Suspended in space, the tiny ship appeared almost immobile against the vast backdrop of stars. She was moving, of course; like the delicate nocturnal insect for which she was named, the firefly's abdomen glowed red-gold against the darkness all around her. Had there been anyone to see it, that faint glimmer would have told them that this ship was under power; this insignificant creature of the night yet lived.

But there was no one to see. So there was no one to notice when, in a movement only a careful observer would have caught, the ship began to yaw from her previous course.

Aboard the ship, the scale of things was different. Save for the clear paneled windscreen that fronted the bridge, and some smaller windows set into the top of the firefly's hull, there were no endless vistas here. Everywhere were human-scale enclosures of gunmetal gray: bulkheads and deckplates, inner hull, treads and risers, hatches, handholds. Here was sound: the quiet throb of the engine, the creaks of the ship's structure, the hiss of forced air. Here was atmosphere, pressurized and breathable, a mix of oxygen and nitrogen and the exhalations of eight human beings, one cat, and the infinitesimal molecules that gave her the scent of home -- grease and burnt tofu; coffee and ozone; incense and cologne.

Inside the ship, everything was smaller -- and there were observers here, too, although most of them were sleeping in the dull ship's night. But the ship was their world, and they felt her motion in their bones.

The pilot, more closely attuned to the motion of the ship than the others, felt it first and most strongly. He opened his eyes, wondering what had awakened him, and raising his head from the pillow just enough to disturb the ginger cat who lay asleep in the hollow of his back. The cat's movement, in turn, jostled the narrow bunk just enough to rouse the pilot's wife, who lay alongside him.

"Wash?" she murmured, reaching out to lay a hand on his bare shoulder. When she touched him, she discovered that he was stru