---

 She was falling, forever plummeting in the bleak darkness, lit by icy, silver, pin pricks of light that swam dizzily before her eyes as she spun, helplessly falling . . .

 "Ms. Mills your vertigo's a natural response to the trauma you suffered.  Your fear is, no doubt, temporary, but until we master it, you are grounded."

 Rhonda Mills glared at the psychologist.

 Did he know what his words condemned her to?  A big black mark on her permanent record.  All her goals, her career, caput, down the toilet.

 She couldn't get work as a pilot on an earth sky freighter.  They only kissed the outer envelope of atmosphere on their curve.  She wouldn't be capable -- she'd be a risk -- an insurance risk, companies would steer clear as if she had the God damned, Martian Plague.

Turned out there was life on Mars and it was deadly.  So much for colonization of the red planet, it was on hold until the Brainiacs could figure out the virus and render it harmless.

 Yeah.  Ha.  Ha.  Big belly laugh.  Who's laughing now?  You aren't, you're grounded!

 "Ms. Mills?  When would you like to schedule our next session?"

 "I'll beep you."  Rhonda rose to her feet with the fluid grace of one who spent most of her time in free fall.  She glided to the door quietly and stared pointedly at the door until the Doctor buzzed her through.

 Damned straight.  She wasn't psychotic, just useless.  Apex Corp. had been grateful, she had enough credit to live in style the rest of her days.

 Rhonda wanted a bar.  A real bar that served real alcohol, not the pseudo stuff most people drank these days.  When Rhonda wanted to feel numb, she wanted to pay in pain the next day, it was a cheat otherwise.

 Rhonda thought no farther than alcoholic oblivion.  She saw no future worth striving for, wings clipped, she was nothing.

 She was falling, forever plummeting in the bleak darkness, lit by icy, silver, pin pricks of light that swam dizzily before her eyes as she spun, helplessly falling . . .

 Rhonda had beaten the odds.

 Born in the dark, tangled mass of Old Chicago.  Her mother, a statistic, a Minor prostitute, high on Lick, died before Rhonda's first birthday.  Adopted into the Red Fangs, a roaming gang.  A ripe old age in Old Chicago was fourteen.  Rhonda survived, thrived in that hostile, harsh environment.  By that age often, she was one of the inner circle.  She stayed clear of drugs, taught herself to read and use public access to the 'Net.  Never let it be said that the government didn't provide the opportunity for the unwashed masses to better themselves.  In an environment where eyes in the back of your head were needed for self-preservation, free access to education computer programs didn't mean much.

 At sixteen Rhonda escaped the Red Fangs and hied off to New Chicago to take the required tests for Majority status.  Her scores caused a mild sensation within the bureaucracy of the testing station.  Rhonda knew what she wanted and wouldn't allow anyone to sway her from her ambition.  A pilot, specifically, a spacepilot.
 

 She was falling, forever plummeting in the bleak darkness, lit by icy, silver, pin pricksof light that swam dizzily before her eyes as she spun, helplessly falling. . .

 "What's a nice girl like you doing in a dive like this?"

 Rhonda blinked blearily and self-consciously, ran her hands through her not so short locks.  Pilots shaved their heads when working.

 Doc Harlan.  Tallest pilot in space, brushing the ceiling at five feet, eleven inches.  Pilots were usually small, with high reflexes and dexterity index.  Doc, didn't fit the statistics.  He had an intuitive ability to fly by the seat of his pants, literally.  Rhonda knew.  She'd once been Doc's co-pilot.

 He was an atavism.  His greeting, pure male chauvinism. Didn't belong in 2162.

 "Doc."  Rhonda waved vaguely.  "You've been Out.  Grounded.   Fear of falling."

 "Heard.  Hero, you." 

 "Oh, stop.  You don't need to talk like a blasted Minor."  Rhonda raised her drink, halted by Doc's arm.

 "You'll get over it.  Side affect in our profession.  Need a co-pilot for a run out to the Belt after my R & R.  Happy to have you."

 "I'm Psyche Grounded.  No one will insure me."  Rhonda pulled loose and left, weaving.

Rhonda staggered against the outside wall. 

Oh, God! 
 

 She was falling, forever plummeting in the bleak darkness, lit by icy, silver, pin pricksof light that swam dizzily before her eyes as she spun, helplessly falling. . .

 She couldn't reach Meyers. She had to detach the life line and pray momentum would do its job. His faceplate, splattered with blood, but his suit was inflated. He was alive. She hoped Stanovich could grapple them.

 Stars, the black deepness of vacuum, a brief glimpse of the earth.
 Deadly fall.

 Rhonda panicked, imagining the earth's gravity tugging at her, at Meyers.  The earth, pulling them to a fiery death.  They were falling endlessly.

 Rhonda blacked out. 

 She came to with Stanovich's anxious face peering at her.  Meyers was attached to the med unit. Rhonda grabbed the support by her head and started to scream.

 She could still feel it, she was falling . . .
 

 "Major!  Help.  You. Me." 

 Rhonda wiped her mouth on her sleeve and glared at the Minor.

 "Get lost.  I don't give credit to your kind."

  She leaned against the wall, staring in the direction he pointed.

 Christ!  How'd that kid get up there?

 Rhonda turned toward the bar for help. 

 The kid slipped, clutching the ledge with desperate fingers, letting out a banshee wail.

 Rhonda cursed profanely as she started forward in an awkward run, her mind sharp, her body trying to catch up.  Rhonda didn't stop to think, there wasn't time, the kid was losing her grip.  She leaped upwards, catching the rusty, decrepit, fire escape ladder.

 What am I doing? 

 Rhonda froze, clinging hard as the stressed, fatigued metal moaned and pulled a little further from the crumbling brick wall.  Her nostrils flared, she caught the fear stink of her own sweat.  She gritted her teeth, biting her tongue against an agonized scream trying to force its way out of her throat.  She fought against limbs that trembled and obeyed her mind's commands sluggishly.
 

 She was falling, forever plummeting -- No!

 Rhonda looked up.  The Minor couldn't be more than five or six.  Her hair matted, filthy as was her face.  Her thin, stick like arms and her hands gripping, clutching desperately at the crumbling brick.  Rhonda's gaze locked with the Minor's.

 She saw her own fear mirrored in the child's eyes.  The Minor let out another small cry as her left hand hold broke loose and she scrabbled for purchase.  Chin jutting determinedly the child found another crack to cling to.

 Rhonda's paralysis melted away and she continued the ascent, focussing all her attention upon the kid above her.  Time seemed to slow as inch by painful inch, she climbed upwards.

Panting heavily, she reached the top. She long armed the Minor onto the relative safety of the landing.

 Ungrateful Brat -- bit her arm and took off like a monkey.

 Rhonda smiled grimly as she watched the two disappear into whatever hole they called home. Useless government policies.  Grubby Minors.

 She stood at the edge and looked down.  It wasn't very high, just enough to break your neck or make a nice wet splat, if you fell.

 Rhonda laughed. It didn't bother her, not at all.

 She looked across to the bar and saw Doc Harlan emerge.

 "Hey, Doc!"  She danced a jig, on the edge, when he finally spied her.  "I'll take you up on your offer!"  With fluid grace, she descended, smiling at Doc, who crossed the street, waiting for her.  "Never thought I'd ever be indebted to a Minor."

 "We were all one, once.  Come on, I'll let you buy me a coffee."

 Rhonda slapped his arm from her shoulders.  "Don't get soft on me, Doc."

 "Me?  Never."

 Rhonda let out a cry of pure joy and jumped towards Doc.  He caught her easily, hugging her  tight before setting her down.  They strode down the street, looking for a likely cafe.