Up Against It - M. J. Locke [170]
The ship soared into the sky. The shock of the catapult gun bounced him hard against his seat and lofted him. Geoff flailed in midair, seeking a handhold. By this time the suited figure of the big man, the one who had shot at them when they rescued the professor, had alighted. He was pointing the business end of a missile launcher right at the cab. The box and the rest of the rockets were tumbling lazily around the large man, all slowly falling to the ground.
“Shit!” Geoff got his fingers around a handhold above the control panel. He shoved himself over, kicked at the emergency switch, and was propelled out the door by the cab’s sudden decompression.
A missile burst through the cab window and struck the wall behind the operator’s couch. The earthmover lurched—flames engulfed the cab—the giant arms buckled and the earthmover tipped. Geoff saw this while tumbling slowly above the stroid’s surface. Then the shock wave struck. Pain seared across his buttocks and side, and he blacked out.
* * *
Mitch Shibata, the dock’s shipping officer, met Sean in the docking bay.
“We’ve outfitted the Michaelmas, sir,” he said. The cluster’s fastest and best-armed shuttle on hand. Sean nodded his approval. “I’ll be your pilot. We’ve coordinated with Cluster Security. Commissioner Pearce has put five armed troops under your command. They’re aboard now.” He transferred the manifest. Sean looked it over as they hustled toward the airlock. “Good.”
Mitch said, “Shelley is tracking transmissions for us and says there have been more developments. She’ll brief you en route.”
* * *
The chime intruding on Xuan’s dream did not drag him fully from sleep—his fatigue was too deep—but the rumbling whup! that followed did. It threw him hard against the mesh of his hammock, and he rolled painfully out into midair, the explosion still ringing in his ears. The meds had helped, though—he felt stronger, and the sharp pain in his ribs had eased.
Amaya and Kamal sleepily struggled out of their own hammocks. Geoff was … where?
Amaya was first to reach Geoff’s hammock. She pulled out a sheet of scrip and looked at it, brow lowering. Then she crumpled it up and flung it away in disgust. Kamal caught the scrip and unfolded it. He read it aloud, and sighed. “What is he trying to prove?”
Amaya asked Xuan, “Was that the explosion we heard? The charges he set in the pipes?”
Xuan considered. The sounds of the blast echoed in his thoughts. He had been on many a stroid during blasting. “No. The explosion was up top—not down here. Get your gear.”
They scrambled to gather their belongings. Xuan swam over to the lockers, braced himself, and tugged on his boots. Dull pain clenched in his rib cage, and he had to pause.
“That explosion was very large,” he said. “We must admit the possibility that Geoff has been killed. However, if he is still alive, he’ll need help. So I am going out after him. After I leave, you two are going to seal yourselves in and wait for rescue.”
“The hell we are!” Amaya snapped, and Kam said, “Geoff is our friend. We won’t leave him out there to die. No matter what you say.”
Xuan looked at their two dirty, terrified, determined young faces.
“Come what may,” Amaya said.
They were adults, and it was their Dharma they followed, not his. Xuan straightened with a nod. “Very well. Come, friends. Let us show them what stroiders are made of.”
* * *
The squadron leader reported to Sean after takeoff. She climbed through the doorway (their rapid acceleration made for a topsy-turvy ship orientation) and stood at attention on the wall