She tried to ignore it. She was so tired—she just wanted to sleep a bit longer. The persistent whine refused to go away. With a sigh, she forced her eyes open. The alarm wailed in the long-short-short pattern that meant emergency. The mess hall was mostly dark, but a red beacon flashed in the corner. Christine sniffed the air. It smelt stale and she thought she detected a hint of smoke. She swung herself off of the table, noting that every muscle ached. The room was empty. Where were Alyn and Zed? “Report ship’s status,” she called, loud enough to be heard above the alarm. There was no answer. Then she remembered. She’d switched off the computer’s voice functions. She clambered up to the bridge. There was no sign of her lovers. The viewport was still open, offering an unchanging view of star-strewn space. Heedless of her nakedness, Christine punched in the code to reactivate the ship’s communication capabilities. “Report ship’s status,” she demanded, her voice shrill with anxiety.
