early free-fall moments the ED’s eye was locked on to my boot-sole laser beacon. Therefore the ED had, as a matter of physics, slid into the same imaginary elevator shaft I was falling down, plummeting directly behind me. Good thing, because the ED’s fins had no air to rudder against anyway at super-atmospheric altitude.
Then I had started tumbling through the barely thickening atmosphere. As far as the ED’s eye could see, my sole beacon had disappeared. When we were both falling streamlined, our speeds would have matched. Now I was spinning like a lazy snowball, so I was accelerating slower than the drone was. But the drone didn’t slow itself down to avoid me because it couldn’t see me. It just barreled down toward me like a runaway bus with a sleeping driver.
The gap between me and the drone shrank so that I could make out the four-inch–diameter ceramic nose cone. Through it the laser sensors peered but saw nothing.
My heart pounded. Collision with an ice chunk had killed my junior case officer less than a minute into the mission. Another collision had set me tumbling, which was probably going to kill me. Now I was about to get rear-ended by a runaway bus, which would make things worse. Or would it?
At my current speed, even the whisper-thin Tressen atmosphere screamed by my helmet and warmed my suit’s outer skin. Twitching an arm was like lifting weights, but I just managed, and my attitude in the slipstream twitched, too. Not much. But maybe enough.
My twitch shifted my trajectory so that the ED didn’t hit me, but drew alongside me like a bus passing in the fast lane. The shock waves spreading off the drone’s nose, like swells off a boat prow, interfered with the waves I was throwing, and buffeted me.
I gasped as my head-over-heels tumble corkscrewed into a yawing, off-axis spin.
The mental picture of Weddle’s bloody cervical vertebrae forced itself into my consciousness. My head pounded and my stomach rebelled.
“Gaakk!” I spewed bile and Meals Utility Desiccated onto my inner visor. The ventilator shrieked as it sucked puke, but for critical seconds I was blind.
The drone wasn’t moving much faster than I was. My only chance was to grasp one of the ED’s tail fins as it passed me, then hang on so that I stopped spinning and resumed a headfirst dive, following behind the drone like a hitched trailer.
But even with the rigid support of the Eternads, reaching out into the slipstream at almost five hundred miles per hour could tear my arm from its socket.
I panted inside my armor. If I reached, I might die in moments. But if I missed this bus, if the drone passed by and left me tumbling, I would just keep tumbling. Even if the slipstream didn’t “disarticulate” me, the chute, which was designed to deploy freely, would foul. Tangled lines and canopy would simply form a pretty carbon-fiber–reinforced streamer behind me. I would slam onto Tressel and explode in a shower of bone, tissue, and puked-out desiccated turkey.
I gritted my teeth, made a gauntleted fist, and inched it toward the drone.
The new irregularity to my profile made me yaw worse.
Pop .
I yelped inside my helmet as the slipstream dislocated my wrist. My reach had been too aggressive. The Eternads’ rigidity kept things attached, as far as I could tell, but the pain was knife-edge.
Now my chances depended on just one hand. I waited until my tumble corkscrewed me around, so that the good hand was alongside the drone’s fins.
The drone’s rear fins were passing my head now. Three heartbeats from now my last chance would be gone.
The sky had bloomed indigo, and the slipstream of the still-thin atmosphere boomed as the shock waves bounced me against the drone.
I grabbed for a tail fin and caught something.
I tried to tighten my fingers around it and realized I had hold of the left access-panel release.
The panel peeled back like banana skin. Then the slipstream ripped it loose. Items of spy crap spewed into the
Then I had started tumbling through the barely thickening atmosphere. As far as the ED’s eye could see, my sole beacon had disappeared. When we were both falling streamlined, our speeds would have matched. Now I was spinning like a lazy snowball, so I was accelerating slower than the drone was. But the drone didn’t slow itself down to avoid me because it couldn’t see me. It just barreled down toward me like a runaway bus with a sleeping driver.
The gap between me and the drone shrank so that I could make out the four-inch–diameter ceramic nose cone. Through it the laser sensors peered but saw nothing.
My heart pounded. Collision with an ice chunk had killed my junior case officer less than a minute into the mission. Another collision had set me tumbling, which was probably going to kill me. Now I was about to get rear-ended by a runaway bus, which would make things worse. Or would it?
At my current speed, even the whisper-thin Tressen atmosphere screamed by my helmet and warmed my suit’s outer skin. Twitching an arm was like lifting weights, but I just managed, and my attitude in the slipstream twitched, too. Not much. But maybe enough.
My twitch shifted my trajectory so that the ED didn’t hit me, but drew alongside me like a bus passing in the fast lane. The shock waves spreading off the drone’s nose, like swells off a boat prow, interfered with the waves I was throwing, and buffeted me.
I gasped as my head-over-heels tumble corkscrewed into a yawing, off-axis spin.
The mental picture of Weddle’s bloody cervical vertebrae forced itself into my consciousness. My head pounded and my stomach rebelled.
“Gaakk!” I spewed bile and Meals Utility Desiccated onto my inner visor. The ventilator shrieked as it sucked puke, but for critical seconds I was blind.
The drone wasn’t moving much faster than I was. My only chance was to grasp one of the ED’s tail fins as it passed me, then hang on so that I stopped spinning and resumed a headfirst dive, following behind the drone like a hitched trailer.
But even with the rigid support of the Eternads, reaching out into the slipstream at almost five hundred miles per hour could tear my arm from its socket.
I panted inside my armor. If I reached, I might die in moments. But if I missed this bus, if the drone passed by and left me tumbling, I would just keep tumbling. Even if the slipstream didn’t “disarticulate” me, the chute, which was designed to deploy freely, would foul. Tangled lines and canopy would simply form a pretty carbon-fiber–reinforced streamer behind me. I would slam onto Tressel and explode in a shower of bone, tissue, and puked-out desiccated turkey.
I gritted my teeth, made a gauntleted fist, and inched it toward the drone.
The new irregularity to my profile made me yaw worse.
Pop .
I yelped inside my helmet as the slipstream dislocated my wrist. My reach had been too aggressive. The Eternads’ rigidity kept things attached, as far as I could tell, but the pain was knife-edge.
Now my chances depended on just one hand. I waited until my tumble corkscrewed me around, so that the good hand was alongside the drone’s fins.
The drone’s rear fins were passing my head now. Three heartbeats from now my last chance would be gone.
The sky had bloomed indigo, and the slipstream of the still-thin atmosphere boomed as the shock waves bounced me against the drone.
I grabbed for a tail fin and caught something.
I tried to tighten my fingers around it and realized I had hold of the left access-panel release.
The panel peeled back like banana skin. Then the slipstream ripped it loose. Items of spy crap spewed into the
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