“One thousand, eight hundred and thirty-seven years, Mason. Or that’s what the Gilgamesh says.”
Holsten sat back down on the lip of the suspension chamber, his legs abruptly insufficient to keep him standing up.
“How’s the ... how’s he holding up? Have you ...?” The sentences kept fragmenting in his head. “How long have you been up? Have you checked over ... the cargo, the others ...?”
“I’ve been up for nine days now while you were being lovingly licked awake, Mason. I’ve gone over everything. It’s all satisfactory. They did a good, solid job when they built this boy.”
“Satisfactory?” He sensed the uncertainty in that word. “Then everyone’s ...?”
“Satisfactory in that we have a four per cent chamber failure rate amongst the cargo,” she told him flatly. “For just short of two millennia, I think that counts as satisfactory. It could have been worse.”
