Talking Man

CHAPTER TWELVE - BLOOD

"Boss, what's going to be angry?"

"AMA. It wants to talk with us. We can't leave before we let it. We can't stop the work. It doesn't matter who's in the cockpit, or how many of us are left to see this through. It brought me here to talk to it, Lance."

Lance stared into Traver's eyes, and Traver stared back. There was not a single spark of performance, or of sardonic humor or even insanity in those deep blue eyes. There was only earnestness, unyielding passion. Belief.

There was nothing Lance could say that would make sense. Nothing made sense. This might be an extended nightmare episode where reality had crumbled and given way to an acceptable level of utter nonsense. Perhaps some nightmares should be allowed to run their course, uninterrupted.

"We need to be closer." Traver latched himself in to his pilot's seat before Lance fully understood what was happening. He took the ship's controls in his hands, hands which had never before directly piloted the ship, and pushed them forward.

"What are you doing, Mister Graff?"

The computer initiated an alert prompt. Buttons flashed and alarms beeped as the console warned: Orbit Terminated. Verify Direction? Traver, entered the verification command. With the mental practice developed over many countless hours spent watching Lance pilot the ship, Traver plunged the nose of the ship downward, toward the planet.

"Traver!"

The cockpit windows filled with green, the star-studded blackness disappearing beyond the peripherals. Lance was thrown upward out of his seat, hitting his head on the cockpit's ceiling.

He was a little dazed, but not too badly to know it was now time to terminate the nightmare at any cost. He did not need to do the mental calculations to know that the ship would become trapped by gravity within less than two minutes. Even if he would be able to quickly push himself back down into his seat and buckle himself in, Traver, whose chair was within arm's reach, would very likely beat him into a helpless pulp if he tried to take control of the ship. Even if Lance could maintain control despite Traver, he had no idea whether he could succeed in righting the ship and returning her to orbit. He'd been able to guide the Aten on a direct, constant course, but he feared he'd fail at fighting this sort of momentum and gravity without tearing the ship apart from the stress.

The Aten descended, gaining speed. Twenty seconds had been lost already.

Fletcher. Was she still below? There was no way of knowing whether she had been able to continue cutting; the ship was now rattling and the engines roaring, both drowning out the relatively soft buzz of the saw. She had probably been thrown back by the sudden change of course.

Ten more seconds wasted.

Lance could afford no more time to think. His arms shot upward, smashing his palm into the ceiling to propel himself back downward. As he descended, his body flailed, instinct aiding him to take the only action that now made any sense; he kicked Traver in the head.

The man reeled back, his neck strained and twitching as his body, still latched into the seat, was unable to follow the momentum of the kick. In the seconds it took Traver to recover, Lance had grabbed hold of the strap of his seat with his right hand, knowing it would take too long to strap himself in fully. He had only one hand free. Floor hatch, or flight control? Instinct answered the question for him. He used his hand to grab the control from which Traver's grip had just relaxed, and jerked it back.

It wasn't a proper maneuver, but it bought some time. The ship lurched. Lance was thrown downward now, his right arm hitting the back of his seat and bending backwards. He heard the crack of his elbow and knew it had snapped clean, but the adrenaline prevented him from feeling a thing.