Re-Coil - J.T. Nicholas Page 0,8

firmly planted. The coil drifted upward, clearing the top of the acceleration couch, and then gravity—or rather acceleration, did its part.

I pulled myself into the chair, using my arms more than my legs, releasing the magnets and, for just a moment, dangling precariously. But I managed to seat myself firmly, the thrust pushing me back against the gel seat. “Persephone? ”

The Persephone’s Net is still offline, Langston.

What the hell had happened? Why was the ship’s Net down? We were too far from any habitat or station for me to connect to any other network. The derelict’s bridge might have enough power with the engines up and running to broadcast farther, but the only ship that could get me off this wreck before it fell into the sun was the Persephone.

How much time, Sarah?

Please be more specific.

How much time until this ship falls into the fucking sun? Or until the heat and radiation get so intense that they microwave me?

Sarah’s voice, calm as always, responded, At current rate of acceleration, the edge of survivability will be reached in approximately seventeen minutes. Total destruction of the ship will occur approximately twelve minutes after that.

Fifteen minutes to live. I’d backed up, of course. I did before every run. But that was weeks ago. Time that would be lost, gone never to return. I had questions, so many questions. How had all these people died? Why had the engines suddenly fired? What had caused the coil to animate and attack me?

Most importantly, where the hell was the Persephone?

“Dammit,” I swore aloud. I didn’t have any answers, but it was worse than that. When it was over, when they re-coiled me, I wouldn’t even remember the fucking questions.

I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead. It wasn’t the stress, or adrenaline, or anything else. I had started to sweat because of the temperature. I brought up the suit diagnostics, splashing them across my vision. External temperature was rising. The suit’s enviro-suite was trying to compensate, engaging cooling units, but it was a losing battle. In about—I queried Sarah—sixteen more minutes, the sun was going to cook me. And things would likely get very unpleasant before that.

So, what? Give up? My fingers twitched toward the Gauss gun at my hip. It would penetrate the suit’s helmet easily enough, and end things before they got too bad. But even knowing that the branch from a few weeks ago would be shoved into another coil, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, what? Wait for the end?

Fuck that.

Sarah? Estimate current acceleration.

Approximately one point oh-one G and climbing.

Just slightly heavier than normal. I flexed my fingers. I could deal with that.

I maneuvered on the acceleration chair, getting my feet beneath me. I forced my mind to reorient itself, to think of the direction of the chairs, the bulkhead behind me as “down.” It took some concentration, but when I opened my eyes, I was no longer being pressed back into an acceleration chair. Instead, I was standing on that chair. Above me was the back of another chair. More chairs descended below me, more above, forming a ladder. I reached out, and began to climb, moving over the discarded coils, pulling my body weight up against the increasing force of acceleration as I climbed “higher” into the ship. With the engines live and power coursing back into the derelict vessel, there was a chance the communications systems would be working. I doubted I could call for help—the Persephone wouldn’t be ignoring my calls if there wasn’t something interfering with the broader signals. But it was damn hard to stop comm laser from pinging a relay. I wasn’t getting out of this in one piece, but if I could make it as far as the bridge, maybe I could send some kind of message.

The odds sucked, but that was the life of a scavenger.

I hated waking up in the body shop.

Consciousness and acclimation were slow processes, and the first thing I became aware of was that I was aware. Which felt odd, and somehow wrong. Next came the sensation of lying on something hard and cool. But the sense was muted, faint, more of a memory of what it felt like to rest upon something hard and cool than doing so. That was the extent of sensation, and I knew that, for a while at least, it was all I was going to feel.

An ancient poet from Earth’s past had once written of shuffling off the mortal