"Yes," she says again, the word short but somehow not entirely terse. (She can be and, most of the time, is; but not around Durham. Aberdeen saves it for the others.) Her hands move now across his face over his brow and down to the bridge of his nose, still pressing here and there; there's nothing particular gentle about her touch, nor is there anything intimate about it either. If anything, it's like her way of speaking — matter-of-fact and direct and efficient. As her hands work, Aberdeen continues, telling Durham aloud some of the things that she's allowing him access to from her mind. Added information, stuff she's managed to gloss from the Network — an announcement from the ship's crew about a jump, the general warnings about protocol when using the gravity couches.

"It's called warp sickness. It's because of the jump." She pauses, her hands slipping to his cheeks so that she can look at him eye to eye again. After a moment they fall away completely, back to her sides again. The typing of her fingers resumes. "I don't know where we are. The crew hasn't shared the information with the passengers. Give me time and I will find out."

For all that Aberdeen was pisspoor at being a high-functioning human being, Durham was right in believing she was a damn good operative.