The world begins to rumble from your ass to your teeth and the Hand Of God covers your chest, holds you down, viciously pushes you back into the launch couch. His Terrible Roar fills your skull.

Gregor poured fire up his nose. He tried to cough out the cheap scotch and couldn’t breathe with the weight on his chest. Tears flowed into his ears. He was dimly aware of a yowling sound and suddenly realized Matti was shrieking like a kid on a rickety 20th century wooden rollercoaster; he’d managed to raise his hands up and was holding them out against the gees.

“We’re goin’ up, Gregor!” he shrieked through his teeth, lips pulled back in a grotesque, clownish parody of a face. Gregor thought he was going to vomit and only thinking of the mess kept his teeth shut like a sluice gate. He closed his eyes and remembered hating this sixteen years ago.

And then God let go. The thunder stopped.

Gregor rolled his eyes to the window. A brown-blue line, eggshell thick, separated the world from the sky.