Who Made the Sunshine?

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 475

LOCATION: Mercury Perihelion

Solar wind and radiation hammered against the hull of the Mighty Sparrow.

Phoenix sat in the pilot’s seat, sweating. The cockpit temperature was pushing forty.

-Shield integrity at thirty percent, the computer announced. Hull temperature critical. Recommendation: Increase distance from solar body.

-Don’t say that, Phoenix rasped. Hold the line.

He gripped the stick. It was hot to the touch.

Out the viewport, there was just the big white ball of fire. They were dropping into the gravity well of the sun, skimming the corona to pick up speed.

Using the Oberth effect. The kids of Mercury did it for fun. Sun skimming.

If you burned your engines at the lowest point of the orbit, right when gravity was crushing you the hardest, you could steal momentum from the star itself. It was the only way to get a ship this heavy to Jupiter without spending six months drifting in the dark.

The dive was the exciting part. In their small personal carriers, the kids didn’t get far, but they went hot and fast.

Phoenix reached up to wipe the sweat from his eyes, and his thumb brushed his bare wrist. He paused.

-Three times for a miracle, he whispered to an empty cockpit.

It was just him.

He was a solo pilot again. Just like before the MTC pulled him out of the Halo for some crazy mission.

It felt like he was in a coffin.

-Warning, the computer droned. Radiation spike detected in the medical bay.

Phoenix swore. He engaged the auto-pilot, a rusted clamp he swung over the stick, and unbuckled.

-Keep her steady, he told the empty chair.

He floated back into the small living quarters. It was dark back here, lit only by the red emergency lights.

Himalaya Market was strapped into the medical bunk. He looked terrible.

The kid was skeletal, his skin was translucent. He was stripped to the waist, and the geometric scars on his chest were pulsing with a violent, blue light. They looked like circuitry burning under the skin.

Next to the bunk, bolted to the floor, was the Black Box.

Phoenix had tried to stow it in the cargo hold, but whenever he moved it more than ten feet away from Market, the kid would start screaming in his sleep. The device and the boy were entangled.

Now, a thick cable ran from the Box to a set of electrodes taped to Market’s temples.

Market was thrashing against the restraints, his eyes moving rapidly under closed lids. He was muttering in a language that sounded like binary code mixed with speaking tongues.

Phoenix grabbed the hypo-spray from the med-kit. It was the last dose of the sedative he had scavenged from the Marley’s supplies.

-Easy, kid, Phoenix whispered. Just sleep.

He pressed the spray against Market’s neck. Hiss.

Market gasped, his back arching off the mattress. Then he slumped back. The blue light in his scars dimmed. The thrashing stopped.

Phoenix exhaled. He checked the monitors. Market’s heart rate was slowing down.

-We’re almost there, Phoenix promised the unconscious boy. Just hold on until we get to the doctors on Jupiter. Your people.

The ship lurched.

A roar filled the cabin, the sound of the hull expanding under the thermal stress.

Phoenix scrambled back to the cockpit. He strapped in just as the G-force hit.

-Perihelion achieved, the computer stated. Initiating injection burn.

-Do it, Phoenix grunted.

He slammed the throttle forward. He could see why the kids did it.

The Mighty Sparrow screamed. The main engines ignited, adding their thrust to the massive gravitational pull of the sun.

Phoenix was pressed back into his seat. His vision blurred. The G-meter climbed. 4G. 5G. 6G.

The bolts rattled in the bulkheads. The solar array groaned as it fought the drag of the solar wind.

Outside, the white fire of the sun began to recede. The stars returned, streaking past the window as they accelerated.

They were falling outward now. Away from the heat. Away from the light.

The Sparrow shot out of the inner system like a bullet, riding a pillar of fire.

The G-force eased. Phoenix gasped, sucking in a lungful of the foul, recycled air.

-Burn complete, the computer said. Trajectory confirmed. Destination: Jovian System. Estimated time of arrival: Forty-five sols.

-Forty-five sols, Phoenix whispered. Still a long time.

He looked at the black void ahead of them.

He looked at the empty co-pilot seat again. He imagined Bit sitting there, asking if they were there yet. He imagined Hap buzzing a warning about his blood pressure.

Phoenix closed his eyes. He tapped his bare wrist three times.