check!” He points to a pad off to one side. “Give me a hand, there.”
Harbin puts the severed hand on the handprint-scanner, which blinks, then lights up with the message: “Pilot authentication: POSITIVE.” Harbin gives the electronic key to Helton, who inserts it into the keylock, which lights up the control panels. He examines screens, flips a few switches, and a moment later they hear the sound of machinery spinning up to speed.
“Here goes,” Helton says grimly. “Hang on tight.”
Their flier starts to rise, slowly and unevenly. It tips, lurches to one side, and runs into the other large flier, tearing a big gash with the landing strut and tangling the forward landing gear. It twists, tips, and turns trying to get free, but the strut just gets more tangled. The flier struggles, swaying and sagging, over-stressed drives whining, but after a few seconds it settles down, front end on top of the other large flier, back end crushing one of the small fliers.
Armed and uniformed prison guards, sloppily dressed and unkempt, exit one of the large buildings abutting the mesa. They start firing at the ship, now sitting off-kilter, half on and half off the other large flier. The rear cargo ramp drops, and Helton and Harbin run out, heading for the remaining medium flier. Helton carries most of their supplies — water, duffels, ammunition — while Harbin has only bandoleers, one ammo can, and a rifle.
Harbin drops to one knee — into a good supported firing position — and squeezes off a dozen rapid aimed shots. Guards fall to the ground in rapid succession. The survivors are spraying fire wildly on full-automatic kicking up spurts of dust, but none very close to Harbin. More guards run out of the building while others try to run back in, making for a generally confused and chaotic scene. Harbin is calm and precise, a professional. He keeps shooting, drops a magazine, and smoothly inserts another with barely a pause in his firing.
A pintle-mounted light 25mm grenade launcher with a telescopic sight stands on a parapet that forms one wall of a building that overlooks the landing field from a high angle. A half-dressed guard runs out from a nearby door and throws himself behind the grenade launcher. He scans the field and sees Helton, standing at the flier’s open door, tossing in essential goods. Helton turns, waves to Harbin to hurry up. The guard quickly centers in, setting the crosshairs high on the center of Helton’s back. BOOM! The launcher jerks up a bit in recoil. Then the guard settles the scope back onto Helton’s prostrate form. He is stretched out face down, motionless, a charred smoking spot covering much of his upper back.
The guard swings the launcher around to point at the foot of the ramp of the crashed flier, where Harbin is still firing. He looks through the scope and sees Harbin aiming directly at him. Harbin’s gun jerks slightly, smoke puffing from the barrel, and the launcher jerks crazily, pointing skyward as the guard falls.
Twenty-one dead guards lie scattered on the ground between Harbin and the mine building. The lifeless form of a shirtless man hangs over the parapet wall next to a grenade launcher. Two guards stand at the edge of the large doorway just inside the mine building. One starts to peek around the corner, toward the airfield. Harbin squeezes off a few rounds at the open doorway and into the sheet-metal walls on either side. The guard pulls back sharply as a hole appears with a CLANK in the wall next to him, and bullets buzz past to ping on the back of the building.
Harbin grabs his ammo can from the ground and sprints to where Helton has fallen. He kneels, takes a few more covering shots, and looks down at Helton. Smoke rises from Helton’s coat, and the back of his neck and head are blackened and blood-spattered. The grenade explosion burned all the way through his coat, but underneath is the shiny silver-white of the book that Helton had tucked away in the cave.
Harbin puts the severed hand on the handprint-scanner, which blinks, then lights up with the message: “Pilot authentication: POSITIVE.” Harbin gives the electronic key to Helton, who inserts it into the keylock, which lights up the control panels. He examines screens, flips a few switches, and a moment later they hear the sound of machinery spinning up to speed.
“Here goes,” Helton says grimly. “Hang on tight.”
Their flier starts to rise, slowly and unevenly. It tips, lurches to one side, and runs into the other large flier, tearing a big gash with the landing strut and tangling the forward landing gear. It twists, tips, and turns trying to get free, but the strut just gets more tangled. The flier struggles, swaying and sagging, over-stressed drives whining, but after a few seconds it settles down, front end on top of the other large flier, back end crushing one of the small fliers.
Armed and uniformed prison guards, sloppily dressed and unkempt, exit one of the large buildings abutting the mesa. They start firing at the ship, now sitting off-kilter, half on and half off the other large flier. The rear cargo ramp drops, and Helton and Harbin run out, heading for the remaining medium flier. Helton carries most of their supplies — water, duffels, ammunition — while Harbin has only bandoleers, one ammo can, and a rifle.
Harbin drops to one knee — into a good supported firing position — and squeezes off a dozen rapid aimed shots. Guards fall to the ground in rapid succession. The survivors are spraying fire wildly on full-automatic kicking up spurts of dust, but none very close to Harbin. More guards run out of the building while others try to run back in, making for a generally confused and chaotic scene. Harbin is calm and precise, a professional. He keeps shooting, drops a magazine, and smoothly inserts another with barely a pause in his firing.
A pintle-mounted light 25mm grenade launcher with a telescopic sight stands on a parapet that forms one wall of a building that overlooks the landing field from a high angle. A half-dressed guard runs out from a nearby door and throws himself behind the grenade launcher. He scans the field and sees Helton, standing at the flier’s open door, tossing in essential goods. Helton turns, waves to Harbin to hurry up. The guard quickly centers in, setting the crosshairs high on the center of Helton’s back. BOOM! The launcher jerks up a bit in recoil. Then the guard settles the scope back onto Helton’s prostrate form. He is stretched out face down, motionless, a charred smoking spot covering much of his upper back.
The guard swings the launcher around to point at the foot of the ramp of the crashed flier, where Harbin is still firing. He looks through the scope and sees Harbin aiming directly at him. Harbin’s gun jerks slightly, smoke puffing from the barrel, and the launcher jerks crazily, pointing skyward as the guard falls.
Twenty-one dead guards lie scattered on the ground between Harbin and the mine building. The lifeless form of a shirtless man hangs over the parapet wall next to a grenade launcher. Two guards stand at the edge of the large doorway just inside the mine building. One starts to peek around the corner, toward the airfield. Harbin squeezes off a few rounds at the open doorway and into the sheet-metal walls on either side. The guard pulls back sharply as a hole appears with a CLANK in the wall next to him, and bullets buzz past to ping on the back of the building.
Harbin grabs his ammo can from the ground and sprints to where Helton has fallen. He kneels, takes a few more covering shots, and looks down at Helton. Smoke rises from Helton’s coat, and the back of his neck and head are blackened and blood-spattered. The grenade explosion burned all the way through his coat, but underneath is the shiny silver-white of the book that Helton had tucked away in the cave.
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