his cockpit at the speed of sound. It ran him through, pinning him to his ejector seat through the solar plexus like a bloody butterfly. The Grendel, its pilot choking on dark arterial crimson, dropped away towards a final impact in the glass below.
Ferris should have been elated, but the wall of flashing red alerts from the flight computer dominated his attention. If there was a system on the shuttle that was still intact, the pilot couldn't find it.
"Trooper!" he yelled, his throat raw. "Still with me?"
"Copy." Rogue replied, matter-of-factly. "Should I be concerned by the fact that the ship's on fire?"
"Get up to the cockpit and bring your buddies. I'm gonna eject!" He didn't expect a reply and for the first time since the engagement had begun, Ferris let the flight yoke go, scrambling around for the hood of his chem-suit. He had the neck latches closed just as the cockpit hatch opened to allow Rogue inside. A heavy plug of cold, hard air came with him, battering every loose object in the cabin into a tornado of paper, pieces of stale food and plastic fragments.
The GI fell into the co-pilot's chair and secured his gear in a webbing sling under the seat. "Hull's like a sieve," he jerked his thumb at the ruined cargo bay. "It's only the rust keeping it together."
Ferris saw the green flag in the corner of his helmet visor; full air tanks. He took back control of the ship - as much as he could, anyway - and tried to pull it into a flatter attitude. The mirror-finish of the Quartz Zone's surface made it tough to gauge distance by eye, but he could tell just by the sinking feeling in his gut that they were losing height faster than cash in one of Gog's card games. Ferris gripped the ejector switch and turned it ninety degrees; in reply, the cockpit hatch closed and locked. Explosive bolts all around the strato-shuttle's flight cabin went live.
"Fasten your seatbelt," said Ferris in his best starliner captain voice, "and please extinguish all smoking materials."
"Just do it already!" Helm protested.
Ferris gave the switch another quarter-turn, and the G-force hit them like a fist. The spherical cockpit module blew out from the hull of the atmocraft and tumbled away. Robbed of any semblance of control, the remains of Strato-Shuttle 1138 dived straight towards the ground. It struck the glass with such force that cracks radiated out for kilometres in every direction, jagged fissures appearing to point like arrows back at the point of impact.
The flight pod automatically deployed a parachute ballute, but the ejection height had been far below the recommended minimum. The metal ovoid bounced off the ground, landed, bounced again, landed and then screeched across the fields of fused silica, dragged by the chutes. Rogue slapped at the controls and the balloon detached, allowing the pod to roll to a tottering halt.
He reached over to Ferris. The pilot's breathing was shallow. "We have to get out," said Rogue. "Norts will be vectoring spy-sats into this area to look for downed pilots. They'll mark our landing for sure."
Ferris gave a slow, difficult nod. "Right, right," he managed, unfastening his seat straps with leaden slowness. "I could improve my technique a little, I think..." He stumbled to his feet, dragging a survival kit from a locker that had burst open. "Still, any one you can walk away from, eh?"
"If I had a head," said Bagman, "I'd have a headache."
Rogue saw Ferris recover a snub-nosed slug pistol and stuff it in a suit pocket. "Let's move. You follow me, go where I go and do what I say and you'll keep breathing. Understand?"
Ferris nodded again. "Sure. This is your turf now, right?"
Rogue kicked out the hatch and dropped to the ground, panning Gunnar across the expanse of glassy nothingness. For a long moment there was nothing but silence, the absolute, oppressive quiet of a tomb.
The pilot emerged behind him. The alien landscape gave Ferris the creeps. "Which way?"
None of them wanted to speak, as if
Ferris should have been elated, but the wall of flashing red alerts from the flight computer dominated his attention. If there was a system on the shuttle that was still intact, the pilot couldn't find it.
"Trooper!" he yelled, his throat raw. "Still with me?"
"Copy." Rogue replied, matter-of-factly. "Should I be concerned by the fact that the ship's on fire?"
"Get up to the cockpit and bring your buddies. I'm gonna eject!" He didn't expect a reply and for the first time since the engagement had begun, Ferris let the flight yoke go, scrambling around for the hood of his chem-suit. He had the neck latches closed just as the cockpit hatch opened to allow Rogue inside. A heavy plug of cold, hard air came with him, battering every loose object in the cabin into a tornado of paper, pieces of stale food and plastic fragments.
The GI fell into the co-pilot's chair and secured his gear in a webbing sling under the seat. "Hull's like a sieve," he jerked his thumb at the ruined cargo bay. "It's only the rust keeping it together."
Ferris saw the green flag in the corner of his helmet visor; full air tanks. He took back control of the ship - as much as he could, anyway - and tried to pull it into a flatter attitude. The mirror-finish of the Quartz Zone's surface made it tough to gauge distance by eye, but he could tell just by the sinking feeling in his gut that they were losing height faster than cash in one of Gog's card games. Ferris gripped the ejector switch and turned it ninety degrees; in reply, the cockpit hatch closed and locked. Explosive bolts all around the strato-shuttle's flight cabin went live.
"Fasten your seatbelt," said Ferris in his best starliner captain voice, "and please extinguish all smoking materials."
"Just do it already!" Helm protested.
Ferris gave the switch another quarter-turn, and the G-force hit them like a fist. The spherical cockpit module blew out from the hull of the atmocraft and tumbled away. Robbed of any semblance of control, the remains of Strato-Shuttle 1138 dived straight towards the ground. It struck the glass with such force that cracks radiated out for kilometres in every direction, jagged fissures appearing to point like arrows back at the point of impact.
The flight pod automatically deployed a parachute ballute, but the ejection height had been far below the recommended minimum. The metal ovoid bounced off the ground, landed, bounced again, landed and then screeched across the fields of fused silica, dragged by the chutes. Rogue slapped at the controls and the balloon detached, allowing the pod to roll to a tottering halt.
He reached over to Ferris. The pilot's breathing was shallow. "We have to get out," said Rogue. "Norts will be vectoring spy-sats into this area to look for downed pilots. They'll mark our landing for sure."
Ferris gave a slow, difficult nod. "Right, right," he managed, unfastening his seat straps with leaden slowness. "I could improve my technique a little, I think..." He stumbled to his feet, dragging a survival kit from a locker that had burst open. "Still, any one you can walk away from, eh?"
"If I had a head," said Bagman, "I'd have a headache."
Rogue saw Ferris recover a snub-nosed slug pistol and stuff it in a suit pocket. "Let's move. You follow me, go where I go and do what I say and you'll keep breathing. Understand?"
Ferris nodded again. "Sure. This is your turf now, right?"
Rogue kicked out the hatch and dropped to the ground, panning Gunnar across the expanse of glassy nothingness. For a long moment there was nothing but silence, the absolute, oppressive quiet of a tomb.
The pilot emerged behind him. The alien landscape gave Ferris the creeps. "Which way?"
None of them wanted to speak, as if
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