The silence was deafening. The big crash must have sent rarefactions rippling across miles and miles of what seemed like utter emptiness, judging by how long he could hear the sound of the crash replicate over and over and over. At last, at a point that he thought must have existed only in some deep crevice of his consciousness, the sound had just stopped. Now he yearned for it; the oppression of such vast emptiness seemed to penetrate much deeper than skin level. It took Jalil quite some time to bring himself to look outside. He felt that something was haunting him, but surely, that something must come from within. That unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He was at the threshold of his Predator-156's hatch, holding a flashlight. He didn't know how, or when, or for how long he'd been staring into nothingness. His chaser was floating on something liquid, for sure, but just beyond, a frozen path stretched for as long as his light beam could reach. The chaser must have crashed through a thin surface. He considered all his options: the chaser had given it all up to keep him unharmed, and it was way beyond repair; there were oxygen and emergency rations for three days; his side zapper had about fifty charges left. There was no point in awaiting death – he must, at the very least, chase it.