Free Labyrinth of Night by Allen Steele Page A

fun…all you need is patience and money.’
    What else would you expect a junkie to say? Man, I don’t even remember when I said that. (Pauses.) No, it wasn’t because it was fun. I mean, nobody asks to be a junkie. I didn’t do it for thrills, ’cause there’s nothing I found thrilling about the stuff, and I can’t say it was social pressure, because those guys are clean and even blues audiences are straight these days.
    So why did you start shooting coke in the first place?
    That’s a mean, tough question. I guess…I think I was scared. I was looking for something, some transcendent experience that made me more of a part of the music. Just playing onstage wasn’t enough. But at the same time, I was scared of what I would find. Don’t ask me why, or what. (Shakes his head.) And maybe I’m still scared. I’m over the drugs, but I’m still afraid.

3. Steeple Chase
    ‘I HOPE YOU’RE not some scientist who wants to grab some rock samples ’cause I’m not putting ’em on board and we’re getting the hell out of here now!’
    W. J. Boggs, six feet of bowlegged Tennessee flyboy, did not wait for an answer as he lurched through the gondola’s airlock hatch and flopped into the pilot’s seat on the left side of the flight compartment. The co-pilot of the USS Edgar Rice Burroughs, Katsuhiko Shimoda, reached above Ben Cassidy—who was scrunched on the floor behind the seats—and flipped a switch to automatically seal the hatch while Boggs stabbed the radio button with his gauntleted thumb.
    ‘Cydonia Command, this is the Burroughs, requesting permission for emergency takeoff,’ he snapped. He did not wait for a reply. ‘Who gives a shit, anyway?’ he muttered. ‘We’re in a hurry here. Katsu, is that hatch secured?’
    ‘Roger that, W. J.’ Shimoda calmly flipped toggles on his flight station’s consoles. ‘Cabin pressurization cycle initiated. MPU’s at a hundred percent, check. Elevators, check. Envelope integrity is copacetic…’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Screw the checklist, let’s just get out of here.’
    ‘Burroughs, this is Cydonia Command. You are cleared for emergency takeoff.’
    ‘We copy, Command,’ Boggs replied. He glanced over his shoulder at Cassidy. ‘Hang on there, pal, this is going to be rough. Okay, Katsu, ropes off!’
    Shimoda flipped two toggles which severed the airship’s tethers. The 120-foot airship bobbed in the stiff breeze which had kicked up as the sun began to set on the western horizon. On either side of the gondola, red dust was blown up from the ground by the idling VTOL turbofans; through the crimson haze the skinsuited ground crew were running from beneath the long, ovoid shadow of the blimp.
    ‘Elevators trimmed for vertical ascent!’ Boggs called out. ‘Port and starboard fans gimbaled to ninety and up to full throttle! Hang on, here we go!’
    Boggs jammed the two engine throttles forward with his right hand and the Burroughs pitched back on its stern as it bolted skyward, its 800-horsepower turbofans howling as they clawed for loft in the tenuous Martian atmosphere. A ballpoint pen which had been left loose on the dashboard skittered down the surface and plummeted to the floor to continue its noisy descent to the rear of the cabin.
    ‘Oh, hell,’ Boggs murmured. ‘I was afraid of this.’ The pilot eyed his altimeter suspiciously, then glanced back again at Cassidy. ‘Can you fly?’ he asked.
    ‘What?’ Cassidy asked weakly. It seemed as if the airship was standing on its tail. He had already been sick once today; it wasn’t fair to make him go through this kind of ordeal again, less than an hour after reaching firm ground. He managed to look up from the few inches of deck between his knees. ‘This thing?’
    ‘No. I mean, if we have to throw you out the hatch, can you flap your arms and make it to the ground on your own? We’re overloaded and this ship isn’t made to take three people.’
    ‘Uhh…’
    ‘Damn.’ Boggs turned back to his