Friction turned the air to fire, and Zeerid watched the orange glow of the flames through the transparisteel of the freighter’s cockpit. He was gripping the stick too tightly, he realized, and relaxed. He hated atmosphere entries, always had, the long forty-count when heat, speed, and ionized particles caused a temporary sensor blackout. He never knew what kind of sky he’d encounter when he came out of the dark. Back when he’d carted Havoc Squadron commandos in a Republic gully jumper, he and his fellow pilots had likened the blackout to diving blind off a seaside cliff. You always hope to hit deep water, they’d say. But sooner or later the tide goes out and you go hard into rock. Or hard into a blistering crossfire. Didn’t matter, really. The effect would be the same. “Coming out of the dark,” he said as the flame diminished and the sky opened below. No one acknowledged the words. He flew Fatman alone, worked alone. The only things he carted anymore were weapons for The Exchange.
