thought. He choked back a sob and squeezed his eyes shut.
Landry thought of Gus’s family, the people who were financially dependent on him, all the way back on Earth. This would destroy them.
He opened his eyes again, feeling ill. Poor Gus , he thought. He must have drawn the short straw, been thrown clear of the cockpit when it hit the ground.
And yet, on the ground nearby, Landry could see footprints that weren’t his, leading from the scout to where he now crouched. So had Gus survived the crash , he wondered, then walked out here and died?
He looked back at his dead friend one more time.
Not with those injuries. He wouldn’t have been walking anywhere with that massive hole in his chest.
And there’s no blood in the cockpit, either. Landry touched the edge of the hole in Gus’s suit. Are those gash marks? Did something attack him out here?
Landry bit his lip, tried to suppress his grief and the rising sense of panic that had begun to grip him. He looked around, wondering what he was going to do.
Think. Assess the damage.
“This is not happening! ” he shouted at nothing in particular.
Good idea, Landry. Take out your frustration on a few boulders. That should help things along.
He took a deep breath and tried to collect his thoughts. He had eight hours of air in his oxygen tank, plenty of time to figure out a plan. He just needed to—
Something seemed off, he thought. Something wasn’t right. He glanced about again and took a few stumbling steps away from the wreck.
The light . It was all wrong.
He looked up at the sky, saw Procyon A dipping toward the horizon. It was late afternoon.
How long was I out for?
Landry called up the oxygen readout on his HUD and checked the digits. He dropped his wrist, took a deep breath, then looked at it again.
Yup. That’s what I thought it said first time.
Seven percent of O 2 left. Thirty minutes, maybe a bit more. That’s it.
“Okay. I wasn’t completely screwed before, but now . . .”
He’d been knocked out for hours, not minutes as he’d first thought.
He turned back to the scout, and another surprise was waiting for him.
Only half of the ship was there. He realized the other half must have been ripped off in the explosion.
“What exactly happened up there?” he said to himself.
There was only silence as a late afternoon breeze that rippled across the ruddy landscape, sweeping fine grains of sand against his visor.
Okay, think. Thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes to do something. What are the options? He turned in a slow circle. Definitely can’t walk back to the outpost from here. Can’t fix the ship.
Obviously.
Signal for help?
With frickin’ what? Smoke signals?
Yeah, they’ll definitely see those from three hundred clicks away.
The only thing that could communicate over that distance was the scout comms unit, but it’s out of commission—
An idea came to him, along with a modicum of hope.
If the comms unit is still intact somehow, and I could reroute a different power source to it, could I get it working?
Not without the antenna.
His mind was racing, recalling the design of the Seagull. The antenna was located in the rear of the ship. The part of the ship that had disappeared.
He turned again, scanning the horizon. The other part of the ship should be easy to spot against the red landscape , he figured, but there—
Then he saw it—a thin trail of smoke over a nearby ridge. That was where the aft section must have come down.
Get the antenna. Get back here and wire it up to the comms unit. Find another power source. Simple.
He skirted around the side of the wreck, bounding in his EVA suit over a knee-high boulder with the grace of pregnant cow, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his headache forgotten.
Chapter 6
Present Day
PSD 29-212: 1608 hours
Landry hadn’t blacked out after being steamrolled by the Argoni. That was something, at least, he figured. For a moment he thought he had, but, as it
Landry thought of Gus’s family, the people who were financially dependent on him, all the way back on Earth. This would destroy them.
He opened his eyes again, feeling ill. Poor Gus , he thought. He must have drawn the short straw, been thrown clear of the cockpit when it hit the ground.
And yet, on the ground nearby, Landry could see footprints that weren’t his, leading from the scout to where he now crouched. So had Gus survived the crash , he wondered, then walked out here and died?
He looked back at his dead friend one more time.
Not with those injuries. He wouldn’t have been walking anywhere with that massive hole in his chest.
And there’s no blood in the cockpit, either. Landry touched the edge of the hole in Gus’s suit. Are those gash marks? Did something attack him out here?
Landry bit his lip, tried to suppress his grief and the rising sense of panic that had begun to grip him. He looked around, wondering what he was going to do.
Think. Assess the damage.
“This is not happening! ” he shouted at nothing in particular.
Good idea, Landry. Take out your frustration on a few boulders. That should help things along.
He took a deep breath and tried to collect his thoughts. He had eight hours of air in his oxygen tank, plenty of time to figure out a plan. He just needed to—
Something seemed off, he thought. Something wasn’t right. He glanced about again and took a few stumbling steps away from the wreck.
The light . It was all wrong.
He looked up at the sky, saw Procyon A dipping toward the horizon. It was late afternoon.
How long was I out for?
Landry called up the oxygen readout on his HUD and checked the digits. He dropped his wrist, took a deep breath, then looked at it again.
Yup. That’s what I thought it said first time.
Seven percent of O 2 left. Thirty minutes, maybe a bit more. That’s it.
“Okay. I wasn’t completely screwed before, but now . . .”
He’d been knocked out for hours, not minutes as he’d first thought.
He turned back to the scout, and another surprise was waiting for him.
Only half of the ship was there. He realized the other half must have been ripped off in the explosion.
“What exactly happened up there?” he said to himself.
There was only silence as a late afternoon breeze that rippled across the ruddy landscape, sweeping fine grains of sand against his visor.
Okay, think. Thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes to do something. What are the options? He turned in a slow circle. Definitely can’t walk back to the outpost from here. Can’t fix the ship.
Obviously.
Signal for help?
With frickin’ what? Smoke signals?
Yeah, they’ll definitely see those from three hundred clicks away.
The only thing that could communicate over that distance was the scout comms unit, but it’s out of commission—
An idea came to him, along with a modicum of hope.
If the comms unit is still intact somehow, and I could reroute a different power source to it, could I get it working?
Not without the antenna.
His mind was racing, recalling the design of the Seagull. The antenna was located in the rear of the ship. The part of the ship that had disappeared.
He turned again, scanning the horizon. The other part of the ship should be easy to spot against the red landscape , he figured, but there—
Then he saw it—a thin trail of smoke over a nearby ridge. That was where the aft section must have come down.
Get the antenna. Get back here and wire it up to the comms unit. Find another power source. Simple.
He skirted around the side of the wreck, bounding in his EVA suit over a knee-high boulder with the grace of pregnant cow, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his headache forgotten.
Chapter 6
Present Day
PSD 29-212: 1608 hours
Landry hadn’t blacked out after being steamrolled by the Argoni. That was something, at least, he figured. For a moment he thought he had, but, as it
Similar Books
The Trees And The Night (Book 3)
Daniel McHugh
A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel
Matthew Dunn
Sparhawk's Angel
MIRANDA JARRETT
Bedding The Bad Boy (Dalton Brothers Novels)
Virna DePaul
Fun House
Chris Grabenstein
Rocket Writes a Story
Tad Hills
Who Loves You Best
Tess Stimson
The Woman in Oil Fields
Tracy Daugherty
Bloodroot
Bill Loehfelm
Mortal Bonds
Michael Sears