The pod’s chute opens and catches, and I look at the ship… no one else is making it out.
Engulfed in flames, the ship hits a jagged spire on the inner caldera and deflects, twisting and spinning, and its impact shakes the ground beneath me.
The screaming stops.
A chill that has nothing to do with the ice seeps into my skin.
The wreck is a smoldering mess, and the pod…
Tumbling, it’s still airborne, but it won’t be for long.
They deployed too late. The chute struggles, punctured by debris, and fails…
It hits like a bomb, spraying snow and rock into the air, burrowing out a crater all its own.
Ow.
I hear it as if it was whispered in my ear, and I flinch.
Whoever is in that pod,sheis alive.
I kick my bike back to life and head for her, ignoring the ugly billowing smoke.
The pod is half buried beneath the snow it sent flying into the air, and its housing is a mess of dents, but these things were designed for less-than-ideal landings.
She hasn’t tried to get out, and her thoughts are incoherent. Maybe shecan’tget out.
Luckily, escape pods were designed to open from the outside… even ones as old as this.
Climbing up and onto the pod, I follow the instructions that populate on my visor.
It takes a minute and a half to clear the snow away so it doesn’t fall in on her and another to de-ice the emergency release mechanism.
The hatch is ungainly, and I have to put all my weight into levering the thing open.
It barely budges. I yank and twist, and there’s a harshsnapbefore I fly backward into the snow.
“Fuck the saints.” I look at the broken handle in my grip before throwing it away. “How old is this thing?”
Climbing back up, I use that gap to pry the thing open.
Some part of the hinge is busted, and I’m panting by the time I shove it back far enough where I’ll be able to get to her.
She’s still alive. Her thoughts aren’t actual words, but the low buzz of what I hear when Shock or Risk are dreaming.
Inside, airbag-like cushions have clamshelled together, and I don’t bother trying to shove them out of the way. Yanking my knife from the small of my back, I pop them.
They deflate, recoiling into their compartments and revealing the woman they protected during her tumultuous landing.
Even with her short blonde hair splayed over her face like a veil—fluttering with each exhale—I can see it clearly.
I stare at her for a beat too long.
I shouldn’t recognize her face.
“Fuck.”
I pull off my helmet and toss it to the side. I don’t know why, but maybe my face will be less startling than the dark screen of the visor.
