Rachel DycekThe puncture holes in the windowport shrieked as precious air flowed out of the rover, like Percival’s death rattle. With the loss of pressure, Rachel’s ears ached, as if an icicle of bright pain had been thrust inside her skull.
Without thinking, she slapped the palm of her hand against the largest hole in the armored glass, like the legendary Dutch boy plugging the leaking dike with his own finger. It seemed the obvious thing to do, the fastest way to cover the opening. She realized her stupidity too late to stop herself.
Biting cold and suction tore at the flat of her hand, trying to pull it through the hole, ripping off what it could. She screamed.
Cora Marisovna had fallen to the ground outside next to the body of Boris Tiban, but she staggered to her feet and stood in
