Acid Sky by Mark Anson Page B

time.’
    Clare groaned inwardly. The endless, repetitive exercises that they had to do to control bone loss and muscle wastage were universally loathed, but there was no substitute; not even twenty-second century medical science had found any safe and effective alternative. At least the gravity here on Venus was sufficiently high that the process was reversed just by standing up and walking about.
    Donahue made some more notes, and smiled.
    ‘Right. Just the fitness test now.’
     
     
    Clare ran round the corridors of the Langley , her footfalls echoing off the bare metal walls. Donahue had given her precise instructions on the route to follow: once round the upper deck living quarters, then out and round the side corridors, up and down the stairs in turn over four circuits, then back to the sick bay.
    Donahue had said that it was about a kilometre, but to Clare, it felt more like ten. Her head ached, and her heart had started pounding before she had even gone a hundred metres. How could she be so unfit?
    She started down the stairs on the port side, then when she reached the bottom, ran along to the next stairs, and up again. Along to the end, and down again. Her calf muscles were tight with pain. She reversed direction and ran back to the second stairs. Up, along, and down again, and now she just had to repeat the circuit three more times before she could head back to the sick bay …
    ‘Good effort, you’re only just over time,’ Donahue said cheerily as she stood at the door, checking her watch. ‘Now, hold still, I’m just going to take your pulse. How do you feel?’
    ‘Breathless,’ Clare blurted out, leaning against the wall. ‘No strength.’
    ‘That’ll pass.’ Donahue checked the reading and handed Clare a fat tube with a mouthpiece. ‘Blow into this as hard as you can.’ Clare did so, and blew until she saw specks in her vision.
    ‘How did I do?’ Clare gasped as she followed Donahue back into the sick bay. Donahue was reading the results off the breath analyser, and indicated that Clare should sit down.
    ‘You’re passed for flying. No manoeuvres over two gees for a week, and you’re to tell your instructor immediately if you feel any dizziness, nausea or any visual disturbances like tunnel vision. Report to me again in two days, and again in ten.’
    ‘Thanks ma’am.’ Clare started to get up to go, but Donahue motioned for her to sit down again. Her breathing was still coming in gasps.
    ‘It’s okay, you can rest here for a few minutes. Your body’s not used to pumping the volume of blood against this gravity, that’s why it feels so strange, but we’ve got to check that you won’t faint under exertion. Do you know who’s taking you out for training?’
    ‘Uh – Captain Shaffer.’
    ‘You must have made a good impression; he’s our most experienced instructor.’
    Clare’s heart sank. The last thing she needed at the start of training was their best pilot watching her. She managed what she hoped was a convincing smile while Donahue made some more notes on her file. Her breathing was coming back under control, and she was starting to feel better.
    ‘Okay, if you can breathe normally, you can leave.’
    ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Clare got up to go. Just as she was opening the door, Donahue cleared her throat and said, quietly but clearly:
    ‘Watch yourself with Coombes.’
    Clare turned back to Donahue. ‘Sorry Ma’am?’
    Donahue didn’t look up from her typing. ‘You heard.’
     

 
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Colonel Donaldson leaned back in his chair in his day cabin. As captain of the Langley, he had three adjoining rooms: the large dining room, which was only used for full staff meetings and occasions like the night before last; his personal stateroom, which was a larger version of the standard cabins on board; and this smaller day cabin, which was where he spent most of his working time. As well as the main door to the corridor outside, there were two other