Seated at the back of the packed and claustrophobic cabin of the Dominion ferry craft, she was not enjoying it. She unbuckled her safety belt, stretched herself upright, and peered over the headrest in front of her. The air was stale and fetid; someone near her had been sick. In the dull green light—was it meant to be soothing?—she could see that nothing was happening in the six lines of seats ahead. The rest of the delegates seemed to be doing exactly what those around her were; some were having whispered conversations, some were reading, and some were clearly praying. She detected an air of concern and resignation but nothing more. Remarkable, given that no one has the slightest idea what is in store for us. Is it a virtue or a vice that we are so passive? Surely, it is a vice. From the row ahead of her, she heard a man’s voice use the word hostage. No! I reject that word. Isabella remembered the advice of those early-twenty-first-century books on personal management that she had downloaded from the Library back in Ynysmant.
