I closed a couple of intransigent zippers. "Let's go."
We followed the old man to a set of doors that opened to the outside. He pointed toward an ancient Dodge van upon which the fading remnants of psychedelic paint fought a losing battle with an encroaching battalion of rust.
At his speed, I wondered whether we'd have enough time to make it to the vehicle, let alone the launch pad.
We climbed aboard as he gunned the engine into life. Ann hadn't even sat down before he peeled away at a dragster's pace. The rear doors alternated swinging open or shut, depending on which way the van swerved.
After less than a minute of breakneck speed, we arrived at the foot of the gantry. Gunther ushered us hurriedly out, urging us into the elevator.
"T-minus five minutes, thirty seconds," blared a calm voice over the loudspeakers. The claxon continued to wail.
A dozen men and women scurried about the base of the launch pad and up the gantry. The chill cold of liquefied fuels ran down the sides of the boosters. I gazed heavenward.
The sky was almost black. Against the starry backdrop towered Starfinder. Something like awe began swelling inside my throat.
A firm hand shoved me into the lift.
"Move it!" Gunther closed the door and hit the power button. We rose with unsettling speed. Gunther watched us for signs of vertigo.
"Where's Canfield?" I asked him.
"He should be inside running through the checklist."
The elevator jerked to a halt, tossing us a foot into the air. Gunther slid the cage aside and led us across the gantry arm to the cockpit hatch.
"In order to avoid being apprehended," he said, reaching inside the pocket of his lab coat, "I want you to wear these disguises." He handed each of us a pair of Groucho glasses-the ones with the fake nose, eyebrows, and moustache. He paused long enough to laugh at our bewilderment.
"In. In." He pushed us toward the hatch. "Have a textbook flight. We'll see you when you come down."
"Gunther," I said, "those copters may be carrying bombs. You'd better clear everyone out."
He dismissed the warning with a wave of a wrinkled hand. "I survived the raid on Peenemunde. Three whirlybirds are nothing."
He took a loving final look at Bridget, winked, and sealed us in.
The hatch cycled with an ear-pressing sigh. I turned to see the cockpit. Everything was cockeyed. If you took an airplane and stuck it on its tail, the seats would run up the side of wall, too. It wouldn't matter once we were in orbit, and we'd be sitting properly while gliding back home. If we made it that far.
Up in the pilot's seat was a black-clad figure already strapped in. He wore his helmet with the gold-anodized faceplate pulled down. Looking at him, I only saw my own reflection.
"Canfield," I said, "think we can get out of here in time?"
"We will if you put on your helmets and strap in." His voice sounded tinny and odd coming from the speaker mounted on his chest controls.
I helped Bridget, Ann, and Isadora climb up to their seats. Then I had to use their seats as a step to reach the forward right-hand seatthe co-pilot's chair. We retrieved the helmets from the clasps on the seat backs and fastened them onto the metal neck rings.
"T-minus two minutes," Launch Control said in our helmet speakers.
"Get comfortable," our pilot informed us. "We'll be pulling over five Gs at blastoff."
The kid piped up. "Don't you have anything to say to Launch Control?"
"It's nearly all automatic until we reach high earth orbit, little lady." His voice sounded relaxed and self-assured. "I'm here mostly for the unexpected."
Something clanked behind and below us. Canfield turned his helmet toward the hatch, his expression hidden behind golden reflections.
"Gantry arm retracting," Launch Control reported. "All personnel clear the launch pad."
The pilot relaxed in his seat.
At T-minus one minute, a confused chatter of voices jammed the airwaves. The voice of Launch Control shouted, "Quiet!" loud enough to jangle my hearing, then said, "Starfinder, we have choppers reported within our long-range attack boundaries. Do you wish to scrub the launch?"
"Negative, Launch Control." I liked the sound of that. "Continue the countdown."
"I suggest we scrub," Canfield interjected.
"Any technical reason?" I asked.
The pilot shook his head. "No. I simply think we should postpone the launch to a safer time."
"There won't be a safer time. We go now."
"They could pick us off with a heat-seeking miss-"
"They could kill us on the ground as well. We stand a better chance of surviving by launching now!"
Canfield sighed. "It's your choice, Mr. Ammo. I can't make the decision myself."
The ground rumbled beneath us.
"This is it," I said. "Blastoff!"
"Those are bombs!" the pilot shouted. "Abort, man! For God's sake!"
"That's exactly why I can't," I said.
"T-minus ten seconds. Ignition sequence start."
An explosion somewhere to port rocked like thunder over the spacecraft. It coincided with the rumble of four powerful rocket engines firing up.
"There's another one!" shouted Launch Control.
At that instant, a black Huey roared directly in front of our forward windows. It fired all its missiles at once.
But not at us.
"Okay, tough guy," radioed a familiar voice, "you're in the clear! Ace the son of a bitch for me!"
"Corbin?" I managed to mutter as the cabin began to shake like a giant attempting to dislodge us.
"Blastoff," a disembodied voice said, just as the giant started squeezing my chest.
"Yeah," echoed a voice a few million light-years away. "It occurred to me that this chopper might be of some assistance if the Ecclesia found you. Guess I was right. So long again!"
The giant sat on my heart and lungs and other organs for daysmaybe years. I couldn't answer our rescuer. I couldn't hear another word. My senses collapsed into a red-black throbbing mass of dizzying discomfort. I could only think about an amusement park ride I'd been on years before that supposedly shoved riders forward at four times the acceleration of gravity. It lasted a few seconds and made me giddy. This was lasting forever. I was far beyond giddy.
A couple of millennia later, the pounding faded from my ears. A distant voice heralded my salvation.
"Engine shutdown at T-plus six minutes, seventeen seconds. Stand by to jettison outboard tanks."
A sudden feeling of unease washed over me. A feeling of being dropped from a great height. And falling, falling, falling.
Weightlessness.
They didn't call it free fall for nothing. My first instinct was to grip the chair arms and try to hang on. No good. Everything was fallingthat's what it meant to be in orbit. My stomach, though, refused to listen to reason.
Something buzzed on the pilot's side of the control panel. Canfield did nothing. He seemed to be taking it as badly as the rest of us, which didn't make sense.
"Do you read me, Starfinder? Jettison outboard tanks."
The pilot still made no move. A small hand reached forward from behind us to punch a flashing button on the console. Explosive bolts sheared with a sound that vibrated through the shuttle's hull.