Nicole Weber

Cibola Burn

by James S. A. Corey

The third was the one he called his everything has gone to shit bag. Holden sincerely hoped they never had to open it.

It reaches out, rushing into the new possibility space, and something deep in it, wider than it should be, watches it reach.

“That’s who I am. I’m not a gardener, or a shuttle pilot, or – turns out – a husband. I’m a long-flight pilot. Pushing a little bubble of air-filled metal across an ocean of nothing is what I was born to do.”

If she thought he and his people were baby-killing fascist power freaks, it didn’t change anything he had to do

“We’re past us and them at this point. We’re just people in a bad place,”

the death-slugs

“Less talk,” Havelock said from right behind him, and gave him a shove in the back. “More escaping.”

Sometimes just showing up is a lot.

But, like so many things in life, when you come to the spot where you’re supposed to do the rituals, you do them.

“That’s all right, kid,” the robot-thing said in a tinny Belter accent. “It ain’t news to me.”