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For disclaimers, please see chapter one.
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8: 29 July – 4 August, 2001
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Sunday, July 29, 2390:
Luna, Port Oldridge, Public library reading room: 10:39
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Cassidy looked up at the knock on the door to the private reading room. A red-skinned Korugarian slave girl stood there, clutching a stack of book cards and a tablet to her breast. With a smile, Cassidy waved her in.
"May I join you, Mistress? The other rooms are full."
"Start of night time? Not surprising, and I'm Cassidy, not 'Mistress'," she replied as the slave set down her tablet computer. "I didn't know there were slaves here. I thought it was illegal in this system."
Neatly arranging the library's data cards on the table, the girl smoothed her white smock as she sat down, "Most of them are boarded by the Portmaster's office while their owners conduct business. They do things like work in the office, load and unload ships, but I'm a special case." She smiled briefly, "I was chained outside the docking slip, abandoned here with a tube of Spice tied to my neck while my master escaped, so I'm in a legal ... what do you call it?"
Cassidy snorted, "A legal mess, I'd call it, and you speak our language well. Why did your master abandon you?"
"Thank you, Mistress. From what the Portmaster says, he was to be arrested for possession and sale of Spice. Since he would have been spaced," she shrugged, the alternating green and yellow lights of a judicial enslavement on her collar. "I have to assume he thought it better to abandon me with a bit of Spice, he could then blame it all on me, and I'd be the one spaced."
"Except you haven't been," Cassidy observed, resting her chin on her intertwined fingers. "Why not?"
The girl shrugged, her reddish skin contrasting with the white linen smock, "From what I understand, the captain is responsible for his crew's actions, so he's liable for both the damage to the dock when he escaped and the Spice tied to my neck." She pulled her seat closer to the table, and then fluffed her short dark collar length hair, "He chained me in the access tube, thinking I'd be killed when he pulled away and the tube decompressed. He didn't know about a pressure seal. The healer took my statement under a truth drug, and the Portmaster's office filed charges with the sector court."
She looked at the battered old table, rearranging the book cards in their colorful sleeves on them, "The Portmaster filed a claim on me as abandoned property, my former master still has eight months to return and claim me." She looked at Cassidy, her eyes bright, "I don't think he will. It would mean spacing for him, a slave isn't worth that. So while I wait for him to return and claim me, I work for the Portmaster's office, and my earnings go into an escrow account. The Portmaster suggested that I use them for my Guild examinations, since I'm not billed while I'm living in slave quarters." She grinned, "My Master is."
Cassidy looked at her, "Then what happens after eight months? Are you free? Why were you enslaved?"
"I was collared by a religious court for heresy, Mistress," the girl sighed. "I asked questions, questions as to why we worshiped the Great Green God (she flipped her hands twice before cupping them palm down) Tomar-Re. After all, he was just another alien, but the colony elders didn't like my asking questions like that. A quick trial, and now I'm here in a system full of aliens." She looked sideways at Cassidy, "No offense, Mistress, but you have some very strange customs."
With a snort, Cassidy agreed, "Every planet has strange customs. What's one of ours?"
"Clothing, Mistress," she said instantly, gesturing to her smock. "On every other planet I've seen, it is only worn for protection, which one dons at the workplace or for bad weather. However, on this planet (she gestured out the windows, across the lunar landscape at Earth), you wear clothing all the time! The females wear more than the males do, even in the hottest weather! Even slaves like I must wear a smock, their collars and belts are not enough! It makes no sense!"
Cassidy chuckled, "No, it doesn't. Still, it's the custom, like the sprayers on Kostis? Everyone must have one, and spray the air between them while they talk."
The girl chuckled, "Very true, Mistress. I spent those visits locked into a gag, even aboard ship, as Master didn't want to spend the few grams to buy me a sprayer. I had to write notes in Trade on a board to communicate."
"Some owners can be overly frugal, can't they?" Cassidy said. "I remember my..."
"Your..." the girl asked. She gazed at Cassidy, "You wore a collar, Mistress?"
"Yes, I did," she admitted. She touched the back of her neck, "I still have a mark where my collar linked to my spinal cord. She didn't want to own me, but we were forced by circumstance to play Mistress and slave in public. In private," she shrugged again, "we were partners. She needed my knowledge, I needed her protection." She sighed, changing the subject. "What are your plans?"
"I don't know, Mistress," she sighed. "If Master returns for me, which I doubt, I'll be his slave again. Otherwise, I'll see if I can sell myself to a ship that uses slaves for crew."
"What about your freedom?"
"Mistress, I can't be freed." She touched her collar, "I was enslaved by a court, only a court could free me, and that's not likely. Besides, in order to change my status to a common slave, which could be freed, the court would need my controller chip, and I don't know where that is." She gestured at her waist, "My belt can't even be unlocked without a token that's authorized by my chip." She smiled sadly, "Thank you for your concern, Mistress, but I'll be a slave for the rest of my life."
Cassidy gazed at the girl, finally asking, "Would you like to be free?"
"Of course, although I wonder what I'd do. It's bad luck to mix a slave and free crew, so I'll find a master to sell myself to." She sighed.
"Y'know, you farking aliens give up too damn easy," Cassidy said casually. The girl's eyes snapped to her as she touched her phone, "Portmaster's office, Alfred Pennyworth, please." She grinned, "Hello, Alfred, it's Cassidy."
The view screen set in a wall lit, the image of an immaculately groomed older man on it. "Hello, Miss Yates, Miss Wrench. What can I do for you?"
"You can help me figure out a way to get this farking collar off her neck, old friend."
"What I, as the Portmaster, can do for the moment, I have. The claim period still has another seven point six months to go, in which I am obligated by law to hand over Miss Wrench to her owner, should he reappear. I calculate a one point three percent chance that will occur, the damage and interest her master owed the Port exceeded her market value after three weeks. This does not take into account the criminal charges he faces." He paused, "I recall your assistance in my own manumission, Miss Yates. However, as Portmaster, while I have some legal jurisdiction over her, it does not encompass the manumission of sentient beings, as reflected in the treaty of 2113 that established the legal basis for lunar government. I have studied it most assiduously, and I have consulted with outside legal firms. It is rife with unnecessary verbiage, in an unforeseen loophole, I may sell her to the highest bidder under certain circumstances, one of which is abandonment of property. I have tentatively listed her as an item for bid in the Portmaster's auction to be held in nine months."
"Why don't I bid for her?"
"You do not have the required minimum in your account."
"Fark."
"However, Alfred Pennyworth does." Cassidy's eyes snapped to the view screen, as Alfred said, "If you are willing, I will back you in your bid. However, a Terran citizen may not legally own a slave. There are two options here. One, a member of the Solar Guard may own one in the performance of their duties, not to exceed thirty days. This would give you title, but not manumit her. Two, you might ... escape the Port master's jurisdiction with title to her, fly to another planet, say Hipposae four..."
"Which happens to be this sector's headquarters..."
"By coincidence, yes. It is also a planet in which the crime of heresy does not exist. You then file a motion to invalidate her judicial enslavement, reducing it to simple enslavement. Her collar would then be reset as a common slave. However, you would need to show productive employment for the next year as part of your application for her manumission. I would suggest you find work as insystem cargo carriers, their economy is growing rapidly. Your new engines will help to offset the age of your ... ship."
"I can't afford new engines, I was going to retune them..."
"If you will allow me to invest in your venture, Captain?" Cassidy nodded dumbly, as Wrench sat, open mouthed in shock. "Very well, I have placed an order for new Tanaka GS400 engines and their associated power sources. They will be placed in storage at Port Oldridge until they can be installed. Plans are now proceeding apace, shouldn't the two of you be studying?"
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Monday, July 30, 2001:
London, 105 Charing Cross Road, Arrowhead lobby: 08:27
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Elizabeth Sterling took a deep breath, checking her appearance in the wall's polished metal while another girl preened a meter away. Picking up her briefcase, she approached the security guard, giving him a brief smile, "Hello, I'm Ms. Sterling, I have an interview with Ms. Bundy?"
The guard gave her a brief smile as he glanced at his computer, "So you do, luv. 'Alf a tic, please," he said as he jotted a number in a log book, then passed her a numbered pass on a lanyard. "You've number 47, please sign in, return that to me when you're finished." He sipped takeaway tea from a paper cup as she did so. "That will get y' in the building, the tag is good for certain doors and the loo. Mrs. Simmons will be down in a tic ... 'Ere she is. Good luck, luv."
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Mrs. Simmons, a pleasant but professional older lady in a neat cream linen skirted suit, ushered her into a small meeting room on the third floor. "I do hope you weren't waiting long," she said, as Elizabeth took a seat, smoothing her skirt.
"Not at all," she said politely, wondering why Peter, one of Ash's network guys was there, instead of Anne Bundy, a fellow programmer. He gave her a quick grin and a wink as he adjusted an out-of-date tie, while Mrs. Simmons was reviewing her file.
"Now then, Ms. Sterling, what can you offer Arrowhead?"
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"A bloody disaster," Elizabeth said softly to herself in the nearest pub.
"Bad interview?" the publican asked as he wiped down the bar, adding, "We get a great lot of th' Arrowhead blokes in here for lunch, we're their local. Another?"
"Please," she said, fishing out coins. She watched the Beeb for a while, when someone asked, "This seat taken?"
"Ash! Why weren't you there? I blew the interview!" Elizabeth moaned.
"Not from where I sat," Peter said from her other side. "I voted for you, but I'm not a programmer, the closest I come is shell scripts. If you had blown it, it wouldn't have gone on as long as it did. There's a booth open, ladies," he added.
Ash snorted as she said, "Shell scripts indeed. He tops out in C, but you were way past him with ADA and Assembly. Mrs. Simmons was way out of her depth. She knew it, but you know the Personnel types never give anything away." She waved at the barkeep to signal another round, adding, "The fish here is excellent for pub grub."
"As far as why Ash wasn't there, she lives with you, and Anne's in class Monday through Thursday," Peter said. "My shout for lunch, I need to make up for boring you for three hours."
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Monday, July 30, 2001:
London, 105 Charing Cross Road, Arrowhead Personnel: 14:40
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"Mrs. Simmons, why did you mark Ms. Sterling's application as 'Do Not Hire'?" Karen asked from the office doorway.
The older woman sniffed, "Isn't it obvious? She went from an excellent position with the City of London to waiting tables. There has to be something wrong with her, I couldn't understand one word in twenty she said."
"Yet she's a native of London, so it isn't a language difficulty," Karen said softly, adding, "This is a specialist position, that's why Peter was there, and he signed off on her." She gazed at the older woman, "I hired you upon the recommendation of a professor, Mrs. Simmons. I am fully aware that I am, as you have so indecorously called me, 'a mere child', and that I do not have your breadth of experience in Personnel. I am also aware that you possess a minor title, and mention in Brook's. Perhaps you are unaware that my family has kept the same house in London, which is on the National Trust, since the tenth century. Perhaps you should consider why."
She gazed at the older woman, finally adding, "Please call Ms. Sterling's mobile, and set up a second interview with Anne, Peter and myself for Friday, Mrs. Simmons."
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Tuesday, July 31, 2001:
Columbus, Ohio, David Smith Investments LLC: 13:32 (GMT -5)
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"When you came to me with this plan, I thought you and your husband were nuts," Jocelyn Lester said from behind her desktop computer. "You'd never done anything with metals or options and tungsten was a weird place to start." 'Helluva gamble for two normally conservative investors,' she added internally.
"But it seems to have worked, hasn't it?" Maggie Morton asked.
"I will freely admit that it has, Maggie. I haven't seen growth like this in anything recently except Arrowhead Investments in London." Jocelyn paused for a moment, but her clients didn't speak. "Well, let's get this done."
Click.
"I just sold all but two tons worth of the tungsten futures held in your joint private account."
Click.
"Those were the futures held by your retirement account."
Click.
"Your husband's retirement account."
Click. Click.
"That repays the loans you took from your retirement accounts to partially fund your joint account purchase, and your mortgage."
Click. Click. Click.
"Now we've reinvested 25 of the proceeds from those three sales into new options that expire at the end of October. I'll tell you right now, if the price of tungsten doesn't keep going up, you could lose a lot of money." Her client said nothing.
Click.
"And finally, we've exercised the option on those last two tons. You have three business days to make arrangements to get it shipped from Port of Miami to wherever."
"My brother-in-law's place in Newark. We just don't have that much storage space at home."
'Why do you need the actual metal?' Jocelyn asked herself as the computer calculated the sizable commission she'd just earned. "Capital gains is going to take a nice chunk out of it, but I still have to say 'Congratulations'. For the moment anyway, you and your husband are millionaires."
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Wednesday, August 1, 2001:
London, Zabini Apothecary: 08:12
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Mattie concentrated, stirring her cauldron anti-clockwise twice a minute, no more, no less. The potion slowly clarified, becoming a rich teal color and smelling of cinnamon. With her left hand, she slowly dropped the ground bay leaves in, waiting for the sparks and smoke to dissipate. Removing the stirring rod, she stepped back as Hermione said, "That's right. Let it simmer for two minutes, now, and rinse off your stir rod."
"When does it turn pink?" she asked from the sink.
"After the next step."
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Thursday, August 2, 2001:
London, Arrowhead's loading dock: 11:22
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"Sign here, mate."
"I'm missing one," Paul objected, adding "I want to look at that one," gesturing at one crate with splintered wood. The trucker shrugged, and fetched a pry bar from his truck.
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Friday, August 3, 2001:
London, Earls Court Exhibition Centre, Arrowhead exhibit: 10:35
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Anne walked past with a hand cart loaded with boxes of application forms and business cards, as Karen and Mattie unrolled the antigravity mat, a stack of carpet strips lying nearby, next to the folding tables the Centre provided. Karen stood, stretching, her hands on her lower back, saying, "We need to add extension strips to our kit for these shows, there's only one power point, and the adapters won't reach."
Mattie dusted off her jeans, "Why don't you pick some up, while Anne and I set up the displays? I think we can borrow someone to help with the big ones," gesturing at the other people setting up their company displays.
"Something to eat woulds't be appreciated," Anne said, as she walked past.
"How can she eat like a horse and still maintain her figure?" Karen wondered.
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Friday, August 3, 2001:
London, Earls Court Exhibition Centre, Arrowhead exhibit : 11:26
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"Set it to seventeen percent," Karen said. "That's close enough to lunar gravity." Mattie nodded, keying it into the controller, then hiding it among their various boxes and bags as Karen proceeded down her checklist. "Warning signs for the gravity," she said, looking around. "Buckets for the nauseous," duly ticked off.
"I do confess to nervousness," Anne admitted, dressed in a new Chinese skinsuit. "I am not accustomed to great numbers of people. The most I have seen before was at a joust."
"I'm just as much on stage as you are," Mattie agreed, dressed in a skirted suit. She nervously shuffled the stack of business cards in her pocket, then slapped her forehead, "Water! We're going to be talking for the next six hours, we'll need something to drink."
"Good'un," Karen said, adding 'Cooler of ice water' to the checklist, as Anne said, "I shall fetch us each a bottle from the merchant." Her sister passed Anne a ten pound note, and she left as Mr. Thompson arrived, dressed in a conservative suit.
"Ms. Nicheyev will be arriving shortly," he informed them.
Karen looked up, "Did she change? She was wearing her usual leather this morning."
"She was wearing a nice skirted suit, the last I saw of her," he said gruffly.
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Friday, August 3, 2001:
London, Earls Court Exhibition Centre, employment exhibition: 12:07
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Shernette looked around, but Arrowhead's space was crowded by people gazing at the different models, and just enjoying the light gravity. She sighed, and was about to give up, when someone asked, "Excuse me, what's that material?" She looked around, then down to see someone wearing a skirted suit, with long black hair in a ponytail. Replying with a touch of pride, "It's bamboo, I made it myself."
"Interesting. May I?" Shernette nodded, and the girl felt the caftan, "It feels like silk. How did you make it?"
"People think bamboo's a wood, but it's not, it's a grass, and it has fibers that can be separated out, and spun into clothing. It's a beautiful, natural renewable resource, you can grow a twenty meter stalk of Moso in six weeks, and it's completely biodegradable and antibacterial."
"Anything special about washing it?" Shernette shook her head, "Machine washable."
"What's the downside to it?"
"It's a lot of labor to separate the fibers, and spin them into thread and cloth. This was my thesis project, this outfit, and it took me months to make. Machinery could do it quicker, but..." Shernette shrugged, "That costs a lot of money, to hire the engineers, prototyping, building the plant." She hugged her papers, "I thought I could get on with one of the fashion houses that are here, but they're not hiring, and I thought I'd come here, just to look, before I went home and changed to go to work." Sighing, she asked, "What about you, are you hoping to get on here?"
"I'm hiring people," the other girl replied, and Shernette snapped around, finally recognizing the white marks in the dark hair. "You're Wayne," she whispered.
"Yes, and I'd like to thank you, you pointed out a problem to me. People are going to want something to wear besides their skinsuits." She looked up at the taller girl, "Interested in solving the problem?"
"How..."
"Design, manufacture, marketing, distribution and recycling of clothing and accessories for men and women made of lunar materials. Not the stuff that you see on the catwalks that nobody buys, but the regular, everyday stuff, the kind you throw in the wash every week. I don't want to ship hand towels from Earth, and let's not forget solar panels and packaging like cargo nets and burlap bags." She looked up at the taller, model-thin girl. "Think you're up to the challenge?"
"I don't have anywhere near the money it would take... And I don't know how..."
"Money is a tool, just like your brain," Miss Wayne said dismissively. She looked up at the girl, and took pity, "As far as how, take a look at what would be required by a company, and what can you sell them to solve a problem. You have to keep in mind that they need to keep their costs low, but you still need to make a profit on that item. Now, you wouldn't produce steel cylinders for shipping gases like oxygen, but why can't you make a cargo net to secure those cylinders in the hold? We're not doing huge quantities of things right now, but we do need as much as possible to be recyclable. Now, If you're interested in that challenge, put together a company, and my venture capital firm will investigate it. We'll need to see a business plan, some prototype machinery, designs, and so forth." She grinned at the tall, exotically beautiful girl, "Don't tell me you haven't daydreamed about it."
Shernette blushed, "Of course, I even have a name for the company." At the inquiring look, she stammered, "Tallgrass, Ltd."
"Then put Tallgrass together, spend a couple hundred quid in doing so legally, and sit down with an accountant and your mates to work out the problems and solutions. Technical information for planning and materials are available on our web site," Miss Wayne said, a business card appearing in her hand. "Let me have your CV, I'll get together with you later."
Dazed, Shernette passed over a copy as she vanished into the crowd. Shaking herself, she looked at the card, reading 'Ms. H.M. Wayne, CEO, Arrowhead Investments.'
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"Charlie!" someone called, and he turned to see Mattie. "What are you doing, I thought you were good with Greywolf?"
"Thought I'd see what it was about, and I wanted to feel the gravity," he added.
"Great!" she said. "Will I see you tonight?" He nodded, and she said, "Bring your laptop, we'll talk about some things." She saw Karen Bundy coming toward her with a news crew, and she said, "Another interview. Tonight, then?"
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Friday, August 3, 2001:
Hogwarts, Werewolf cells: 16:43
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The door boomed shut behind Professor Snape, and Mattie shoved her potion notes aside, as Charlie Adams walked back to join her. "They're sleeping, now," he said. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Just to catch up, we haven't really had a chance to talk," she confessed. "I've been so busy with Arrowhead, and school, I really wanted to thank you for taking care of Sprink while I was... unavailable last year." She turned on the wooden bench, still dressed in her business suit, "What's been going on with you two?"
"Ah, only if I can discuss you and Arthur," he said, wagging his finger. "I presume that you're going to the Halloween ball together?"
"I thought so, but he hasn't asked me yet," she said quietly. "What if he asks someone else, like one of the twins? I mean, I know I have a..."
"Strong personality? You're forceful?" he asked. "You're no shrinking violet, and you think it turns him off?" She nodded morosely. "Bollocks," he said. "For one thing, if it wasn't meant to be, you two would have broken up by now." He leaned forward on the wooden table, "Between you and I, he wonders what he can bring to the relationship. You have money, power, fame, and he's just an ordinary, middle class bloke. The princess and the pauper, so to speak. Why didn't you hook up with Harry Spencer in Gryffindor, for instance? You're the same class."
"Harry's a nice guy, a bit reckless to my mind, but there's no chemistry there," she replied. "Believe it or not, you get tired of being on stage all the time, it's draining. I can relax, rest, and Arthur and his family keep me grounded, keep me focused on that middle class bloke. With a lot of people, when they suddenly get a great influx of cash, they go a bit wild, buying a Porsche. Arthur's not that type, he's the kind to stick with his old, reliable Ford." She grinned, "He may get the air conditioning fixed on it, though." She tapped on the table with her pen, "He's like... a comfortable pair of shoes. I can wear heels all day, which I don't recommend in lower gravity (she grinned), but my feet are going to kill me at night. Arthur's like... going barefoot, or wearing a pair of trainers."
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Friday, August 3, 2001:
London, Crown & Gander pub: 17:23
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"What's wrong, luv? You're not all there," Ernie, one of pub's regulars asked. "Not that I'm complaining, mind, but you've pulled me three pints, an' I don't drink ales."
"Oh! Sorry," Shernette apologized, pulling a proper stout for him. She looked around the pub to see if she was needed, checking the mirrors, then leaning on the dark wood of the bar. "I went over to the job show at Earls Court," she confided. "I hoped to get a job with a fashion house, but none were hiring. I wore the dress I made, but the only reaction I got to it was from someone who admired the material. I got her card, though." She fished it out, passing it over.
"Gor..." Ernie said, examining it, then passing it back. "Y' met a bloody billionaire. How was she?"
"Small, and looks ever so young, like you saw on the telly the other day from New York," she replied. "Driven, and passionate. She said she had a problem, and invited me to solve it for her, and that's what's been on my mind."
"Aside from spending her dosh, what problem would she have?"
"Cloth, and clothing, and other kit, like burlap and cargo nets," she said. "I bumped into her in the loo before I left, she said briefly that they can't use cling film on cargo, it's a disposal problem. That's why she suggested rope cargo nets and burlap bags."
"I remember those from the Great War against the Jerries, when I worked the docks," Phil, an old-timer said. He blinked, asking, "What are you going to do, then, girl?"
"Figure a way to make them, and clothing, and other kit, on the moon," Shernette replied.
"Good!" Phil said. "You write down the steps involved, I'll get my grandson out of his fancy City law office to help," he said as he took an ale and drank deep.
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Saturday, August 4, 2001:
London, Earls Court Exhibition Centre, Ladies' lounge: 07:32
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"Is this seat taken?" someone asked, and Elaine looked up to see a young girl with a cardboard box and long black hair in a messy ponytail standing there. "I need to change for the show," she added, and Elaine gestured.
"Thanks," she said, and Elaine heard an American accent as she put her foot up and started to unlace her trainers. With a grunt, she sat, pulling them off and putting them next to her box, then standing to pull down her rather tight jeans, which she folded neatly and shoved in a plastic bag. Socks were stuffed into shoes, and added to the bag, her green polo shirt followed, and then she stood there in bra and knickers. A white rubber... 'No, not rubber...' Elaine thought, asking, "What is that, and what's it made of?"
She fished out a tube of wet-wipes, skinning off her bra and knickers as she replied, "It's a custom-fitted suit, a spacesuit." She passed it over as she gave herself a quick sponge bath, adding, "It's considerably different from the NASA ones, or even galactic tech. That's a prototype from Taiwan, I really couldn't tell you how they made it. Some sort of vapor deposition, I think." She accepted it back, sitting down to work her toes into the feet, then pulling the suit up like a pair of tights. When it was part way up her thighs, she fished out a sterile package from the box, adding, "This part I don't like, but..." She opened the package, inserting three white plastic adapters, then connecting them inside the suit. Wiggling it up over her hips, she commented, "One of the design criteria was that it handle the monthly visits from Auntie. They must have some female designers, there's no under wires for support, either." She wiggled a bit, then worked her arms down the sleeves, clipping a device under the hem on each wrist. "Medical sensors, and glove connections," she added.
"What's the difference with, what did you call it? Galactic tech?" Elaine asked, fascinated.
"Galactic skinsuits have much greater endurance, up to two weeks, whereas this one is about twelve hours, primarily because of the rebreather. Theirs feel like a heavy woolen bodysuit, this is more of a diver's wetsuit, and we need to use a backpack, their oxygen storage is built into the fabric of the suit. It can also change color, we're stuck with white for now. Both suits only have one seam, so there's no pinhole leaks to worry about. Still, they've only been working on it for a few months, so I'm not complaining." She reached behind herself, pulling at a zipper up the back. "Well, I'm complaining about that, though."
"Allow me," Elaine said, adding, "It's like a zipper on a food storage bag." She added, "Like the zipper on a sheath dress, dear, use a paperclip on a string to pull on."
"I think that's where they got the idea," was the reply as she dug into the cardboard box. She settled a rubber apron connected to a blue plastic backpack around her shoulders, two straps being velcro'd under her armpits. "I'll add the string to the list. Now I've got an airtight seal with the helmet, but there's a design glitch. Whoever designed this wanted the bottom hoses connected first, but they must have been a limbo dancer, because I can't reach into the shoulder harness if I do. Would you be so kind? They're color coded."
"Certainly," Elaine said. She crouched, then asked, "Would you bend forward? They're just a bit shy of fitting. A bit more, please." She braced herself, screwing the connectors on. "Those could be an inch or two longer. All done."
The girl's eyes crossed as she straightened up, "Thank you. That kind of... forces them in a bit more." She connected another strap around her waist, then offered her hand with a grin, "Since you've assisted me with my toilette, it's only proper that I should introduce myself. Mattie Wayne, of Arrowhead."
"Elaine Chao, unemployed secretary," she said as she shook hands. She giggled, "Perhaps you should promote the phrase 'Suit up with a friend.'"
"Not a bad idea," Miss Wayne said, sitting again to pull on her boots. She checked to make certain she had all her kit, then motioned, "If you're interested, I'll introduce you to my Personnel director."