Gunpowder Moon

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Dechert stood at the crater rim and looked down. Dionysius was a monster—two miles deep and wide enough to swallow the isle of Manhattan—and with the light from the setting sun coming in too shallow to illuminate its depths, it looked as black as a well. What had Fletcher told him when he was training to take over the station? Oh, yeah:

Panic will kill you—and make you look like an asshole in the process.

Bold words, but Fletcher had never strapped a six-pack of thrusters to his spacesuit and jumped into the open mouth of a crater.

No one ever had.

Dechert clenched his toes to push blood into them, but pinpricks of frostbite continued to spider up his feet. He fiddled with his oxygen mix and stamped his legs and tried to digest the void beneath his boots.

“All right,” Quarles said into his helmet.

“Shit.”

“Shit what?”

“Nothing. Just warn me the next time you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk.”

“Okay. How do you want me to warn you?”

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