THE HELMET HISSES in my ears. It’s trying to test for pressure, but there’s nothing to keep the seal intact. The neck-ring grasps at the collar of my shirt, hunting for the steel rim that would normally close the system. All it finds is fabric. It shreds a little, experimentally.

Pressure test failed, says a little window, projected across my visor. Please exercise caution.

Even without a suit, the helmet-smells envelop me. Iron and saline, and a little of my own blood, still bedded in the lining. There’s fabric polished yellow and brown by the sweat of a few thousand hours in the saddle, the hint of something musty, and the plastic stink you get on anything with breathing tubes. The helmet’s had its filters replaced more times than I can count, optics changed out about as often. The holographic layers and projectors are a few years old, but not nearly as old as the steel bucket that holds it all together. The networking and primary pilot interfaces are newer, all NorCol standard. I’ve replaced the inners twice, but I always find an excuse to bleed into the damn thing before the week is out.

All that, and the work of three different mechanics, and it seems I’ll never get rid of the smell of burning flesh.

I take a breath and work the lump around in my throat. I look back down the corridor at Hail and Lear, crouched and ready to sprint for the casket. The lock in front of me leads into open air, with nowhere to run and nothing for cover.

They’d better be quick on their feet.

I cue the transmitter with a blink, and the helmet picks it up. “Ready?” I ask.

“Ready,” says Hail, through her inbuilt systems. She can hear me through her wetware bridge, piped right into her head, but I don’t have that kind of luxury. Her voice crackles in through the speakers near my ears. “On your count.”

“On my count,” I repeat, steadier than I feel. I cut the microphone and take a moment to slow my breathing down to something approaching normal. Give me a machine, and I’ll fly it to the end of the world. Just don’t leave me on my feet.

Christs. I don’t remember it being so claustrophobic in here.

I have to swallow the acid rising in my throat, beat the urge to hurl this damn thing clear of my head. It feels like it’s drowning me.

“Rook? Are you all right?” Hail is right by my ear, and so far away.

I clench my fists and force my lungs to work.

“Rook?”

I nod, but it’s a little too quick, shaking the helmet around on my head. “Sorry. One moment. I—”

I swallow. I don’t know what I’m doing. This is a bad idea. “I’m looking for a net.”