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Timory

Timory drags the comb-rake along behind her, backpack spewing carbon to force them both down another row of the ship’s ablative fur. Can’t trap hypertrash at full accel if it’s matted with junk already, but she still resents the chore: a Roomba could do this. Instead she’s using her spacewalk time to dig out burrs.

It’s not a pretty beast; impacts have manged its coat, solar orbit bleached it. The fur will burn off on entry anyway, and Timory swears it makes the whole trip hotter. She’d give a great deal for a razor and a fixed point in space.

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