Free Interzone 251 by edited by Andy Cox Page B

heard a final sob – or laugh – then silence.
    The surgeon tapped on the door. “Hello?” he said softly.
    It was a long while before shuffling footsteps approached from within.
    “Hello?” the surgeon said again.
    A clogged voice answered. “Go away.”
    The surgeon touched the door with light fingertips. “You let it in, didn’t you? I wish you hadn’t done that.”
    “It broke in. I couldn’t stop it.”
    The surgeon examined the door and its frame. The wood was soft but intact, the latch undamaged.
    “You’re only making it harder on yourself,” the surgeon said. “But that doesn’t matter. We’ve only a short way left to go. Will you let me in?”
    The surgeon pushed gently on the door. It had only opened a faint crack before the old man pushed back viciously, slamming it shut.
    “Leave me alone,” begged the wretched voice.
    The surgeon withdrew his hand. “Please,” he said. “It won’t be as bad as you think. I’ve seen worse. Please. There’s nothing that cannot be repaired. Nothing.” He adjusted his grip on his bag. “Let me in.”
    The steps dragged away from the door.
    Stepping back, the surgeon put down his bag and lowered himself next to it. Never taking his eyes from the door, he rested his chin in one hand, and settled in for the long wait.

    ***

    Greg Kurzawa studied to be a theologian before adopting a career in IT. Outside of
Interzone
, his work has appeared in
Clarkesworld
,
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
, and Orson Scott Card’s
IGMS
. He can be found online at  gregkurzawa.com .

FLY AWAY HOME
SUZANNE PALMER
    illustrated by Martin Hanford

    Sweat trickled down through the worn seals of the goggles, getting into her eyes and screwing up her line of sight on the impact head.
    She squinted, blinking furiously to clear her vision, and cursed those same traitorous goggles for keeping her thick-gloved hand from being able to wipe the irritation away. A hand that shook, she noted, as she placed it casually back on the control yoke.
    “You out, Fari?”
    The voice was sudden, and loud in her ear. She didn’t flinch, didn’t turn towards the camera eye mounted above the viewshield. “Shut it, Mer,” she snarled. “I’ve still got time.”
    “What’s your hot rating?”
    She tapped the gauge, watched the needle flicker and return to yellow five. “Yellow three,” she said.
    “Three’s getting high. You should swap out. Huj is prepped.”
    “Shit, no. I’m about ready to light the wall up. You better get all those cudders up there down into the bunker, just in case I crack it.”
    “You’re not deep enough yet.”
    “Who’s sitting in this old pile of crap down here?”
    The answer was tired, rote. “You, Fari.”
    “And why is that?”
    “Because you’re the best.”
    “Damn right. And if I say I’m deep enough?”
    “One of these days you’re gonna be wrong, or the Owners are going to hear that loud, blaspheming mouth of yours, and it’ll be a special bad day in Hell for you.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. But until then I wouldn’t bet against you.”
    “Damn smart of you, Mer.”
    “Not smart. Just love credit more than I love spiting you. Close, some days.”
    “I bet it is.” She grabbed the pull handle and drew back the impact head, got the tube injectors lined up with the pair of narrow holes she’d spent the last six hours boring into the rock.
    Laser check looked good. Tubes were straight and smooth, tapping out right at four hundred meters. She didn’t need to check the comp to know that was the sweet spot; she just knew. She locked the injectors in. “I’m go in thirty,” she said. She brought down the rig’s blast shield, clattering and grinding into place all around the cabin, then slipped her own helmet back on over her dust-caked head.
    “Huj says five cred you blow it too close.”
    “Huj doesn’t have five cred to lose,” she answered.
    “Guess he’s confident.”
    “At twenty. Phase one,” she said, and primed the injectors.