“Thank you, chief.” There’s an edge in her voice. “I need you faster than this. You get leeway today because we don’t have time to drill, but that’s it. I need a clean run.”

“Aye aye,” I reply. “We’ll get it done.”

The silhouette nods. “Get us clearance.”

“On it.” I hook myself back into the noise. “Horizon Tower, this is Recovery, two-eleven. This is Recovery flight two-one-one. Come in, Tower.”

For a moment, all I’ve got is static.

A voice crackles in. “Good morning, two-eleven. This is Tower, and for the next”—there’s a pause—“oh, eight minutes or so, I will be your flight control. You can call me Bell.”

“Bell Tower?”

“That’s the one. You looking for clearance?”

“Yes please, Bell.”

“Confirm; you folks ready to fly?”

I send a ping past the other shells, one last time. They call back.

“Ready to go.”

“Good. I’ve got an opening on the way. Warm those engines, it’s cold outside.”

I breathe in, let it out slowly. “Let’s go, old bird.”

My heartrate spikes hot and sudden in my throat, throbbing against the inside of my chest. I can almost feel the muscles contract, pounding in time with the pulse of our reactor. We flex our wings and I kick for thrust, flooding our engines with fire. The shell creaks as it strains against the launching blocks.

We slack off. Our engines are awake now: warm to the touch and waiting for us to call them back again.

The other machines do the same, blinking infrared in the corners of our eye.

“SOs report all-clear,” says Tower. “Voiding.”

My skin prickles, and the Juno’s sensors read a sudden drop in pressure. Vents open up across the ceiling, sucking Horizon’s precious atmosphere someplace safer.

“Hangars report null-atmo.” A timer appears in my eye. “Launch window opens in one minute, thirteen seconds.” The floor rumbles as huge hydraulics work across the outside of the hull. The wall ahead of us splits down the middle. There’s a sudden chill through my nerve-jacks, but the Juno holds it back. I shiver, but it isn’t because of the cold. “Airlocks open.”

A strange sunrise dawns on us. Dark winds blow.

“Get a grip,” says Tower.

It takes me a moment to understand. Three metal chocks stick out of the deck, connected to rails under the floor. There’s one on either side where our feet connect, and one more in the middle, with a handle just about big enough to fit the palm of a shell’s hand. We lean forward and wrap our hands around the grip, crouching low, engines hot. Confirmations pop in and out of sight.

“Charging.”

The rails crackle. We can feel the static.

“Confirm airlocks clear. Rails charged.”

For a moment, we are together in the storm.

“Kick it, jockeys.”