceptable in public places, but two girls hugging each other turns no heads. We separate for the first time in a week and I feel oddly alone.

My car is air conditioned and the road out to the algae plant is smooth and straight. I pull out my tablet and start to write.

How do you go about repairing the atmosphere after a couple of centuries of burning increasingly larger amounts of fossil fuel? What do you do about the build up of carbon dioxide?

Percentage wise there’s not much of it – still less than half a percent, and it’s heavier than other molecules in the air, so it’s not going to drift away into space. So, what’s the solution?

How does our world extract CO₂from the air? Well, there are a number of ways, but the most effective has to be photosynthesis. Right now, we’re replanting rain forest everywhere, but that’s a small thing. About half of the world’s photosynthesis takes place in the oceans due to phytoplankton. Again, this is something that’s been damaged by the amount of pollution in the sea, and that’s going to take a long time to fix. Phytoplankton play a more important role in carbon capture because most of the carbon they take in ends up buried as marine sediment, whereas trees and plants are more likely to decay and return their carbon load into the atmosphere. So, what can we do to help?

Simple solutions generally work best, so find other ways of increasing photosynthesis. At first, we tried to create an artificial photosynthetic process, but the natural one is highly complex and delicately balanced. The best option seemed to take simple plant life and encourage nature to do what it does best. Experiments with phytoplankton In tanks were encouraging, but they needed salt water, and the salt crystallised in the tanks too rapidly, contaminating them. That and the process only worked close to a source of sea water, which restricted it to coastal installations. There are still phytoplankton plants, but they’re not the most efficient.

Next came experiments with several different forms of freshwater algae, with one or two proving to be exactly what was needed, especially after a small amount of genetic manipulation.

Deserts seemed ideal test beds for the new technology, since the land was good for little else and was subject to a high amount of sunlight. The only major issue was inevitably the provision of water, which was why Egypt was chosen as the first location.

Water flow from the Aswan High Dam increased to meet the new demand, and very rapidly more algae tanks were built. The algae itself had little enough use. A lot of it was converted into biofuel to help reduce and eventually stop the extraction of fossil fuels. Still more was mixed in with the sand surrounding the algae farms. Inevitably much of this decayed and returned carbon to the atmosphere, but in time, the sands became fertile again, allowing the growth of more conventional plants. This is slowly having an effect on the local climate, resulting in increased rainfall and more water available to grow the tanks.

Now with less demand for biofuels since the development of progressively more efficient fusion reactors, most of the excess biomass is transported to the now unneeded oil wells and pumped back underground where it’s unlikely to resurface, at least not until the next unenlightened civilisation comes along.

Today’s visit will give me a detailed look at the deeper science behind the algae farms. New ideas are being incorporated, such as condensers to reclaim as much moisture as possible from the night air, methods to prevent moisture from escaping the algal blooms, more efficient irrigation techniques which distribute only as much water as is needed, plans for expansion and so forth. I’m not sure how much more I can write about it for the book, because the more advanced science involved becomes progressively more specialised and consequently harder for the layman to follow, but it’ll arm me well for Spectrum discussions on the matter. The algae farms are currently our best response to global warming, and the battle is far from over with the risk of methane pockets in the Siberian permafrost being released and the possibility of ocean currents changing due to ice cliffs collapsing in Antarctica. Both very real if slowly receding threats.

I’ve recently read about a promising new bacteria capable of living in sub-zero temperatures that feeds on methane, so perhaps there is a way the methane pockets can be reduced, but that research is still in its infancy and enough things have gone horribly wrong in the past that we know full well the value of rigorous testing before putting something new into the world.

In deference to my unprotected legs, the director limits my tour to places where we’re unlikely to find unpleasant creepy crawlies. It still permits me to answer all the questions I’ve brought with me, as well as quite a few I haven’t thought of.

My trip back to Cairo gives me time to finish off the chapter I started on the way out and put together a fairly comprehensive report for the next Spectrum meeting, due when we get back.

Surya’s day has been just as productive. She presents me with the pair of boots I left behind when I came to pick her up. It turns out she’d ask a colleague to look after them for me.

Apparently my day wandering around the algae plant has caused me to wilt around the edges a little, making me less appetising than I had been earlier in the morning. It’s fair enough comment since her day in the air-conditioned halls of the university has left her somewhat if not quite equally grubby. Soon rectified with a shared shower – cold if course.

“I’m looking forward to getting back to Cloudbase,” she says once we’ve done our level best to devour one another. “This place is too hot.”

“It’s not so bad with aircon.”

“Even so, I miss our apartment. When can we go home?”

“End of the week. I still have a few things to check out while we’re here, then there’s that conference we were sent to attend.”

“I’ll have run out of things to do before then.”

“So come with me tomorrow. I need to go to Aswan. Apparently, they’ve discovered something they want to show me.”

“Aswan’s five hundred miles away.”

“Five hundred and forty-four by road, less by air. Three quarters of an hour each way by archangel if we stay subsonic.”

“I keep forgetting I’m engaged to a pilot. What is it they want to show you?”

“Underground rivers apparently. After the most recent increase in the amount of water passing through the dam – you know, to feed the newest expansion to the algae farms – they noticed they were letting a lot more through than was reaching downstream. They’ve done what tests they can to investigate, and they found a large number of underground river channels branching out in all directions.”

“Is that all? They want you to go all the way there so they can show you some holes in the ground?”

“There’s more to it than that. There was talk back in the nineteen seventies of oases drying up after the dam was completed. They’re wondering how widespread they are, and if letting more water through might reopening the channels. If it does, it might enable them to build algae farms around the underground river systems. The potential to extend their facilities is enormous.”

“And they need you because…?”

“Their ground penetrating radar fits into a couple of pickups. It’d take months to survey the network and potentially waste millions of tons of water.”

“Aah, I understand now. It’s not you they want so much as your aircraft.”

“Harsh, but essentially true, except they don’t get my plane without its pilot.”

“It doesn’t sound like there’ll be much for me to do.”

“Probably not. Once we’ve fitted their equipment to archangel one, it’ll probably be close to maximum payload. Are you saying you don’t want to come?”

“No, I’ll come, but I want to go shopping.”

“What can you buy in Aswan that you can’t buy here?”

“If you let me come, I’ll show you.”

“Of course I’ll let you come. I want you to come.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can find somewhere to stay for a couple of nights. There are some sights we should see too.”

“I doubt I’ll have a lot of spare time.”

“They do evening tours, Chris. Or are you being deliberately dense?”

“Dense perhaps. Deliberately, no. Okay, I’ll file a flight plan for an early start tomorrow and let the dam director know we’re coming. Would you see if you can book us a hotel?”

“How early is early?”

“Up to you, but if we’re in the air before seven, we’ll be in Aswan before eight, which will be before the turbulence rises too much. The later we leave, the bumpier the ride.”

“Seven thirty?”

“Won’t make a lot of difference, so okay, seven thirty departure.”

“What do you think of this place?”

She shows me her phone. It’s expensive, but affordable and it looks really nice.

“I think I won’t ever want to leave.”

“They have a deal on three nights which isn’t much more than two.”

“As long as we can afford it along with everything else you want to do.”

“We can afford it. You don’t mind staying three nights?”

“It’ll give me time to do a thorough job of the survey,” I say. “Plus we’ll be able to do a lot of the things you want to,” I add when I notice her expression.

“I thought you said it gets too turbulent during the day.”

“It’ll be uncomfortable, but I don’t mind a bit of bouncing about. The early flight is more for your comfort.

“If we’re staying three nights we’ll have to book our outfits for the conference before we go.”

“Leave that to me. Want to go matching?”

“Complementary maybe. I’m still too pasty to look good in anything that’ll suit you.”

“You said it. Okay, complementary outfits it is. I’ll do that next while you sort out your toys.”

Toys means the plane, of course, along with everything we’re going to bolt onto it. I already know the equipment they have and I know it’ll do the job well enough from the air and at what speed. The trick is attaching it, but I can source a few brackets in Cairo that’ll bolt to the plane’s hard points, and we can adapt them to attach the equipment securely. Putting it all together properly will probably take the first day we’re there, so it looks like I’ll be able to spend that with Surya.

We get our heads down early and wake up ahead of the alarm. The plane has been prepped and the flight plan is approved. We have a hint of Harmattan limiting our visibility, but we climb above it quickly enough and set the autopilot.

One good thing about the archangel is the design of the double canopy, meaning Surya’s view is almost as good as mine.

“I can see why you love doing this so much,” she says over the intercom.

“Other parts of the world are more interesting, but you’re right; the view never gets old.”

The air’s beginning to warm up by the time we arrive, so the last ten minutes of the flight are more than a little bumpy. Harmattan is a little thicker here. It’s a kind of very fine sand that is blown up into the air. At its worst it can limit visibility to less than a quarter of a mile. Here we’re down to about three, so I use the instrument landing system to line us up on approach. The runway appears out of the gloom twenty seconds before touch down, but my head’s up display projects an image which overlays the destination perfectly, so I’m already lined up and all that follows is a gentle easing onto the tarmac.

“Is this going to affect whether you can do the flights?” Surya asks.

“We’ll have to see.” Harmattan can last for days and is as likely to improve as deteriorate. “If it gets worse, I may have to postpone.” Air mounted GPR has to be operated quite low to the ground. There isn’t a lot to hit around here, but three miles visibility at three miles per minute doesn’t give you much time to respond if something does get in your way.

I hand the brackets over to the ground crew and show them the mounting points on the plane. They know what they’re doing, so I leave them to it and follow my wife-to-be out into the early morning chaos of Aswan. They don’t have inductive uplinks built into their roads yet, so the traffic is powered by organic fuels, made from the algae, most of it, so carbon neutral at least. The engines are noisy though, and there’s an old-fashioned feel to the place with almost constant horns blaring.

First stop is the market where Surya haggles a few astonishingly good deals on local materials and leaves our purchases with a local dress maker. The commissions should be ready by the next day, or so they say after at the latest. We enjoy a refreshing bottle of fizz in a blissfully cool cafe, then go and settle into our hotel. I have a meeting with the director of the Aswan High Dam in the afternoon, so we arrange to meet at a restaurant on the waterfront later. Surya has already booked a night-time tour of the sites for after we’ve eaten.

Arabic greetings are all about politeness and asking about family. I rather like the idea as it reminds you that life is not all about work, even when you are working. There’s coffee – strong and black – and a relaxed exchange of pleasantries before we get down to business.

“The news is sadly not great,” the director starts. “I understand from the weather report that this weather is due to worsen a little. If it develops as forecast, you’ll have less than two miles visibility tomorrow.”

I shrug. Some of my host’s fatalism appears to be rubbing off on me. “My fiancée will be pleased, at least.”

“Well, perhaps not. I was speaking to my counterpart at the Merowe Dam yesterday, in Sudan. He says he’s keen to try something similar, and since this Harmattan hasn’t reached them, I was wondering if you’d mind flying down to him tomorrow and running a survey. If you’re agreeable, I’ll call him so he can open his sluices. The underground channels will be filled by the time you get there. I doubt they’ll be as extensive as the ones here, but it’ll be useful information for them, and it’ll confirm how well your equipment is working.”

“It’s about the same distance as Cairo, I think.”

“A little less.”

“I imagine I’ll have to limit flight speed with the gear attached.”

“Even so, no more than two hours flight time each way. Add in time for refuelling, you should still have three hours to survey the area.”

“It’s safe enough?”

“This is the twenty-first century, Chris. Africa isn’t the same as it once was.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

“Should I also take that as a yes?”

I smile, and nod.

I have time to check on the plane. The installation looks good and I’m told the airspeed restriction isn’t as bad as I’d anticipated, allowing me a maximum safe speed of two hundred and ninety knots. It puts Merowe about an hour and a half away, even if I don’t push the limits.

Dinner is sublime, as is the waterfront tour afterwards. We’re accompanied by a gibbous Moon, haloed by the fine sand in the atmosphere.

“What are you thinking?” Surya asks.

The man in me wants to know why I have to be thinking and why does she have to ask about it, but the girl’s in there too, and she knows this is about getting closer, about climbing into each other’s mind.

“I was thinking how I wouldn’t change a thing about this moment.”

“Really? I’d like a few more stars in the sky.”

“Yeah, but who cares about stars. When the big things that matter are as they should be, I find I don’t really mind too much about the small details.”

She burrows into my chest, and all’s right with the world.

I don’t tell her about the change of plan until the morning. I’m up and dressed by six when breakfast is delivered, and she joins me on the balcony to herald in the dawn. The balcony faces west across the lake, since guests are more likely to be awake for sunset than sunrise, so there’s no sun to see, just a gently growing light which reveals the visibility shrunk to about a mile.

“Can you fly in this?” she asks.

“I can take off and land easily enough,” I say, and go on to share the director’s proposal. “He assures me it’s safe,” I say in conclusion.

“Yes, but this is Africa. Truth is more fluid here.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of African’s practice truth by consensus, which is to say whatever the majority choose to believe is true. Absolute truth is less common.”

“I’ve said I’ll do it now.”

“And it’ll probably be fine, but be careful. Sudan has its issues.”

“No-ones been attacked by rebels in half a century.”

“Probably because no-ones disturbed them in all that time.”

“Would you rather I cancelled?” One secret to a happy relationship – listen to each other’s concerns and revise decisions accordingly.

“No, I’m sure it’ll be alright. With no planes to shoot at in several decades, they probably don’t have any sophisticated weaponry any more, even if they’re there to shoot at you. Just keep your eyes open for trouble and pull out if you think you find it.”

“I’ll do that. What are your plans?”

“More shopping. Pick up the dresses. I want to see what yours looks like on you, so you’d bloody better come back this evening.”

I smile and give her a kiss. We’ve both already had our first cup of coffee, so coffee breath doesn’t count. I have a taxi waiting by the time I’m downstairs, so reach the airport in time for my pre-flight and take-off at seven.

From the air, there’s not much difference between Egypt and Sudan. A little hillier with the Nile moving in and out of view as it weaves a more meandering path, but the same barren, sandy landscape predominates, with improved visibility the further south I go. I stay high in the thinner air for most of the journey and reach my destination about half past eight, sticking to twenty knots below the limit imposed by the added equipment.

The director of Merowe greets me at the airport, and outlines the plan for the survey flights while my plane is refuelled. It all looks okay and I’m back up in the sky by nine.

This is where the challenge comes in. The GPR works best from two hundred feet or below, and the terrain around here is anything but flat. My on-board computer helps, but the archangel isn’t designed with the sort of military grade ground following systems that used to be in fighter jets, so it’s fairly hands in and a lot of fun. Tiring too, so I limit each flight to an hour with a break between each. Afternoon comes and I’ve covered most of the ground. The last is an area of hilly ground some distance north west of the dam where the river winds back and forth dramatically. The plan is to follow the river’s course as closely as possible, which means slowing down quite a bit. Hopefully it’ll give clues where the underground channels branch off from the main one. It’s probably the most important flight of the day, so I’m curious as to why it’s been left for last.

Surya’s cautionary words niggle in my ears, so as part of my preparation for this last flight, I set up the archangel’s AI to monitor its lower cameras, both front and back, and to alert me of any movement it detects.

This has to be some of the most enjoyable flying I’ve done, ever. The archangel has a high stall speed – even with flaps deployed it’s about one hundred and twenty knots – so I need to fly faster than this, below the upper level of the valley peaks and following a constantly winding river. It takes all my concentration to keep close to the centre of my path, but it’s exhilarating.

I’m so caught up in it that I doubt I’d have noticed the threat without the AI monitoring. About two thirds through the flight a voice sounds in my ear.

“Ground to air motion detected.”

A camera feed overlays part of my head’s up display, showing a plume of smoke and fire spiralling into the air behind me. I’ve only ever seen anything like it in historical videos, but I recognise it for what it is.

I haul back on the controls, standing the archangel on its tail, and push the throttle to full. After burners kick in and I launch almost vertically upwards.

The camera shows the missile still on my tail. I watch the altimeter climb through ten then twenty thousand feet, the weapon closing on me slowly, then I cut the engine, continuing upwards a while further before gravity takes over.

The missile flashes past, too close for comfort, and starts hunting around, looking for some hint of my trail. Heat seeker, it has to be, which means if I fire up my engines again, it’ll be on me.

No real choice, if I don’t, the plane will become uncontrollable. I ease the throttle forward and point towards the ground.

I’m pushing the plane past the new limits, speed wise, but the missile’s not going to slow down out of fair play. There’s a buffet as part of the radar equipment tears off, then another part. Too much to hope that the debris will take out the missile. The rear camera shows it still closing.

It has some catching up to do though, and now I’m accelerating towards the deck, it’s no longer narrowing the distance.

The archangel shakes again as it pushes through the sound barrier, breaking lose the last of the fitments. That’s at least part of the reason for the mounting brackets; secure but not weaker than the plane, meaning they’ll give way before the airframe. A quick glance at the rear camera shows the debris falling clear and the missile streaming past without it being touched. The ground’s getting close, so I pull out of the dive, once more in the river valley and heading towards my assailants.

It’s not deliberate, and I don’t mean them any harm, but they have other ideas. A second smoke trail snakes away from the valley wall and heads in my direction. I jink to the side at the last minute and catch a glimpse of a blur as the second weapon streaks past.

The rear camera shows it banking round to the right until it closes with the opposite valley wall. Dated technology then. The last of the missiles that made it onto the black market were aware of the terrain and could avoid it. These are much simpler, meaning I might have a chance.

I steer towards a low saddle in the valley wall and wait till my mind is screaming for me to pull up. At the very last minute, I pitch upwards and go full afterburner for the fraction of a second necessary to miss the rock face, then I pull back to zero thrust and go ballistic. If this doesn’t work, I’m dead.

The explosion in the rear view camera is close enough to blind it and powerful enough to knock the plane into a tumble. Fortunately, it catches my tail and pitches me further up. I fire the after burners again and bully the craft back under control.

No reason staying low. If I climb high enough, they won’t be able to target lock me, and it’s not as if I have equipment to continue the survey. I level off at twenty thousand feet and put a call into the airport at Merowe International, requesting an emergency landing. I don’t know what damage I might have done to the airframe with my manoeuvres, but I don’t want to spend more time in the air than I have to before it gets checked out.

I’m cleared straight in to zero two and arc around in a gentle, descending curve. Line up and landing are as gentle as I know how. The dam’s director is waiting for me as I taxi in.

“What happened,” he asks, looking with dismay at the damage. Either he’s an exceptional actor or I owe him an apology for the things I’ve been thinking about him.

I ignore him, realising how rude I’m being, but I don’t trust myself to speak to him right now. The cameras record to removable hard drives. I pull the them and wave over to the chief maintenance engineer who, unusually, is Caucasian.

“I need a full structural integrity check when you have time, please, but preferably sooner than later. The flight recorder will show you what kind of stresses I’ve put on her, and she had ground penetrating radar mounted here, here and here.”

He doesn’t pretend he has anything else on his plate and calls in his team to start the work. I turn to the dam’s director.

“Would we be able to set up a conference with a few people? In your office perhaps? We’ve, er… We’ve hit a bit of a snag.”

Apparently my acting passes muster since he agrees without seemingly unduly worried. Either that or his exceptional thespianism means I don’t spot him covering his feelings. We walk back to his place, me striding ahead so I don’t have to continue the conversation.

“Would you set up the conference please? I’d like to include the director of Aswan High Dam, the commander of the International Stratospheric Base and Professor Surya Farouk, currently staying at the Sofitel Legend in Aswan. You can add anyone else you’d like.”

I help myself to a glass of water and stare out of the window at an expanse of intensely blue water. I’m still wearing my flight suit, and in the desert heat I’m sweating more than is healthy.

The link comes up and a couple of familiar faces. I join my host in front of the camera.

“Hello Chris,” Laura greets me. “Is everything alright.”

“Hi Laura. Not exactly. I’ve invited Surya to join us as well, but she may be a little delayed. There’s been an incident with Archangel One. I may have stressed the airframe. The maintenance crew at Merowe International are looking her over, but would benefit from specifics from her designers.”

“I’ll arrange that now. That’s Merowe International in Sudan?”

“Yes. There’s some more bad news I’m afraid, Hamza,” this to the Aswan director. “I’m afraid some of your equipment was lost in the high gee manoeuvring. Specifically the transmitter module and the two receivers.”

The Sudanese director beside me is trying and failing to hide his nervousness. Maybe not such a great actor then, or maybe it’s his current audience.

“Would you mind starting from the beginning, Chris?” Laura asks, which is fair since she’s the one furthest from this particular loop. “Or would you rather wait for Surya?”

“Surya can catch up when she joins us. She won’t need all the details in any case.”

I begin with Hamza’s request for the aerial survey and our flight down to Aswan, then the worsening weather conditions and the second request to run a similar survey in Sudan.

“I flew down this morning and completed the wider part of the survey without difficulty,” I continue. “The last flight of the day consisted of a run along the river valley downstream from the dam…”

“Why the last?” Hamza asks. “I’d have thought surveying the river itself would be the highest priority.”

“A question for Director Garang, I feel. It was his survey plan. I didn’t question it at first, but I did wonder about that last flight. I set the AI to monitor the cameras. I doubt I’d have seen the missile launch otherwise.”

“Missile launch?” Surya would choose this moment to join the meeting. “What’s this you’re saying about a missile launch?”

“Details to follow, love. For now, know that I’m fine and the plane is fine, if a little stressed from the unorthodox manoeuvres.”

“When will you be back?”

“Still figuring that out. I’m waiting to hear how airworthy the archangel is. When I know that, we can come up with a plan.”

“He’ll be back with you tomorrow morning, Surya. Chris, Lockheed have built a second Archangel. Their chief test pilot is bringing it to Merowe as we speak. He’ll stay on and assist the ground crew there to make Archangel One airworthy again, then take her back to America. They want to dismantle her and see where the critical stress points are, so Archangel Two is, or will be, officially yours. They’ve tweaked it a bit. Their pilot will brief you on the improvements.

“He should be with you some time this evening, which means you can head back to Aswan as soon as you like tomorrow.”

“Or tonight?”

“Dave would benefit from a familiar face when he arrives, and your personal debrief on what the aircraft went through, as well as your own perspective on its handling. Do what you do and help him to feel at home before you leave him.”

“Director Garang, would you care to explain the order of your survey flights? Did you have any reason to believe there might have been any risk to Mr Palmer?”

The Sudanese director looks uncomfortable.

“Wajih?” the Egyptian director asks. “It is known Sudan still has… difficulties. Please, won’t you explain them?”

“They are Sudan’s problems to solve.”

“Not when you put other people’s lives at risk, my friend. Chris deserves to know why he was fired on.”

Director Garang’s shoulders slump. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. I spoke with the rebel leader yesterday. I explained how this survey benefits us all.”

“There are rebels?” I’m surprised. I thought all fighting was behind us. “The world government offers aid to non-combative countries. Aid evenly distributed to everyone.”

“That is how we were told, yes, but you cannot make peace where hatred is so deep rooted.”

“What hatred?” Laura asks. “There hasn’t been any fighting in Sudan for decades.”

The director looks sullen but says nothing more.

“Perhaps I can speak on this,” Hamza says. “It is in part our history too.”

Director Garang glowers, but he doesn’t object, so the Egyptian director clears his throat.

“Many years before the first European explorers landed on African shores, Muslims came from the Middle East and settled along the Mediterranean coast.”

“Of course,” Laura Says. “Libyans, Tunisians, Algerians, Moroccans, they all have more Arabic ancestry than African.”

“Yes, but they do have some African ancestry as well.”

That shuts her up.

“The Arab settlers were always more organised than the Africans who lived to their south. At the time, there was a degree of animosity between African villages, such that they would compete but rarely cooperate. The Arabs took advantage of this by organising large raiding parties, large enough to overwhelm a village, so they set about attacking them one after the other. Those they didn’t slaughter, they enslaved and so African blood mixed with Arab in the north, and a deep enmity grew between the northerners and the southerners.

“When Europeans came in, they assumed Africa to be theirs. They colonised it and parcelled it out between them. This bit to the French, that bit to the British. Egypt and Sudan both fell under British rule for a while.

“It was during this time that the borders demarking our countries were drawn, Sometimes following natural geographic features such as rivers, other times added arbitrarily with a ruler and pencil. However it was done, the locals were never consulted.

“For countries like Sudan and Chad, the countries stretched a long way north and south, the reason being, I believe, that to do so from east to west would result in countries with no resources, countries that would consist of nothing more than desert, which would then have no means to survive economically.”

“But surely that makes sense,” Laura is no great student of history. She does better with cultural differences, but has a blind spot with less developed ones.

“To Europeans, it makes a great deal of sense, but to Africans, especially when two tribes which share such intense hatred are bound within these arbitrary borders, all it makes is unending war.

“Throughout the history of these two countries in particular, and in all countries along the Sahel, there has been constant strife. Even following independence and the advent of democracy, whenever a northerner was elected into the presidency, the southern tribes would become the rebels. Whenever a southerner ruled the country, the northerners would take on the role of militant resistance.”

“And the last fifty years?”

“The closest thing to detente. In order to be eligible for World Government aid, the ruling party agreed to relax governance in rebel held areas and the rebels agreed to hold off on their aggression. These countries became essentially two countries within one border.”

“So what happened today?” I ask. I have an idea, but I’m not convinced.

“Sudan is currently governed officially by a member of a southern tribe. Most high office and influential work is given to southerners. I believe it’s at least partly how Mr Garang came by this job. Merowe is in the north of the country and held by northern tribesmen. As suggested earlier, the director speaks to the dissidents regularly in an attempt to maintain the – for want of a better term – peace, but today it apparently didn’t work as it should.”

“Your aircraft does not seem like a craft of peace,” Director Garang says. “Despite my assurances to the contrary, the rebels thought it looked too much like a surveillance craft. They thought the government was trying to locate their camps, to try and see how strong they have become.”

“And the reason the river valley was surveyed last?” I ask.

“I told them we were surveying the water courses. The early runs were to give them an opportunity to study your craft and match the fittings to the equipment you needed to do this. I told them the last flight would be down the valley, where most of their camps are located, and hoped by then they would not see you as an enemy.”

“And the reason you did not warn my pilot?” Laura doesn’t sound so forgiving.

“If you knew we still struggled with rebel activity, World Government funding would be withdrawn. Our country needs your aid.”

“So much so you were prepared to put one of my people at risk.”

“I did not believe there was a risk. I am most apologetic.”

“That’s not going to be enough. This is going to have to be reported to the World Government.”

“Perhaps there’s another way,” I suggest.

“I’m listening,” Laura says, still grim faced.

“The reasons the countries are shaped the way they are is so that enough wealth can be gleaned from the south to make the whole country viable, right?”

“I did say that, yes,” the Egyptian says.

“It’s a bit of a big if, but if these underground rivers make it possible to build algae farms up here, then the north has a lucrative source of income.”

“Yes…” Laura still hasn’t seen it.

“So, we can divide the countries into two autonomous neighbours, each with sufficient resources to be self-sustaining. In time, the algae can be used to revitalise the soil.

“I doubt it’ll fix the problem because you’ll have neighbouring countries with a deep seated dislike of one another, but it’ll mean no rebel activity so no cause to pull WorldGov funding, and it’ll provide enough of a buffer to permit counselling and education to resolve the hatred.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” This is the first Surya has spoken since she joined the conference. “These people tried to kill you, and this is how you pay them back?”

“Is there a better way you might suggest?”

“No,” she laughs, “but I wouldn’t have thought up anything this good. The fact that you did gives me hope for the human race, and tells me I’m marrying the right man.”

“I echo those thoughts,” Laura said, “or at least the first part of them. Director Gurang, do you think this is a solution your government would be interested in?”

“If it means we still have the World Government’s support, I believe so.”

“And the rebels?”

“I think they will accept it, as long as they don’t think it comes from us.”

“Could you persuade them to accept it if they thought it did?” I ask.

“Perhaps, but why?”

“Because the rift will not be healed unless you find a reason to trust each other again. The first step in that will be for you to do something for their benefit which they eventually see is a genuine move towards reconciliation.”

Director Gurang shakes his head in disbelief.

“Also, I imagine if there is someone among the rebels now with the technical knowhow to maintain heat seeking surface to air missiles, I imagine that he, or she, would be able to verify that a GPR installation puts them at no risk. If you were to offer them the opportunity to examine the raw data from the survey flights, to reassure them that none of it shows sensitive intelligence about their camps.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Laura asks.

“It depends on if we can put our hands on replacement radar emitter and receiver antennae and mounts to put them on the new archangel.”

“We have a complete ground penetrating radar installation,” Gurang says. “I believe it may be a little more advanced than the one you were using. Since we are responsible for destroying yours, Hamza, perhaps we can make you a gift of ours.”

“So, all we need do now is install the radar in the new plane and invite the rebel technician to inspect the equipment. I’ll happily take him on the flight.”

“And how much later will that make you?”

“Sunrise is at six. Survey run of the river valley won’t take more than an hour, plus half an hour to refuel. An hour and a half back to Aswan will get me to you by nineish.”

“It’ll have to do.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want to show you just what I think of you, and I’m not sure how long I can stand to wait.”

“You’re also going to be on the WorldGov committee sorting out the rearrangement of borders, Chris. And that’ll be on top of your current duties.”

“No good deed goes unpunished. Okay, Laura, I’m in.”

So that’s how the rest of the day goes. I’m assigned a couple of grease monkeys who help me unpack and assemble the GPR ready for installation. Mid-afternoon, a small convoy of fossil fuel driven pickups arrives at the airport and a small group of locals come over to inspect the equipment. It seems they’re trying to hide their specialist in the group, but it quickly becomes apparent that only one of them knows what he’s doing. I allow them their charade, then ask the actual specialist what he thinks, in English. He deliberates for a few seconds before grinning and admitting it’s impressive equipment which won’t show up any of their camps, but might potentially pick up any locations where they have large accumulations of metal, such as vehicles they might wish to keep hidden.

Or caches of guns, I think

“I suppose that’s true, and I can understand why you might be worried about such information falling into the wrong hands. It would be unfortunate were thieves to discover where you keep your valuables.

“I would value the assistance of someone who knows this region. I don’t want to waste time and fuel scanning areas where there’s no evidence of the river diverting underground. Perhaps you would care to look at the area I plan to survey tomorrow and indicate any places you think aren’t worth looking at.”

I lead him over to a chart marked with my route and offer him a pencil. He peruses the map for several minutes, before handing it back, unused.

“It all looks worth looking at. I wasn’t aware the area covered was so narrow.”

“The narrower the beam, the deeper it looks. If we widen The beam, it’s likely we won’t look deep enough to find the channels.

“I have an empty seat in the plane. I wonder if you’d be interested in riding with me. If you’re interested, I plan to fly the scan shortly after dawn. Be here before the sun crests the horizon and I’ll squeeze you into a spare flight suit.”

“This plane?” he asks, sauntering over to the archangel.

“One like it. This one needs checking to see if it was damaged after today. You’ll be able to view the scans as they’re made.”

“Then I will come flying with you at dawn tomorrow.”

“Please try to be on time. You know how us white people like things to happen at the right time?”

“I have often wondered why this is so.”

“It allows you to do more things in a day. I do find the African way more relaxed, but tomorrow I would like to leave as soon as possible

, so I can return to my fiancée.”

“I will be here before the sun rises tomorrow, nasara.” He gathers his entourage and leaves.

So, we’ve danced around the truth. Without actually saying as much, he’s let me know there’s something to be found, and I’ve let him know I don’t really care. I’ve shown him where I plan to look and he’s more or less confirmed that there’s nothing in any of those spots. I’ve offered to let him accompany me so he can verify I don’t stray from my plan and he’s agreed to do so, meaning we’re considerably less likely to be shot out of the sky. Exhausting, but productive.

Dave arrives about seven in the evening. I’m not sure how many details Laura shared with Lockheed, but he lands directly with no showy flybys. It is after dark and he’s had a long flight, so it’s possible he’s just tired.

I make sure he’s fed and knows where his bed is, then he gives me a brief tour of the new archangel and its improvements. It’s slightly bigger and lighter, meaning more carrying capacity. It has ejectable mounting pods in enclosed nacelles with their own built in parachutes. Something they’d been working on anyway, but now it meant I could add on functionality without sacrificing much performance, and if I needed it back, I only had to fly above the limiting speed and the pods would detach and drift slowly down to a safe landing where locator beacons would assist in their recovery. The pods live in the cargo space until needed and don’t take up much space.

The biggest change is to the wing. Rather than having flaps and spoilers, it is capable of changing shape. A flexible polymer coating maintains a smooth surface, while multiple linkages allow it to reconfigure and lock into different profiles suitable for supersonic flight, fast subsonic and various levels of slow. At its slowest, it can maintain a comfortable hundred knots without excessive fuel burn. That does mean a fairly slow upper speed as well, and the change between configurations isn’t speedy, so I wouldn’t have been able to respond to the missile as effectively, but as a peace time aircraft, it’s exceptional. He shows me how to operate the new controls and leaves me with a fairly hefty addendum to the flight manual to study before heading to his bed.

I supervise the installation of the new GPR in the new nacelles, and location of the much smaller processor and storage in the cargo space (incidentally the part vacated by the nacelles) so that the seat is free for tomorrow’s passenger. I don’t do much of the work myself, but instead spend most of my time reading. The installation passes my inspection first time and I’m only half an hour later than I’d like to be going to bed.

The rebel tech’s interpretation of before the sun rises is half an hour after. There’s no sense being annoyed, especially as it’s given me time to practice with the wing configurations. I have Archangel Two prepped for slow flight with the radar system set up and on standby. I’m wearing my full flight suit, but since we’re going to be staying below one hundred knots for most of the flight, I offer him a set of overalls to wear over his clothing.

It doesn’t take long to strap him in and show him the radar display, so we’re off the ground before seven. Slow flying makes for precise flying and I complete the run in less than an hour.

I switch the radar off and climb to five thousand feet, configuring the wing for fast sub-sonic. The leg back to the airport takes just five minutes and pulls just enough gees to make it exciting in the back. To my passenger’s credit, he’s laughing as we taxi in to a standstill.

David is up by then and waiting for my assessment of the new bird.

“So far, so fantastic,” I tell him. “The real test will be when I take her up to Cloudbase though.”

“I think you’ll be pleased. The wing design came from a recent hire. Just graduated. He said he was inspired by a lecture you gave a couple of months ago?”

It has to have been the aviation class the day after I replaced the sodium net, but I don’t recall any names from the class.

“I look forward to trying it out.”

“The techs managed to give you another couple of knots leeway at rail approach speed. I tried her at sixty thousand feet with the hook extended and she has a positive feel when set up for high altitude approach.”

“Two knots is loads. Tell your designer thanks.”

“I will, but the one real challenge is doing the same for the angels.”

“I leave that to you lot. Now, Archangel One.”

I take him through the manoeuvres and stresses and we poke our way into inspection hatches. It’s nine by the time we’re done and I introduce him to the ground inspection team over breakfast.

I put a call through to Surya to give her my revised ETA of eleven thirty. I’m off the ground by ten with the nacelles still attached. Archangel Two handles the turbulence well and allows me a faster cruise speed, so it’s quarter past eleven when I turn onto final approach in much clearer weather.

Surya is waiting for me despite the early arrival and totally disregards any restrictions on public displays of affection. We endure a few angry looks before I’m able to regain control of the situation and guide her into a private room.

Where she thrusts a package into my arms and starts opening one of her own. They turn out to be the dresses she commissioned with the material she bought on our first day. The designs match and are exquisite, with matching buttons and bows, the styles of material match, but with different colours. Warm red for her to complement the golden brown of her skin and royal blue for me.

She starts to change and indicates I should do the same. I glance at the door, but figure there’s no reason anyone should come in, so do as I’m bid.

What can I say. They fit great and look amazing.

“I though we could cancel our costume hire and attend the conference in these,” she says. “What do you think?”

“I think we’ll stand out. These are stunning.”

“You’ll certainly stand out. I’m pretty sure every other man will be wearing a tuxedo. And before you’re tempted to say something stupid, no it doesn’t bother me. I’m immensely proud of you and would go so far as to say you look quite stunning.”

“You know just the right thing to say sometimes.”

“Oh? Only sometimes?”

“Certainly the times when it matters. How is that?”

“It’s a man woman thing. You wouldn’t understand, or at least I don’t think you’d want to.”

“Why don’t you try me?”

“Okay. Come with me.”

She opens the door and beckons for me to come with her. Immediately I begin to feel a little self-conscious.

“Men and women think differently, I don’t think you’ll disagree with that.”

I shake my head.

“Women tend to be more aware of little details. You have something of that, because your brain is, to some degree, like mine, so you notice the people looking at you and you notice their expressions. This place is not so cosmopolitan as Cairo. Attitudes are a little more traditional. You look and act very feminine when you dress like this, so no-one really notices, but there are little things they pick up on without realising it. They sense that something is not quite right and they respond to it. It’s what makes you feel just a little uncomfortable as you are feeling now.

“Me, I notice that you are feeling uncomfortable, and I notice the reaction in other people which causes it. It’s more of a feeling, but I’ve trained myself to analyse it – that’s the masculine part of my brain structure.”

“You… Of course you do. I should have picked up on it sooner.”

“Everyone has a little of the other, but we have more of it I think, you and I. You are a man who has quite a lot of woman in him so you like to be seen in the same way as a woman would. You like to be appreciated and you make an effort to look good. And believe me, the effort is worthwhile. Me, I’m a woman with quite a lot of man inside me. I’m small and delicate, so there’s no sense in my trying to pass myself off as masculine; that’s the pragmatic side of my personality coming to the fore. I still like looking pretty, but I also like being practical.”

“Hence the trousers.”

“The trousers have a little to do with it. I don’t much like the vulnerability that comes with wearing a skirt, though I think you do, don’t you?”

I nod again.

“So, coming back to the matter in hand before we lose track of it. I notice when other peoples’ reactions, whether conscious or unconscious, affect you, and I see how it undermines your self-confidence – which is quite pronounced, by the way. I don’t feel the need to intercede much. Certainly not on Cloudbase where you have won most people over to accepting your ways. But here, I can see you find it harder, so it feels appropriate to give you the encouragement you need – the encouragement you deserve.

“You are my very lovely and loveable fiancé. I would love to give that word the extra letter e, or at least a part of one, because I want to make certain I’m talking to the girl I know is inside you. You are beautiful in every way and you don’t deserve to have other people such as these around us telling you that you aren’t, especially since they don’t even know they are doing so. They are responding to a dogma that influences their feelings. I would have you know that the people who see through to the true you, and don’t allow themselves to be influenced by any outmoded beliefs, they see something of your full worth. I like to think I see more of it, because I spend more time looking, I make more of an effort to find the true you, and I see that you are genuinely and overwhelmingly, stunningly beautiful.”

There are tears in my eyes by the time she’s finished. Tears are the lubricant of the soul. They’re there for sadness and happiness, and moments of true revelation such as this.

I turn her to look at me, to show her my soul bared and how much I genuinely am glad of her presence in my life.

The full demonstration involves showing how little I care about what other people around here think of public displays of affection. Whether they see two women kissing or a man in a dress kissing a beautiful woman, I don’t care in that moment.

A rather geeky paraphrase of the old Star Trek genre passes through my brain. “My soul to your soul, my feeling entwined with yours. We are one.”

We survive the angry scrutiny of those about us, perhaps in part because we are pragmatic enough not to test the limits of their patience. Instead we make our way back to our hotel and embrace each other in the privacy of our room.

We order a light lunch delivered to our room, after which, despite my enjoying the this reunion as much as the look and feel of a beautiful dress made to my exact measurements, I pick up my phone and call through to the director of the dam in Aswan.

“Is there enough water passing through for me to start the survey?” I ask.

He assures me there is and I promise to be in the air within the hour.

Surya’s pout makes me smile, but, “The sooner I’m started, the sooner we can be done with this place,” I say. “You’re welcome to join me. The new plane copes with the bumps better, but it still won’t be that comfortable.”

“When will you be finished?”

“Not much point continuing after the sun goes down. By the time I’ve put the plane to bed, maybe seven?”

“You always make things like that a question, as though you need me to approve.”

“I could finish sooner if that would meet with more approval.”

“No, you’re right. We only have tonight and tomorrow night here, and I want to make up for sleeping in this bed alone last night.”

“We can do that if I stop earlier.”

“But will you be able to finish tomorrow if you do that? I want to be able to sleep in on our last night, even if it means a rough ride home.

“I’ll meet you at the airport at seven. Take that,” she points at my dress which I’m removing, “and change before we meet. I’ll sort out the rest.”

“Is that the man in you being all dominant and in control?”

“What if it is?”

“The girl in me loves it.”

The afternoon gives me time to scan the river almost all the way back to Cairo. The variable wing means the trip back takes about three quarters of an hour. The last half hour is in the dark, but a shortened post flight check and a quick change still has me ready just ten minutes late.

“Is that the girl in you exercising her prerogative to take her time over looking perfect?”

I did spend more than a few minutes primping.

“What if it is?”

“The man in me is a little frustrated, but the girl sees the effort and approves. We need to go though. The evening runs on something of a schedule.”

Our driver earns himself a larger tip by bending a traffic law here and there, so we’re only five minutes late at the restaurant. Five minutes is easy enough to make up, so we’re finished and on our way to the Philae Temple and the son et lumiere show.

There’s something that’s changed for the better. Not so long ago, the majority of people insisted on observing any major event through the lens of a camera. No matter what, fireworks, airshow, concert, eclipse, meteor shower, pretty much everything, most people present would hold up a phone or video camera and try to capture the moment. It took way longer than it should have for people to learn that their efforts at filming produced pathetic result in comparison to watching it with their own eyes. The change only happened when organisers made arrangements to film their events professionally and upload the results to the globalnet. Once individuals could download a copy of the event they witnessed, they stopped trying to record it themselves and started experiencing something of the full majesty of the event itself.

Professional videos usually involved drones, which were typically higher and further away with high-definition cameras and almost silent motors, leaving us to enjoy what our eyes could capture. It meant more people gasped in awe at the spectacle and everyone enjoyed a higher level of synergy as a result.

Both Surya and I were buzzing from the experience as we came away. She’d arranged for a car to pick us up, which was as well given the number of people coming away at the end. We offered a lift to a group of young girls who were only too grateful to accept. The streets of Aswan were as safe as most places around the world at night, which doesn’t quite mean totally safe, not yet, and young women were still at most risk.

Odd how doing a good deed can act like an aphrodisiac. Both Surya and I enjoyed the rest of the evening far too much, and I needed two shots of strong, Egyptian coffee to rouse me enough to start the survey flights at six.

One long day later, and I’ve collected a great deal of very promising data. I don’t much feel like going out, though we can’t really turn down the dam director’s invitation to dinner.

Home cooking is often so much better than restaurant food, especially if in a different culture. We both eat more than we should and enjoy the evening immensely. There is a point, while Surya is out of the room freshening up, that I ask a favour. Hamza reaches for his phone immediately and five minutes later has organised what I want.

We still have a night in hand before the conference and it seems a waste to spend it in Cairo when we don’t have to.

No liquor involved. In part a Muslim household. In part a pilot aware that he is due to fly within eight hours. In part a fiancée who isn’t prepared to indulge herself when her other half can’t. It doesn’t matter. Between the food and the company, the evening is as heady and enjoyable experience as it could ever have been.

We sleep in late the following morning. Late enough that we almost miss our checkout in time. Surya asks if we can maybe delay departure until the day cools a bit, but I’ve already filed my flight plan, at least that’s my excuse.

The nacelles are still in place. Part of what we talked about at Hamza’s was the possibility of my completing the survey downstream as far as Cairo. I’m keen to stretch the new bird’s wings, but there’ll be time for that later.

I configure for slow flight and warm up the radar. One hundred and fifty knots isn’t exactly sight seeing speed, but if you keep your eyes ahead of the craft, you have a few moments to take in the view before it zips past. For my part, it gives me time to prepare for any bends in the river. None of them are particularly tight until we reach Luxor where I allow the Nile to veer off to the right while I climb a little and take a gentler curve onto short final to the airport, where I come in for a landing.

“What is this?” Surya asks.

“Hamza is friends with the owner of the Winter Palace. We have the honeymoon suite for the night.”

“I thought we spent our spare cash in Aswan.”

“Hamza insisted. This is on him for all the survey work, including what we’re doing today and tomorrow.”

“So, what are we going to do this evening? Valley of the Kings? Karnak?”

“Actually, I was hoping we could enjoy a night off, like we wanted to last night. If you really want, we can go have a look at some dusty old ruins in the morning. We should still get home in time for tomorrow evening’s event.”

“You have no soul.”

“Hamza tells me the hotel gardens are as lovely as any tourist trap, with the advantage of no tourists and no trap. All I want is a relaxed meal and a quiet stroll around the grounds with my beautiful wife-to-be.”

“I withdraw my last statement.”

“Indeed m’lud.”

“What?”

“Cultural thing. Old fashioned way of addressing a judge in a court in England. M’lud is a corruption of My Lord. You sounded like you were addressing a court.”

“All right, maybe it sounded like that, but there are times you show a real romantic side to you.”

“Just as long as you don’t try to make out that it’s all down to my female side. This particular bit of me comes from both sides.”

“I know I talk about one side or the other a lot, don’t I? But it’s not like that when you think about it, is it? We’re always a bit of both at the same time. We just try to fit in with the world around us, which means we sort of lean one way or the other.

“Lean either way long enough, and we miss being the other. It’s why we feel so comfortable around each other, I think. I don’t need to lean and neither do you. Just be the way you feel all the time.”

“You mean you’re not going to try and change me after we’re married?”

She laughs. “As long as you don’t try to change me.”

“There’s nothing I’d want to change.”

“Me neither.”

The Winter Palace is everything it promises to be. We eat light through preference, then wander the grounds until the sun goes down, then we make proper use of the suite. Not married yet, but we might as well be.

“Are we going to do that low flight down the river the rest of the way?” Surya asks.

“Most of the way, yes. Why?”

“Your reason for the early morning flights has always been the turbulence and I don’t remember feeling so much of it yesterday. I’d like a lie in tomorrow and enjoy this place as long as we can.”

“Hang on then.” I reach for my phone and pick a number out of the contacts.

“Cairo ATC.”

“Hello, Aziz?”

“Chris, hi. We already have your flight plan.”

“I know. I was hoping to modify it a little.”

“Yeah?”

“Depart Luxor twelve thirty local instead of seven thirty.”

“Otherwise the same?”

“Pretty much.”

“Give me half an hour.”

“Thanks Aziz.”

“We can do it?” Surya asks as I hang up.

“We’ll know in thirty minutes. Now what can we do for thirty minutes while we’re waiting?”

“Oh. I know this one.” She pushes me onto my back and reaches under my nightdress.

I sincerely doubt it takes thirty minutes to sort out the flight plan. At most a phone call or two with a yes or no, but everyone likes to feel important, and I don’t mind the wait, especially when I have this sort of distraction.

Something I realise I haven’t mentioned. It turns out birth control is safer for men than women. I have an applicator patch on my thigh which infuses a slow-release spermicide into my system. It doesn’t take much, so a cartridge lasts three months, during which time I get to shoot blanks, unless I don’t want to any more, at which time I simply remove the cartridge. I’d just put in a new one when Rachel broke up with me. I’d have remembered to take it out eventually, because there’s no sense in taking meds unnecessarily, but then the thing with Surya started so quickly. The applicator buzzes gently, telling me that the cartridge is close to exhausted. It’ll remind me every twelve hours until I replace it, or it’ll buzz at me continuously once it’s empty. I don’t have a spare with me, so there’s something else to sort out when we get to Cairo.

I seem to remember reading there was something of a row over it when the drug first came out. A lot of men argued that it was emasculating, which I struggle to understand. I mean exactly what is emasculating about taking a drug? And when it’s safer and more effective for the men, why would you object? Why would you insist the person you love puts herself at risk for no reason?

Sometimes history makes no sense whatsoever.

Aziz calls back and approves the flight, as I was sure he would. He takes every second of the thirty minutes he predicted, which is just as well since so does Surya.

Morning comes and, because we’re in no hurry, so do we, multiple times.

“You know,” I say as I lay back staring at the ceiling, “if there’s one thing I regret, it’s not being able to experience this the way you do.”

Surya traces circles around my nipple as is her habit. “I’m happy for you to be on top sometimes if you like.”

“No, I mean what you feel as a woman is so different from what I get out of my experience. For men, it’s this building tension which ends in release, then it’s all over. I get the sense I’m missing out.”

“Depends on who you’re with,” she says. “Some blokes just want to get to that moment of release, which means we don’t always reach the mountain top.”

“Am I…?”

“No, of course not. You’re a very considerate lover. You put me in the mood for mountain climbing then lead me to the summit every time.

“Well, nearly every time.”

“I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

She’s silent for a while. “There may be a way,” she says tentatively, “if you’re really serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“A former roommate of mine majored in neuroscience. She’s been exploring how to induce experiences into the brain, and she’s had some success with powerful emotions. I’m sure I could persuade her to take you on as a test subject, if you like.”

“Would it be the same? I mean I’d have all the right neurons firing, I suppose, but isn’t the sensation down to a release of hormones too? Maybe a response from certain organs I don’t have?”

“Hmm. Maybe. You’d have to ask her. Brains are a bit far from my field.”

“How would it affect my pilot status if I did something like that.”

“Another good point, and again something you’d have to ask her about. I’ll give you her details, then when you’re stuck on the ground in Podunk Arkansas for a couple of months, and bored out of your skull, you can give her a call.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not if it’s one of my orgasms she lets you experience.”

“She has one of your orgasms recorded?”

“Oh, more than one. And I was younger then so they were more intense.”

“How did you…?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“No, maybe not. Maybe I’ll just let my imagination play with it.”

“Oh God! Now I have to know what your imagination has come up with.”

I smile a slightly wicked smile. “I see you in a convent school, wearing a nun’s habit and wimple, riding your bicycle along a cobbled road.”

“You are incorrigible!” She thumps me gently on the chest, but she’s laughing. “Stick with that image. It’s much better than reality.”

“We should get some sleep.”

“You’re right, only…”

“Only what?”

“Well, you’re going to do all the flying tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan.”

“So, tonight is the only chance I’m going to have to play with your joystick.”

I open my legs a little. “The cockpit door is open, flight attendant Farouk and the captain is asking for you.”

Half an hour passes. Perhaps closer to three quarters. Surya lays back, spent, and it’s my turn to draw circles around her nipples. They stand erect and I kiss the one closest to me.

“Don’t, please. The captain just wore me out.”

“You have a gentle touch. You’d make a great pilot.”

“I’m happy to leave that to you. I like having a chauffeur.”

“Yes milady,” I say in a breathy voice.

“Is this like the m’lud thing?”

“Kind of ish, but not the context. The same people who came up with the Captain Scarlet series, with Cloudbase and the Angels, came up with a number of other series. Two of the main characters are Lady Penelope and her chauffeur, Parker, who speaks like that. The series was called Thunderbirds, I think, about a rich family who form an organisation called International Rescue.”

“Oh, so that’s where that comes from.”

“What comes from.”

“I’m not sure if I should be telling you. Laura invited me to a Spectrum meeting shortly before we came away. They were talking about putting together a rapid response crisis resolution team, and some of the participants started getting excited about calling it International Rescue and the vehicles Thunderbirds. Laura didn’t seem too happy about it, and I just didn’t understand.”

“Neither do I. I mean not about the name thing, but why were you invited and not me?”

“That’s where I’m not sure I should be talking to you about it. Can you forget I mentioned it?”

“I’ll try.”

“I mean we do need to get some sleep.”

“Yes, but I think I need something to help take my mind off it.”

She sighs. “Do you want to go on top this time?”

“No, not really. The girly part of me prefers it when you take control.”

I dream of fantastic craft launching around the globe, rescuing people from natural disasters. We can’t stop earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis and the like, but we’re getting better at predicting and pre-empting them. None of the Thunderbird pilots were women though, so somehow there’s me, dressed in shocking pink with a posher English accent than I usually have, sitting at the controls of one craft after another. Writing books and talking to crowds is all very well, but there’s a part of me that’s been missing out on the excitement recently. The whole thing with the missiles had been exhilarating more than terrifying, although terror had been involved.

We wake early, despite plans to lie in, so breakfast and head out to see what Egyptian heritage there is to experience around Luxor. Surya arranges for our new dresses to be laundered fresh for the evening, so that meant something new to buy from the hotel catalogue, which is surprisingly reasonably priced. We both choose khaki safari suits – mine with a skirt, hers not – and boots and spend a few hours clambering about the ruins.

We make our departure time and continued the low flight down the river. There is turbulence, but between the low level of the flight and the slower speed, we don’t feel it so much. I barely notice it at all since I’m focused on the flying.

Three hours of it leaves me tired, but we eventually reach the Dahshur bridge, with the black and white pyramids to our left. This is where I call Cairo International tower and request permission to climb into the terminal manoeuvring area and come around to land.

We’re on the ground by four with ground crew instructed to dismantle the GPR and stow the nacelles back in the cargo area. The equipment will be returned to Aswan by road, where they will download and analyse the data, extending the algae farms in accordance with their findings.

I’m expecting reports from Merowe and Aswan on their findings. The Sudanese information is slightly more critical as it will let me know how viable my idea is to redraw a few borders.

We change quickly into overalls and head back to our hotel room, which feels oddly like returning home. From there, we take our time over freshening up and are ready for the conference in good time.

It’s all about networking. Scientists coming together to share their research and look for opportunities to collaborate. In the week to come there will be numerous presentations, all candidly honest presenting both success and failure, because it’s only in the environment of absolute truth that such diverse minds can explore avenues that lead to the desired results. This evening is about renewing acquaintances and exploring personal agendas.

Surya and I part at the entrance. She has a number of eminent solar polymer specialists to find to discuss issues with her own research, and to offer insights into theirs where appropriate. I have a lot of project leaders to find in order to arrange visits, tours, discussions of their work; information gleaned to go into the book and to add to my knowledge base for Spectrum discussions.

There will also be food. Always food. Hors d’oeuvres and drinks from the start, but something more substantial to follow, so it’s important to pace yourself from the outset.

I manage to arrange visits to the gyre cleanup facilities in the Northern Pacific and Indian Oceans – not places I can reach with my aircraft, but there are regular ground effect vehicles or GEVs, like the rescue craft that picked me up after my long drop. Jet turbines facing down at an angle, enough aerodynamics to lift over the surface of the ground or water with hulls designed to float or support themselves on rough terrain. They’re fast and efficient and can stop pretty much anywhere.

There’s also the landmine clearing projects, less of an issue now as most landmines have now been destroyed or defused, but still necessary since there are still a few forgotten places around the world. The main problem now is finding them, and the main solution is automated survey drones equipped with magnetometers. Their search patterns seem a little chaotic, but there’s method in the madness. Since the detectors can trip the mines, they only search an areas when there aren’t people about. There’s also an emphasis on clearing more populated areas before remote ones, so planning when and where to send them is the most complex part of the operation.

Then, of course, there’s the space elevator. Cloudbase’s elevators operate on a principle initially designed for this project, and I’ve used them long enough to be able to add a few useful comments to the discussion. The seed filament is due to descend into the atmosphere in the next few months, and Cloudbase’s path around the Earth is scheduled to change ahead of time in order to avoid it and leave space for Cloudbase two to do the same. I can’t justify a trip up to the geosynchronous satellite currently feeding filament in and out – out to balance the stuff going in and keep the centre of mass at its sweet spot – but I can spend a few days at mission control.

I forget all the other project leaders I talk to. They all want a piece of me since I’ll then be able to speak for them with more authority in Spectrum meetings. There’s heavy metal reclamation from the sea, a matter of considerable importance since heavy metals in the food chain mean larger fish have to be processed before they’re safe to eat, and the contamination has affected growth of phytoplankton, which has a knock-on effect on the atmosphere. Their most effective approach is to reclaim the waste containing the metals and recover it before it leaks out completely. This has its issues since most of the dumping sites are unknown, criminals not being renowned for their record keeping. This means drones to scan the sea bed, and a lot of them, given the size of the area needing to be covered. It also means AI driven, robotic recovery craft since they’re easier to adapt to the incredible pressures at the bottom of the ocean. This is one I’m going to raise at the next Spectrum meeting.

When you know you’re doing something worthwhile, you’re prepared to do it, even if it becomes tedious. I know I’m good at this, because I’m good at people, the same as my missions to the overly religious. I have patience and empathy, which means I can get through.

I just wish it could be enough for me. As the evening wears on, I find myself missing the flying and the EVAs up to the balloons. Suck it up is a phrase I remember hearing from previous generations. Not something I particularly care for since people are better off doing what they love and I know I’m depriving someone who would love this job simply by being in it.

I remember reading a book called the Peter Principle – hard to find these days as it’s about a hundred years old. An idea proposed by one Doctor Lawrence Peter, who suggested that if you’re good at your job, you tend to be promoted until you end up in a position you’re not trained for and which you don’t particularly enjoy, after which you prove to be mediocre at best and end up stuck in a job you don’t like, being considerably less productive than you could be. If this still applies, I’m still due a promotion or two, since I’m still pretty good at what I’m doing, but it won’t be long before I reach my natural level of incompetence.

“Mr Palmer?” It’s a young woman with a prominent nose and something of an overbite.

“Hi. What’s your project?” I’m feeling tired, but I try to give her the attention and enthusiasm I’ve given to everyone else I’ve talked to this evening.

“Oh, nothing that needs your attention, at least not right now. It’s just that they’re asking for you over at the top table.”

I look across where Laura, among other faces I recognise, is looking out into the crowd. There is something of a hush.

“Chris?” she asks into a microphone. My subconscious replay tells me it’s not the first time she’s asked.

I raise an arm. People look at me oddly because they’re expecting a man, not a vision in royal blue. Laura points at me and beckons and a path opens up for me.

“A lot of you will already know Chris,” Laura says as I stand up beside her.

This sort of thing makes me nervous. I don’t mind standing in front of a crowd, but I’m not so keen when I haven’t had a chance to get my head around what I can say to them. For now I just allow Laura to do the talking, though I’m sure that’s going to be embarrassing enough.

“Some of you will know him as one of Cloudbase’s Angels, call sign Melody although he passed that on to another very capable pilot a few weeks ago.”

Maria is standing in the crowd and grinning. Most people are grinning which probably means I’m the only person present who doesn’t know what’s going on here.

“Quite a few of you will probably know him for his recent jump from one of the highest points on Cloudbase. Unfortunately sixteen thousand feet short of Alan Eustace’s record, though with the space elevator going up, I doubt that’ll hold for long anyway, however, since he saw fit to do it in the middle of the night, it does still count as a record.”

The crowd applauds politely, enjoying my evident discomfort.

Which Laura seems intent on taking to its extreme.

“We’re still not convinced it was necessary to blow up one of the base’s support balloons to provide him with an excuse for the jump, but since his actions, including those of his next trip into the rigging the following day, most likely stopped Cloudbase from falling out of the sky, we’re prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

More applause, a little more enthusiastic this time.

“Still more of you may recognise him from the infamous Scarlett O’Hara speech at the St Louis Saints football stadium.”

That earns me a few whistles, and I can feel my face beginning to burn.

“Probably the majority of you here will know him for his recent appointment to the Spectrum advisory council. I know he’s been in touch with a number of you, asking for opportunities to look over your projects so he understands them better. He may even have bullied a few of you tonight into letting him come visit.”

This produces the sort of polite laughter you’d expect. I scan the crowd for familiar faces and find quite a few. None who don’t belong though. Surya is standing close by and if ever there was a cat with a cream franchise…

“Here’s the thing,” Laura continues. “You don’t waste a resource like Chris Palmer. His fellow angels would still rate him as the best of them. Everyone who’s been up in the rigging with him, twenty miles up among the balloons that support Cloudbase, say he’s the best among them. He’s taught classes remotely on a wide variety of topics, and without exception has been invited back. He’s spoken to crowds who have a deep seated distrust in science, even the science we’re using to mend our world, and has persuaded them to reconsider their opinions. The reason I invited him to join Spectrum was because our world will benefit from his intelligence and wisdom. I thought the job would be a good fit for him and might persuade him that life can be enjoyable without putting it at risk every now and then.

“So, what does he do. He. Conducts an aerial survey of underground waterways in southern Egypt and northern Sudan, and manages to persuade some local to fire a couple of surface-to-air missiles at him.”

This brings a hush to the crowd.

“He’s alright! He survived the attack.” She waves her arms at me emphatically, earning a few laughs. “His response was to propose a restructuring of the country so there won’t be so many dissidents.”

That earns me a few laughs.

“I’m not sure he’s that well cut out for a life of diplomacy and advisory committees. He’s too good at those things though, so he’s going to have to keep some level of involvement. I do however see that he’s not going to be happy without some degree of excitement in his life.

“So, here it is Chris. Your current workload is already more than any one person should have on their shoulders, so I’m going to have to give you some staff, and you’re going to have to learn to delegate, and there’s a reason.

“I understand Surya may have let something slip yesterday. She owned up to it, and I don’t think it was so bad. You see, we’ve been discussing a new venture in Spectrum for some time, since before we even gave it that stupid name, and part of the reason for inviting you onto the council was so we could discuss your suitability to head it up. Yes, on top of your current workload, so like I said, learn to delegate.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this conference is at the heart of what Spectrum is about. Science for the betterment of mankind; science for the healing of our world. This evening and all this next week is for you to discuss your science with your peers, to explore new applications and joint ventures, to evaluate one another’s discoveries, but just so we start the conference off on a truly positive note, Spectrum voted unanimously to ask Chris to head up our new crisis response team. Without further ado, I’d like you all to welcome – and heaven please save me from all the Star Trek Wars sci-fi geeky nut jobs in this profession – your new director of International Rescue, Chris Palmer.

The applause is thunderous and goes on for a long while, which is just as well since it takes me most of that while to gather my scattered wits. This all feels a bit back asswards, but the look on Surya’s face says it all. Of course, I’ll say yes. Of course, this is the perfect job for me.

The place goes quiet and now I’m expected to say a few words.

“I thought you were supposed to ask me if I want the job before making an announcement like this,” I say, and the crowd laughs. I suppose it’d be impolite not to. “Do I get a flashy new aircraft to fly?”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you just arrive in one?”

“Yes, but the archangel is sort of part of the whole Captain Scarlet thing. If I’m international rescue now, where’s my Thunderbird?”

“If it makes you happy, you can rechristen your new plane as Thunderbird One, or whatever else you want to call it. Do I have to ask if you want the job?”

“Of course not. Who in their right mind would turn down an opportunity like this?”

“So, what was it you said? Spectrum is green?”

“That was Captain Scarlet. Thunderbirds was always F-A-B. And no, I have no idea what that stands for.”

“Like I said, heaven save me from sci-fi nutters.”

“Not if you want them to fly your aircraft.”

We shake hands and the evening moves on to the next stage. Surya and I are on the top table with the rest of the Spectrum council. Surya was on it long before I joined, so she’s not there as spouse of. The reason she was part of a meeting which didn’t include me was now obvious, since I was the subject under debate. Congratulations are directed my way from pretty much everywhere, and I end up drinking a little more than I should, but then I’m not flying for a few days am I?

I have the best job in the world. Not just one thing, but everything that’s important to me.

I get to talk to people who don’t really trust what Spectrum is about. I get to hold up a mirror to them and show them that their objections don’t come from anything inherently evil in what we’re doing, but from flaws in their own beliefs. It’s a slow and delicate process, because those flaws are dug in like ticks and can become worse if not handled properly. I have patience though, and I don’t mind that the progress is slow, as long as there’s progress. I’m slowly building a team of youngsters who have the same patience and understanding as me, and have the advantage of coming from the cultures I’m challenging. My hands on contact is diminishing as I train people who are better at this part of my job than me.

My visits to the different science projects around the world is the first thing that I delegate. For the most part, I need detailed and honest reporting of what’s happening, and Laura already has more people capable of doing that than you can shake a stick at. I still keep the choice projects for myself, often with an assistant who does all the note taking and writing up. All I need to do is read the final report and nod my approval, then rewrite bits of it to go in the history book, which is coming along nicely. It’s going to be a big book once it has all the photographs and diagrams in it, but both I, and the publishers Laura has introduced me to, like how it’s progressing.

Sudan’s border renegotiation goes well once everyone decides to trust everyone else. The don’t much like the idea of therapy to resolve their differences, but the reason for the shared hatred is centuries old, so I hold out for it as a condition of the changes, and there are too many benefits to let the talks founder on that one condition. In all likelihood it will take another generation or two with guidance to make sure the parents’ prejudices are not passed down to the children, but there’s a chance that the fences will be well enough mended that they won’t be needed at all. I don’t expect to live to see that achieved, but I am involved in negotiating the formation of two equally well off autonomous states, each happy enough to govern itself without dissenters, and each prepared to share a border with an old enemy without there being any risk of fighting between them, and that’s enough for me.

Once we have proof of concept with Sudan, we’re invited to do the same for Chad, Niger, Mali and Mauritania.

Mauritania has a coast which means a supply of fresh water from solar desalination plants to feed the algae farms. The other countries are more of a challenge, but provide ideal locations for solar forges. The first ones are put to good use incinerating worldwide industry’s dangerous waste. Then someone has the bright idea of using them to manufacture glass. Not only is there an abundant provision of the intense heat needed, but the surrounding desert supplies most of raw materials.

There are other jobs the world needs doing that don’t need raw materials, but rather bright young minds, and both northern and southern tribes have individuals eager for the education offered and are very capable of providing services much of the rest of the world needs.

These negotiations take up a lot of my time, but I have a team of experts who are able to operate without my input for weeks at a time, so whenever there is a crisis that needs International Rescue, I can take the time to ensure it’s dealt with.

We don’t operate out of a single billionaire’s private island, but have resource centre scattered all over the world. Ground effect cargo transports – not dissimilar in appearance to thunderbird two – deliver the required machinery and personnel within a few hours, and with a top speed of Mach five at sixty thousand feet, I can be anywhere on Earth in four hours.

Well theoretically. I can’t carry enough fuel to do the whole lot in one flight, but I have been known to use a sky tanker or two, adding half an hour each time I have to refuel.

I try not to burn any more fuel than I need, though. The distant crises are generally handled by one of my teams, and I only step in when they need a creative solution and can’t come up with one themselves.

That’s when the job is really fun.

I’m now flying a mark three Archangel. The nacelles are now permanent without limiting the top speed. The variable wing gets better with every software update. Since the wing can take on so many different shapes, all that’s needed is to test different shapes in different conditions until you know what’s best. The nacelles carry an array of sensors that help massively in surveying disaster sites, and with the improvements in the wing, I can land and take off on less than a thousand feet of runway. Mark four promises vectored thrust and the likelihood of vertical takeoff and landing. I can’t wait to play with that.

Landing on Cloudbase is still something of a challenge, but less than it used to be.

I get to do that a lot. With the amount of travel I do these days, I can usually plan my itinerary to put me within an hour’s flight of Cloudbase every few days. That is Cloudbase One since the second one is nearing completion and following the same path half a world away.

“Cloudbase, this is Thunderbird One, twenty miles out, inbound from the west.”

“Hey Chris, great to have you back. You’re cleared on zero niner south.”

“Zero niner south, confirmed.” I can’t remember the last time they sent me to the north rail.

They tried a few variations on the name. Scarlett didn’t stick after I changed my call sign. The tried Penelope, Tracy and just plain Lady, but none of them sounded quite right, so now I’m just Chris. I don’t mind, really I don’t.

Surya is waiting at the airlock when I step through. It’s been over a week since I was last on the station, and I’ve missed her too, so I’m as glad to see her as she is to see me. We exchange greetings long enough to illicit a response from a passing grease monkey.

“Get a room,” he says without any originality.

“We already have one,” I tell him.

“So, use it already, and stop blocking up the corridor.”

Not the greatest sense of humour, so not someone who’s day I can hope to improve. I propel my better half down the corridor ahead of me.

“So how was Papua New Guinea?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Hot, sweaty and filthy. We managed to rescue about a hundred, but I doubt we’ll learn how many we couldn’t help.”

International Rescue had been called to help with a landslide. It sounds less serious than it is though. A lot of the country consists of steep valleys with villages built precariously on the slopes. They’d experienced heavier rain than usual, but even they’d been surprise when one of the steeper slope collapsed, taking three villages with it.

Quite a few people escaped, but the hillside had been transformed into a slurry of sticky mud. Wading through it had been next best thing to impossible. First attenders had tried to reach pockets of trapped villagers with the GEVs, but the thrust from their engines had threatened to start the mud sliding again. The second attempt had used the GEVs to land rescuers on the ridge and for them to rappel down to the victims. This worked well enough for those who were clear of the mud, but we almost lost a couple of rescuers when they tried to descend through a sticky patch. That was about when I turned up.

I put Thunderbird One down on a short airstrip and noticed several old helicopters under tarpaulins. I asked if they were airworthy and was told probably yes, but there hadn’t been fuel for them for years.

I called in a favour or two with a nearby algae plant and requested a tanker full of whatever they could make that would burn like avgas. While we were waiting for it to arrive, I had a couple of the local retired mechanics give as many of the birds a once over, including a change of fluids and filters. One of the retirees had been a helicopter pilot and gave me and a couple of the GEV pilots a crash course in how to fly. This included a few combined test flight and check ride flights once we had fuel on board.

We flew through the daylight hours , running rescuers right up to the scree slope, balancing a skid on any handy rock we could find and hovering with rotors spinning inches from the hillside. We pulled dozens of people out of mud too thick for them to escape. We also pulled out dozens of bodies. People who’d not managed to keep their heads out of the mud, who’d drowned in thick, cloying clay.

Given our inexperience with the aircraft, we were lucky not to have had an accident or two, but we were all used to craft that needed precision flying, and once we found the knack with the old helos, we worked out how to fly them close to their limits without risk.

We’d kept at it for days, until all we were pulling off the hillside were bodies, at which point the risk became more than the reward. We stayed one more night and joined the villagers in mourning their dead. Cloudbase had passed overhead a day earlier, so I left the crew to clean up, made a suggestion about keeping some of the helicopters airworthy with a supply of fuel and an old pilot or two handy, then headed for home.

I don’t tell Surya many of the details, just enough of the statistics to win her sympathy. We stop by Laura’s office where I give her what mail is addressed to her. She looks at me as if to say I really don’t have to. The mailbag had found its way to me, so there was no reason to leave it behind.

Mary takes one look at my face and her eager expectation turns to concern.

“I’m just tired,” I tell her and apologise for not bringing her anything this time.

The rest of the mail goes into the pigeon holes before I let Surya drag me back to our place where I fall asleep before she has a chance to make me a cup of coffee. Knowing her, she won’t have let it go to waste.

I wake to the smell of her cooking and pour us a couple of glasses of wine before hugging her from behind.

“There would have been a lot more dead without us,” I say, “but it’s still hard having dug out all those bodies, having shared the grief of those who lost family and friends.”

“What can you do to make sure it doesn’t happen again?”

I shrug. “Round up all the villagers who live in hillsides like that and relocate them to farms in the flatland. Only you don’t do that, do you?

“I don’t know. We could look at sensors that will give out an alert when the soil cohesion drops below a certain level, or when the mud starts to slip just a bit. Try and educate the people and show them the benefits of living on flatter land. Discussion topic for the next Spectrum think tank. Or we could just accept that people choose to live like that, and embrace the danger.”

She gives me a worried look and starts serving up dinner. The food warms me and restores me more than a little.

I apologise and thank her for looking after me. We head to bed early and lay in each other’s arms. It’s my first time in girl clothes in a week, and simply letting my girl out again is restorative.

Laura will insist on a couple of days off and I’ll take them gladly, unless we have another crisis. I owe my publisher a couple of chapters and it’ll be good to focus on something different for a few days.

We also have the wedding to plan. I like the idea of a beach wedding and Surya’s coming round to seeing it from my point of view. Her mum won’t be too happy with it not being a traditional Indian affair, but she can have that if her daughter ever settles down with a nice Indian boy.

Actually, we’re probably going to have to accept several ceremonies. We could never ferry all our friends on Cloudbase down to the surface and back, so we’re going to have to have at least one do up here, probably in hydroponics since that’s the only place we’ll be able to fit everyone. Then if we’re doing that, we might as well give Chanda her Indian wedding and my mum and dad their church do in cold, wet England. After all that though, I want the one we remember to be on a beach in the Maldives, or maybe that island where I ended up after jumping off the base.

Not something to think about right now. All I want in this moment is the comfort and love of the person laying beside me.

And that’s where my story winds up. I mean I’ve probably dragged it out longer than I should have, but then stories never really end, do they?

A story is just a piece of thread in the tapestry of life. Pick a point along its length and call it ‘once upon a time.’ Follow it as it weaves past a whole host of other threads, contributing to the overall pattern until the events of the story draw to a conclusion. Here’s where you can insert, ‘and they lived happily ever after,’ if you like, but that’s not very realistic.

Stories never end. They come to a pause. Maybe there’s a change of characters, but in time there will be new adventures. The only way the story might end would be if there were no more of us to live it, or to tell it. We came close to that, and maybe this story is mostly about how we’re climbing back out of the darkness that nearly consumed us.

Maybe the best way to end a story like this is with, ‘and they lived happily together until the next adventure.’ Then we can look forward to what comes next.

Charlotte

April 14, 2026 at 11:30 am

“Angel one” could confused air traffic control; it could indicate an altitude of one thousand feet.

Maeryn
April 14, 2026 at 12:08 pm

Potentially true, though I believe it’s a purely military term used by the RAF. I flew small planes professionally for several years and I never came across altitude angel until you mentioned it. In this future, with little or no reason for the military and a drastic decrease in aviation, there’s unlikely to be any confusion, especially at 60,000 feet between Cloudbase and any of the Angel aircraft.

Jeff fellin

April 15, 2026 at 2:40 am

Excellent story., enough geeky moments for us geeks/needs. Couldn’t stop. Looking towards to a sequel/prequel ( in star wars style)

Emma Tate

April 16, 2026 at 4:07 am

Lots to both unpack and enjoy in this story!

The narration has a Heinlein feel to me. The wry asides, perhaps? Or maybe the wonderfully geeky elements, coupled with philosophical musings? I didn’t get all of the SciFi serial references, but I do remember Thunderbirds. It made quite an impression on me as a child, though I watched an episode decades later as an adult and found that my memories were better. 🙂

The flying felt very realistic; it’s clear that came from experience. Lots of good characters, and Chris is enough of a paragon to make the perfect ambassador. For science, for trans folks. Maybe for humanity.

Anonymous

April 17, 2026 at 8:17 am

Something For Everybody

I loved the science, I loved the Science Fiction and most of all I loved your protagonists. I’m not so much a Heinleinian. I was reminded of a story by Poul Anderson (the title is lost in my dim memory) where a giant balloon is tethered above Tours in France at an altitude of 200,000 feet and controls a territory stretching from southern England to the Pyrenees. There is no other resemblance to your story. It’s just me.

I have a vision in my mind of Cloudbase with its giant balloons tethered two miles above, floating around the planet with Angels with arrester-hooks landing on it like a huge aircraft-carrier. I am old enough to remember Thunderbirds, one of my favourite TV shows. There was a terrible joke where Parker was ferrying Lady Penelope to the airport and the Roller broke down. He starts to fix it and Lady P asks “do you want a screwdriver?” Parker replies; “not now, Madam, maybe after I’ve got the car going.”

Strangely enough I worked in PNG and there were a couple of deadly mudslides while I was there, although I had nothing to do with rescue operations, but we did build some roads through very unstable country.

I find the science in the Cloudbase scenario very convincing with a little bit of extrapolation for future developments. I would hope that the political situation will permit such a station to exist, or an equivalent repair facility for the damage we have done to the planet.

Then there are your main characters. Chris does a fantastic job representing transgenderism to the earthbound as well as being a hero. I picture him/her as a TG Pete Buttigieg who does such a good job presenting a human face to our condition in the present day. Chris is also a vulnerable human being coping with the vagaries of life.

Surya is the woman we would all want to find to be the love of our life who would accommodate our non-binary side with no conditions. It’s a pity that she is not real.

I think you can see that I thought this story was awesome. Thanks, Maeryn!

Future Perfect

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