Riding in a van II

"Hello and welcome aboard the *Praxis*' boat *Marjoram & Thistle*," says Roger. He is speaking into a brass tube and his voice is emerging from a brass cone inside the passenger compartment. The passenger compartment is made of wood, its seats padded with tufted cushions of homemade needlepoint. Seatbelts are leather and five-point harnesses are wide heavy cotton woven-web and the fasteners are brass buckles. "You know you always buckle up but I fucking mean it this time, *buckle up*. This afternoon we are privileged to take this spacecraft on her maiden voyage as a *Praxis*' boat. She's never left this system before, and I repeat, buckle the hell up, she doesn't have onboard gravity."

The pilot's compartment is fully isolated from the passengers, presumably because it's designed to keep workers in the front and nobles in the rear and all social classes sharply stratified. The way it's offset would be difficult to modify, too - the pilot sits higher up, and a window into the passenger compartment would be between his knees. Roger cannot hear the moment of silence his words invoke, nor the flurry of rustling and jingle of brass which follows.

There *is* a speaking-tube running from them to him, at least, just like the one he's using to address them. "What else doesn't she have?" asks J.

"Well," Roger says, and sucks in a breath like a realtor who doesn't want to admit that technically the house is 90% termites by volume and the basement has a minotaur, "for one thing, we're gonna have to hold our breaths for a while..."

He lets that sink in for a moment before he laughs it off. Then he says, "No, but really, eh, she's pressurized but we're gonna be on supplemental oxygen too just to be sure. When we were test-flying her people kept getting the giggles, we think she's not maintaining high enough O2 in the back. They probably did it on purpose to make the ride more fun, eh. I'm gonna drop your masks, let me know if it works."

Inside the passenger compartment, panels in the ceiling fold open and gilt-trimmed masks tumble out, dangling from thick braided hoses.

"The mask doesn't seal," J remarks to his fellow passengers.

"It's not supposed to," says Doctor Rodriguez. "It's not airline mix, we're just supplementing the cabin supply. Get a good seal and breathe it straight up and you'll get just as fucked up from *too much* oxygen. Annie, don't - "

Anachreon remembers, then, that Doctor Rodriguez is In Recovery and he shouldn't, himself, make jokes like purposefully attempting to seal the mask onto his face the way a kid would upon hearing that news.

"Why is it lemon-scented?" J removes his mask to examine it. "Did someone clean it with Pledge?"

Chad doesn't have an answer to that. Annie's the one who speaks into the tube this time: "Why is it lemon-scented?"

Roger has been waiting in the cockpit this whole time, wondering whether the mask-release mechanism even worked, given it was so unused when they finally found it that they had to grease the button to get it to move the first time. He can't sit up because he's firmly strapped in to his piloting seat, but the spirit is there. "It works! We made the O2 lemony so we'd be able to tell it's flowing..."

"Shit, that's actually clever," says Doctor Rodriguez.

"Alright, is everybody all tucked in and strapped down and lemoned up?" Roger asks.

"Yes, sir," says J.

"Don't call me sir, I work for a living," Roger says automatically as he flips switches. Lots of the big ones that take your whole hand. Some rope pulleys with tassels on the ends. The ship makes the *vreem*-y sort of background noise most minivan engines create but she also *ticks* once she's really going. "Emperor," he says not-into-the-speaking-tube, "Your Eyes upon us - Your servant Roger Konway, Your servants Anachreon Lupus and J and Chad Rodriguez of Your ship *Praxis*, in Your craft *Marjoram & Thistle*, we beg You to hold us in Your divine Hand. And may Your Grace protect, and may the spirits of this ship be blessed in Your Sight, Amen."

That is a prayer that a grandma out in a wind-bleached saltbox house on the Islands would speak. Roger prays like a granny when he has to come up with one ex tempora. Such are the forms familiar.

He pulls the tube back to his mouth. "Takeoff in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... We're go!"

She has an old-fashioned takeoff, a rumble and then a burst straight up. It's rather disconcerting when you're taking her up for in-atmosphere use, the way she darts up into the thin air before you can get her steering back and guide her down to a cruising altitude. It makes more sense when you're actually leaving. The G-forces aren't extreme but they're noticeable for the first little bit.

"It should take about five minutes to get out of the atmosphere. She *does* have thermal shielding," Roger says.

J interrupts him. "Don't say *but*."

" - but," says Roger, "it's going to get warm in here anyway. It's normal, it won't get *that* hot, you're just gonna freak out a little because you're used to any temperature change during exit and entry meaning the ship's about to explode. She's just old-fashioned is all; we're gonna be fine."

"Bless her heart, I trust her," says Annie reassuringly, having pulled their end of the speaking tube away from J. He's saying this for everyone's benefit, including the ship's.

continued here: riding in a van IIa