Hugh Howey: Molly Fyde and the Land of Light

The star charts had no idea where they were. Too bright to triangulate star positions , Cole decided. He locked the maneuvering thruster in place and reached out to the nav screen. Running his gloved hand down one side, he counted buttons until he reached the power. He shut it off, killing yet another blaring alarm.

Cole?

There were only three sounds left in the cockpit now: the soprano singing about the imminent collision, the sound of atmosphere rushing along the cockpit canopy, and a muffled voice—Riggs yelling through his helmet? Had the tape worked loose?

I felt the same name. You recognize it?

He felt horrible for what Riggs must be going through. Not the best start to winning him over. He considered keying the mic to talk with him, but there wasn’t time. The warbling of the collision alarm was deepening, which meant the nose was actually rotating up. However, the rate at which it beeped had increased; whatever they were about to hit, it would happen soon. At least the majority of Cole’s pain was straight in his back, now. The Firehawk must be pretty level.

Penny, check with Joshua’s men, see if they’re moving.

Cole tried cracking his eyes, but the searing light was still coming from all directions. He was dying to know what they were about to hit. He could be about to crash into the surface of a star, or enter a black hole, for all he knew.

The location of the landing gear controls were fixed in his memory, but he knew better than to release them. In a crash landing, the smooth belly of a Firehawk was better than anything they could trip over. And if a sea of plasma awaited, it wouldn’t matter either way.

Yeah, they’re moving uphill. More jumpers?

He thought he heard Riggs shout something about jumping, but parachuting into the unknown would be foolish. Leaning back on the flight stick with both hands, he tried to imagine them pulling up in time, just like in the holos: they would dip precariously low, skim the surface of some deadly environment, and then fly away with pumping fists and a victory cry.

The thought forced a bit of a smile into his grimace. Then he remembered his flight suit was disconnected, that the Gs of impact would probably liquify him. He fumbled for the umbilical cord, strained against the force of acceleration, pressed the hose to his suit and spun it, trying to line it up blindly.

There was a click, so soft he couldn’t hear it.

Right about the time they made contact.

The after portion of the belly hit first, the nose too high. The rear of the Firehawk bounced up, and the bow came down toward the ground. Only the maneuvering thrusters saved the ship from plowing in, catapulting into the air, or shattering into a billion pieces. For just an instant, the ship went level above the unknown surface, gliding in a sustained ground effect, a pocket of compressed air forming below the Firehawk’s underbelly across which it slid, as if on rails.

The rear of the ship came down again, touching something soft. Instead of bouncing with the force of the last impact, it ploughed deep. When the nose settled again, the ship’s speed was below a thousand kilometers an hour. If the wings had remained level as they made contact, it would have been a spectacular emergency landing.

Instead, it was a spectacle.

The leading edge of the starboard wing struck first. It was like digging a wide oar off one side of a canoe. Not only did it try to spin the Firehawk around, the change in momentum and the braking action of the wing sent the entire ship, all eighty thousand kilos of her, flipping upside down. The wrenching of Cole’s already-battered body on his flight harness forced the air out of his lungs. Both of his arms went flying—there was nothing controlling the ship other than gravity and friction, anyway.

The smooth belly faced the air as the bumpy top of the Firehawk forced into the surface of their mystery companion. The vertical flight surfaces sheared off, but not before they drove the nose of the ship violently downward. The sound of cracking carboglass could be clearly heard over all the other grinding and banging sounds.

Cole lurched forward against his harness, his ribs yelling over the pain in his spine. He imagined the dash and canopy being pressed back toward him at the same time. He tried to bring his arms up against his body to protect them, but the force was too strong, his muscles too fatigued.

The entire crash felt like it took several minutes. But, as the Firehawk ground to a full stop, only fifteen seconds had transpired since the first impact. Cole hung upside down in his flight harness, the grav panels knocked out along with the rest of the life-support systems.

The only positive was that they were still alive, for however much longer.

Cole cracked one eye open. The bright spot in his vision remained, but it was surrounded by something new: complete and utter darkness.

What’s happening?

“Riggs?” Cole flipped his visor up and heard air rushing somewhere. It was hard to tell if it was rolling over the surface of the ship, or if their atmosphere was leaking into a vacuum beyond. He strained to listen, hoping it was the former. There was so much power behind it; if that was their air going out… they didn’t have much time left.

Where are you? What’s going on?

The only thing he could see in the darkness was the bright spot in his vision, which had turned a dull red. His head throbbed, making it hard to think. Pain pulsed out through his entire body as his weight hung on his harness, sore ribs and shoulders pressing into the straps.

“Riggs, I’m coming, man. We crashed into something. Gimme a minute.”

He reached up and released the buckle on one side of his flight harness while he wrapped an arm in the other side. As his body came free, it twisted around the one arm, preventing him from falling face-first. Cole tried to hang on, but the pain in his ribs forced him to release his grip. He fell in a heap on the top of the canopy and slid down to the low spot of the inverted carboglass bubble.

Over the squealing of his flightsuit as it rubbed across the smooth surface, Cole heard a crunching sound coming from below the glass.

Crashed? Do you know where you are?

Cole pushed himself up and walked gingerly to Riggs’s side of the cockpit. He pulled a glowstick out of his flightsuit and cracked it in half. “Cool your thrusters, man, I’m trying to help.”

We can’t help from here. You need to get out of there.

“What? Stop struggling.” He lifted his own visor and reached up with one hand to grope for Riggs’s helmet release. The radio speakers in his helmet sounded strange, altering Riggs’s voice. Cole’s eyes still hurt, his head ringing.

Cole? Can you hear me?

“Yeah, I can hear you. Hold still so I can work the release.” The catch popped free and Riggs’s helmet fell through Cole’s hands and smacked the carboglass by his feet.

In the dull, green glow of his emergency stick, he could see his old friend’s eyes. They were wide with a mixture of fear and rage—his cheeks puffing in and out as he sucked, then expelled air through his nose.

The duct tape was still adhered to his mouth.

“Riggs?”

Who is Riggs?

Cole reached up and released his own helmet. He pulled it off, his mind still dizzy from the crash. In the dim light of the glowstick, he could see the mic switched off on the side.

“Hello?”

Yes. Who is this?

Raising one hand, he touched the band around his head. It was soaked with sweat, but still in place. Above him, Riggs groaned in discomfort, then tried to force expletives through the tape.