descending shriek was punctuated by concussion as a starburst of white heat blotted out the fuel depot. Jenner barely had time to blink before his entire world was absorbed by a ball of blinding light.
* * *
Jenner hung somewhere between consciousness and coma. Throbbing pain wrestled with oily nausea for control of what little feeling he had left. Somewhere in the distance, a dull grinding sound echoed unevenly, displaced and intangible as though underwater.
The windshield screen was cracked and lifeless. A sharp tang of ozone clotted the air, mixed with the acrid stench of burned rubber. Half the circuits in the truck had likely fried.
Still, he noted vaguely, another smell permeated the darkness, an odor that he knew for some reason should be important. Dull, coppery; a familiar smell.
With great effort, David Jenner raised a trembling hand to his face. The fingers came away streaked with blood. He stared blankly at the red sheen, unable to divine a reason for its presence. Half-closed eyes swung downward in detached curiosity, trying to see if more of the stuff was oozing from his chest or legs.
The search was purely mechanical, the act of a brain on autopilot. Past fear, past pain, Jenner tried to grasp what had happened.
Depot blew, he remembered, big fuckin' explosion.
While the doors had blunted much of the blast, the air pressure in the shaft had spiked with a terrible violence, popping rivets and blood vessels alike. Might have even popped welded steel seams. A wave of fear-driven nausea rippled through Jenner's core as his mind latched onto the implications.
A distant buzz droned angrily from the damage control screen. Hanging askew on a cracked mount, the flat panel flickered sporadically. Through one eye Jenner made out a fuzzy schematic of the truck splattered with red lights. At least three gravitic coils were dead and one section of reactive armor had cooked off.
It hurt like hell to focus, and for a moment Jenner let the eye close once more. A moment passed as he drew a deep breath through clenched teeth. With a grunt, Jenner opened his eye again and struggled to bring the display back into clarity, his fear of a damaged tank increasing.
He fumbled with a series of buttons in an effort to cycle the display modes, but the procedure seemed mired in mental amber. In frustration, he banged the display with a blood-slick hand, adding several more spots of red to the image.
"She held."
Jenner's head swiveled around at the sound of Briggs' voice. The sharp movement invoked a fresh wave of nausea.
In the dim glow of flickering monitors, Jenner could see the sergeant slumped against his chair, head lolled back at an odd angle, eyes closed. A meandering red stream oozed quietly from Briggs' right ear. His skin had lost most of it's tanned-leather hue, faded now to a shade of dusty grey. He looked dead.
"If she'da blown," Briggs' slurred loudly, as though unable to hear his own voice, "mosta th' cab would be dissolvin' right now."
With a charged hum, the damage console flickered again. Static writhed across the screen before it dropped to black, then blossomed back to life. Slowly, a set of familiar gauges began to resolve from out of the video noise. Clearer now, readable. Structural integrity was intact, volume was solid, internal pressure right on the mark.
Damn, Jenner marveled. She had held together.
The private leaned back and hissed a long, slow sigh of relief. Even breathing hurt, Jenner noted sourly, but it beat the hell out of the alternative.
For several long moments the two men sat like the dead and listened to the metallic groans of the platform as it dropped deeper and deeper into the mineshaft. The normal drone of the elevator was creased by a high-pitched squeal of metal dragging on metal. A discordant vibration rattled the elevator car.
"Lift musta been damaged by the blast," Jenner mumbled. Maybe the plate of reactive armor that fired off had gotten wedged between the
* * *
Jenner hung somewhere between consciousness and coma. Throbbing pain wrestled with oily nausea for control of what little feeling he had left. Somewhere in the distance, a dull grinding sound echoed unevenly, displaced and intangible as though underwater.
The windshield screen was cracked and lifeless. A sharp tang of ozone clotted the air, mixed with the acrid stench of burned rubber. Half the circuits in the truck had likely fried.
Still, he noted vaguely, another smell permeated the darkness, an odor that he knew for some reason should be important. Dull, coppery; a familiar smell.
With great effort, David Jenner raised a trembling hand to his face. The fingers came away streaked with blood. He stared blankly at the red sheen, unable to divine a reason for its presence. Half-closed eyes swung downward in detached curiosity, trying to see if more of the stuff was oozing from his chest or legs.
The search was purely mechanical, the act of a brain on autopilot. Past fear, past pain, Jenner tried to grasp what had happened.
Depot blew, he remembered, big fuckin' explosion.
While the doors had blunted much of the blast, the air pressure in the shaft had spiked with a terrible violence, popping rivets and blood vessels alike. Might have even popped welded steel seams. A wave of fear-driven nausea rippled through Jenner's core as his mind latched onto the implications.
A distant buzz droned angrily from the damage control screen. Hanging askew on a cracked mount, the flat panel flickered sporadically. Through one eye Jenner made out a fuzzy schematic of the truck splattered with red lights. At least three gravitic coils were dead and one section of reactive armor had cooked off.
It hurt like hell to focus, and for a moment Jenner let the eye close once more. A moment passed as he drew a deep breath through clenched teeth. With a grunt, Jenner opened his eye again and struggled to bring the display back into clarity, his fear of a damaged tank increasing.
He fumbled with a series of buttons in an effort to cycle the display modes, but the procedure seemed mired in mental amber. In frustration, he banged the display with a blood-slick hand, adding several more spots of red to the image.
"She held."
Jenner's head swiveled around at the sound of Briggs' voice. The sharp movement invoked a fresh wave of nausea.
In the dim glow of flickering monitors, Jenner could see the sergeant slumped against his chair, head lolled back at an odd angle, eyes closed. A meandering red stream oozed quietly from Briggs' right ear. His skin had lost most of it's tanned-leather hue, faded now to a shade of dusty grey. He looked dead.
"If she'da blown," Briggs' slurred loudly, as though unable to hear his own voice, "mosta th' cab would be dissolvin' right now."
With a charged hum, the damage console flickered again. Static writhed across the screen before it dropped to black, then blossomed back to life. Slowly, a set of familiar gauges began to resolve from out of the video noise. Clearer now, readable. Structural integrity was intact, volume was solid, internal pressure right on the mark.
Damn, Jenner marveled. She had held together.
The private leaned back and hissed a long, slow sigh of relief. Even breathing hurt, Jenner noted sourly, but it beat the hell out of the alternative.
For several long moments the two men sat like the dead and listened to the metallic groans of the platform as it dropped deeper and deeper into the mineshaft. The normal drone of the elevator was creased by a high-pitched squeal of metal dragging on metal. A discordant vibration rattled the elevator car.
"Lift musta been damaged by the blast," Jenner mumbled. Maybe the plate of reactive armor that fired off had gotten wedged between the
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