The motors whined, she could see the heat rolling out of the nacelles as the fans slowly began to turn. This was accompanied by a frantic shake as the slime reacted, tensed; the thick green vein leading into the fans convulsed. Then it let loose. A spray of water, green goo, and bits of algae spattered onto the sides of the seatruck. Michaela stared, stunned, at the star-shaped clump that slapped onto the transparency inches from her nose.

The seatruck rose, fighting for every scrap of altitude, a meter, and then two.

Michaela, still sprawled across Kevina’s lap saw when the nacelle began to smoke, heard the sudden grinding. Felt the seatruck shift, losing stability.

“No!” Casey screamed. “God damn it, no!”

The gyros kicked in, the emergency override taking control and dropping them back to slam down on to the deck. The impact knocked the wind out Michaela, bounced her off Kevina’s lap and onto the floor. Pain shot like lightning up her left arm. Frantically, she scrambled to her feet. Dared to stare out at the smoking nacelle.

“Must have overcooked it cutting the slime loose,” Casey muttered as she stared at the temp gauges. “Think we stripped some of the gears. You heard that grinding?”

“Yeah.” Michaela choked down a sob. “No way we’re flying this to the beach, is there?”

Casey was staring dull-eyed at the second seatruck. It perched on the deck, no more than ten meters away. So close, and with its entwinement of slime tentacles and veins, it could have been on Donovan’s moon for all the good it did them.

“What do we do now?” Kevina asked, gaze fixed on the tortured blue-green ropes of slime; they seemed to be whipping in a maniacal frenzy about where the fans had shredded them.

“God, no,” Casey squeaked in a mewling voice. “It’s coming!”

Michaela shifted her attention to the front of the vehicle; the ocean lay no more than four meters beyond. Every one of the rope-like tentacles were shifting, moving with that weird pulsation. They might have been pumping themselves across the salt-brined deck. Each one was now inching its way toward the truck.

Too many of them.

“Out!” Michaela screamed. “They get a hold of this, they’ll drag it right over the edge and down into the depths. Just like they did Jym’s launch. Move it!”

She grabbed up the rifle, threw herself at the door, and kicked it open. Dropping to the deck, Michaela gauged the distance. Took in the twisting and squirming ropes of slime between her and the ladder. Gritting her teeth, she ran. The others were either coming, or they weren’t. Hell, she might not make it as it was.

At the ladder, she reached up, got a foot on a rung, and, rifle cradled, climbed.