Page 24 of Full Speed to a Crash Landing

2.Getting the box and then dropping it may make the others mad enough to be a problem. Again, unlikely, but they already don’t trust me, and if I’m the cause of them losing this precious top-secret prize...I don’t think it would make any of them happy, at least.

3.All my other plans could go awry, and then they’ddefinitelykill me. Or at least throw me in a brig and let a judge kill me a little more “fairly.” You can never tell with these law-abiding types.

And now, also:

4.The forward part of the ship could crash through the rift and squish me into the ledge, into the lava river, or a combination of the two, which is less than ideal.

I stand with my hands on my hips when we reach the rift, looking down, and it probably makes them think I’m considering odds or something, but I’m appreciating the scenery. Rather than a smooth, sheared break, the rock that’s split apart looks as if it were made of vertical pillars stacked together, cracking apart like candle ice. It’s created a series of step-like platforms all along the face, many with debris, some sloping down or crumbling. I’m not sure what the integrity of this rock is. The ground under my feet feelssolid, but I’m pretty sure theRoundaboutfelt solid before it exploded too.

“It’s about eighty meters,” Magnusson says.

I scan the rift with my helmet’s sensors. Eighty-one point ten meters. There’s a significant drop in temperature between the top and the bottom; standing a meter away from the edge shows only a negligent difference in ambient temperature; leaning over the edge and facing down noticeably shifts the gauge.

Once we reach the splintered nose of the ship, Saraswati stays outside, focused on the seismic reader.

“We’re not going to go all the way in,” Magnusson says. “It’s already not stable, and I’m just trying to get you a good visual from this side. It’s how I found the box in the first place.”

TheRoundabouthit the planet at a sharp angle that forced the nose to snap off, leaving the back end to skid along the edge of the surface. There’s a kilometer-long track of metal scarring the ground, and the bridge tips along the edge of the cliff at such an angle that the open wound of the ship faces us. We don’t need a door to enter; the side wall has been worn away in the worst type of road rash.

I pause, eyes tracing the damage. With one side burned off and the different levels of the ship exposed in an unintended cross-section, it feels as if I’m looking at the bones of a half-rotted corpse. Wiring dangles from the top and sides,veins cut off from the main core with nothing left to bleed, not even sparks. This ship is four times the size of theHalifaxat least, and a monster compared to myGlory. It was never meant to have its skin peeled back, its weaknesses exposed.

Glorywas breached, and not a one of them batted an eye. The old and the weak are supposed to die.

But this is a ship cut down in its prime. An unwanted reminder of fragility and mortality. That merits some reverence.

“Come on,” Magnusson says impatiently.

Maybe I’m the only philosophical one here.

I bound up to him, using a hunk of twisted metal to leverage my way up to what should be the second floor. We stick close to the edge, careful to not fall out the exposed side, but with enough room, I note, that we could launch ourselves back to land if another seismic shift happens and the ship starts to fall.

It doesn’t take long to get to the bridge, and stepping through the mangled wall is easy enough, even if I have to be careful to keep my suit from sharp edges. The carbonglass viewport is completely shattered, bits of debris crunching under the solid soles of my reinforced boots.

I linger at one of the crew’s seats. The navigation console in front of the chair is pristine, not a mark on it. The harness attached to the metal frame of the seat dangles loosely, the metal latches gleaming in the dim light.

Wherever the crew had been when theRoundaboutcrashed, it wasn’t here.

When I turn around, Magnusson is staring at me, eyes narrowed. Before I can do anything, he raises his gloved hands and makes a gesture I know well.

You sign?

In space, you can’t always count on comms. Things break or malfunction or glitch, and when communication can mean life or death, you learn to have backups. Stuff that doesn’t rely on tech. Everyone who’s done enough black walks knows the basics of sign language.

But Magnusson isn’t signing now because of broken tech.

Yes,I sign back.

He knows that Rian is listening to our comms. He knows that anything we say in our suits will be analyzed, recorded.

Possibly used against us.

You a friend of Jane?Magnusson signs. His eyes are sharply focused on my face, not my hands, and he almost misses my answer:

I’ve worked with her before.Jane is not a person. Jane is a code word—one that I clocked Magnusson recognizing—to indicate a pro-Earth movement. They’re not a bad lot, if misguided. Ideals will do that. Nobility only goes so far, and it certainly doesn’t pay the bills. Any job I do with thembegins and ends with a paycheck.I’ve worked with a lot of different people.

Magnusson’s jaw is so tight, I can see it tense even from here.You working with them now?

I shrug.I work for whoever pays me best. Currently, that’s Rian.

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