Hugh Howey - Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

Cole felt relieved to hear Riggs thinking like that. It gave him hope that they could work together to survive the mess they were in. He crawled over a piece of ductwork and felt the red band push into his ribs. It reminded him of the voices he’d heard during their crash landing. He wondered if they’d been real, or if he was just losing his mind. Maybe he had been hearing things amid all the alarms. Was he really in hyperspace? What did that even mean ? Had he hallucinated the entire conversation?

He felt himself leaning toward the latter. They were probably on a planet, somewhere near the polar caps. Any time now, the Navy would trace their hyperspace signature and come to rescue them.

Well, rescue Riggs , anyway. They would want to imprison him.

He continued to crawl forward, not sure what to believe. Or even hope for.

“Should be right there,” Riggs hollered.

Looking back, Cole could see Riggs just past the pool of light and the descending snow. He had retrieved and donned his helmet, and his open visor already held a dusting of the white flakes. Riggs pointed to one side of the tunnel; Cole followed the gesture and recognized a handle on the hatch beside him. He rolled over to one side and flicked the compartment open. The door was just as upside-down as everything else, so he had to hold it up against gravity while he set the biostick inside. Grunting—his ribs resting on something hard and sharp—he tried to find a more comfortable position while he peered inside.

Most of the tools were still strapped in place, but several of the boxes had come loose in the crash. The gear had been stowed with a ton of combat Gs in mind, which meant the crash had been rougher than it felt. Cole thought about how he’d barely gotten his grav suit connected in time and shivered with delayed fear.

The compartment contained a lot of useful stuff. He grabbed a utility blade and leaned back on his shoulder, still holding the heavy door up. He stuffed the knife into one of the pockets on the front of his flightsuit.

“Did you find them?” Riggs asked.

Cole grunted and forced himself back on his side. “Not yet,” he hollered. He saw a large wrench strapped to one wall of the compartment and worked it loose, then propped it under the heavy hatch, holding it up. Letting go of the lid, Cole worked his head into the bin and started rummaging around by the soft, blue light of the biostick.

“Got ’em,” he said, his voice echoing in the metal compartment. He came out with three welding plates held together with a rubber band. Each of them should snap into the inside of their visors, hopefully providing protection from the light outside. One of them was marred with scratches and small blisters where bits of glowing metal had landed on it. Someone must’ve been welding as they held the plate in their hand, pretty much ruining the thing. Cole rolled over and slid the curved piece of plasteel into his hip pocket and looked for anything else useful. Satisfied with what he had, he turned around in the tight crawlspace, banging his helmet on some pipes as he wiggled back toward the shaft of light.

“One for each?” Riggs asked, looking at the dark plates of plasteel in Cole’s hand.

“Yup. And a third that’s in pretty bad shape. Here.”

They had to pop their helmets off to snap the plates to the insides of their visors. Every movement brought grunts of exertion as they tried to position themselves on mechanical systems that should’ve been above them, easy to access from the sliding mechanic’s cart.

Cole got his helmet back on and snapped the visor down. It made everything pitch-black, so he lifted it back up. He hadn’t done much welding, not since making it into flight school, but he could remember how you had to move the wand into place by feel, not able to see anything until the plasma arced out to whatever you were working on.

“I’m going first this time,” Riggs said. He had his helmet back in place, his visor open.

Cole nodded. He left his own visor cracked just enough to see where he was putting his hands and knees; the angle of the plasteel blocked off the blinding light from above.

Riggs worked both survival kits between the mechanic’s rails and up into the landing gear housing, a square column of hydraulic pistons, wires, and cables. He slowly wormed his way out of sight, his feet ascending up into the falling flakes of snow. Cole pushed behind and prepared to make the climb out as well.

“It’s cold as Pluto up here,” Riggs said, his voice muffled by his helmet. “I can’t see anything.”

Cole made his way up the struts of the extended landing gear, his head level with Riggs’s knees. He looked away and raised his visor a little more so he wouldn’t have to yell.

“Can’t see because it’s too bright?” Cole asked.

Riggs crouched down in the landing gear well, his boots perched on the retracting struts by Cole’s hands. He cracked his visor. “No, the plates work great, there’s just snow in every direction. The drifts look like they’re up to the ship’s belly on one side. A few more hours and we’ll be buried.”

Cole looked at the two survival kits lodged by the hydraulic reservoir. With heavy rationing, they contained enough food and supplies for a week at the very most. He thought about what they should salvage out of the ship. “Can we build a lean-to on the sheltered side of the hull?”

“I don’t know, man. The snow is coming in sideways, and there’s lots of it. Probably gonna cover the entire ship. Looks like you really screwed us big-time.”

Cole couldn’t look up to read Riggs’s face because of the light streaming down around him, but he could hear some of the raw malice returning to his old friend’s voice.

“I swear we jumped to open space,” was all he said in defense.

Riggs snorted. “Obviously.”

Cole grabbed the extended struts and swung himself around to the other side of the gear. He flipped his visor shut and climbed up the opposite side of the hydraulic pistons Riggs clung to.

“I’m gonna have a look,” he shouted.

“Be my guest.”

The smooth hydraulic arms were slick with oil and snow, causing Cole’s boots to slide around as he searched for a good perch. The welding plate made the world so dark he could barely see, even with the bright light beginning to filter in. Above, the sides of the landing gear well were lined with the open hatches that normally protected the skids when they were stowed. The flat plates of steel pointed up into the sky, creating two high walls Cole couldn’t get to the top of. He reached instead for the rear portion of the well, wrapping his gloves around the thick plating that formed the underbelly of the Firehawk’s fuselage. Hoisting himself into the bright light, Cole found the darkness replaced with a featureless landscape of snow and ice. The flakes in the air were huge, thick, and moving sideways. Moreso than the light wind seemed to warrant.

If fact, there didn’t seem to be much wind at all, not enough to explain snow moving horizontal to the ground. Suddenly, the incongruent mix of sight and sense induced vertigo, and Cole felt as though he were peering out through a window in a cliff face. He cracked his visor a little to see if perhaps the helmet was blocking out the wind.

Nothing.

He snapped the visor back in place, banishing the sliver of bright light that had attempted to work its way inside. Looking beyond the belly of the Firehawk, Cole noted the visibility would probably have been pretty good without all the driving snow—the visor seemed to filter the light perfectly.

Which means, Cole realized suddenly, the ambient air in this place is as bright as a cutting torch!

He checked out the side of the hull catching the drifting snow. Like Riggs had said, the level had already ramped up even with the massive bulk of the upturned ship. He lowered himself back down below the lip of the open hatch and cracked his visor; Riggs knelt across from him, clutching the other side of the landing struts.