Final preparations were going exactly according to plan, and it looked like they would actually be ready for launch ahead of schedule, until the lid of the transport crate would not fully close, stubbornly refusing to latch.

On hearing the news Meathead complained loudly and bitterly that this was not possible, because they had already done this ten thousand fucking times in training and it had worked perfectly every single time. But nonetheless it was happening, possible or not. Something deep in the heart of the crate was not meshing quite correctly with its surrounding objects, and the imperfection in the overall arrangement was rippling outwards and preventing the lid from snapping into place. And the Game rules were very clear: While there was no weight limit, the crate had to be closed.

There had been countless dry-runs of potential equipment configurations, but the problem was complex, so it was not completely surprising. The heavy weapons systems for Mallory and Meathead were huge, taking up over half the space by themselves even in the slimmed-down versions custom built by the manufacturers. The rifles for every team member took up another big chunk. There had been some grumblings that Neb’s rifle was a waste of space, but Buzz had shut that down. Snuck in amongst the cracks and crevices created by those crucial weapons were various other objects, and Neb often thought that their variance showed how little anyone knew about what they would be facing: ropes, knives, multi-tools, flashlights, hatchets, saws, armor, protein bars, water purifiers, duct tape, and much, much else.

Three hours remained before launch time. Technicians swarmed over the case. Buzz was a picture of calm, standing by and asking occasional questions but not getting in the way. His face did not show the strain even when the launch clock ticked down to two hours, and then to one.

But at last, all was done. An engineer of significant proportions got on top of the crate and was joined by Meathead and as much of Mallory as they could fit up there, and after some jumping and stamping from the three men the lock clipped home with a snap. There were no cheers; all assembled were far too well-trained for that. But there were some very relieved-looking faces. Neb wondered if the force required to close the crate would have any impact on opening it later, but he kept his thoughts to himself. There was nothing they could do about it now anyway.

The last prep stage was the final checks on their personal gear and they now had to hurry through it. Neb stood still while people hovered around him and pulled and poked and pressed at things on his body. The Game rules were very specific about what could be brought directly by the participants on their bodies, and it boiled down to not much beyond a sidearm and some water.

When all was finally ready they were hurried through the habitat to the loading bay. There was much bureaucratic anxiety at how little time was left. A shuttle brought them out to the launch tunnel and they docked with the gamejumper with a heavy clunk. The link door from the shuttle rotated open, showing a short boarding tunnel. The gamejumper door levered up slowly and noisily, the most basic of tech.

The virtual and physical simulations of this moment had prepared the team well. The gamejumper was really not much more than a box, with no engines or intelligence of its own. The only internal equipment was a countdown clock to the moment it would be automatically transported to the Game. It was hard to believe it was an artifact of the most advanced civilization that had ever existed.

They loaded their equipment crate first, rolling it in carefully, and then took their seats around it with their backs to the walls. Fear settled on Neb, thick and heavy. But he had known it would. They had trained him for it. He focused on his breathing, keeping it deep and relaxed and slow. This feeling was all part of the plan, he told himself. It was normal to be afraid.

‘This is nice,’ said Mallory, leaning back and stretching out his legs.

‘It’s fucking gametime, baby!’ Meathead answered, punching Mallory in the arm, hard enough to rock him sideways.

‘As soon as we’re through that door you’re going to be the first one to get eaten, Meathead,’ Mallory said to him. ‘When we land some sort of alien horror is going to --’

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‘If they can eat my big ass,’ Meathead interrupted, ‘they’re welcome to --’

‘-- starting with your fucking head because it’s --’

‘-- in fact I’ll help them get your big fucking --’

The two huge men grappled with each other, arms locked, foreheads together, pushing into Gray and Jasper on either side, causing cries of mock-pain and hoots of laughter.

‘Cut it out,’ Buzz said, finally. He had let it go as long as he could. ‘Seven minutes to launch.’

Meathead and Mallory let go of each other and strapped in. The only sounds were from the final checks of the shuttle staff. Then the shuttle pilot appeared at the gamejumper door.

‘We’re closing you in now,’ he said. He was in his late thirties, Neb guessed, thick hair like Buzz, starting to gray. There was definite sympathy in his eyes. ‘Godspeed.’

‘Goodbye, lieutenant,’ Buzz said.

The door of the gamejumper swung down slowly, like the back of a cheap cargo vessel, and there were metallic scrapes as it clamped in place. Neb’s heart sounded suddenly loud in his ears. Focus on your breathing, he told himself. Focus only on that.

‘Now it’s really fucking gametime,’ Anna said.

There were the whining, clunking sounds of the shuttle disengaging from the gamejumper, and then total silence. They were on their own now, hanging in the zero gravity of the launch tunnel.

The clock counted down: 4.58… 4.57… 4.56…

They sat and did not speak, shuffling, waiting. Neb’s heart thumped hard. The breathing and mindfulness techniques he had been taught were seeming comically inadequate. He clenched and unclenched his fists, not making eye contact with anyone.

‘Remember the zero-second protocol,’ Buzz said, breaking the silence, his voice close and loud. ‘I’ll call the play, and we play it fucking instantly.’

‘Yes sir,’ they murmured automatically. Buzz had said this many, many times before.

Neb looked at the blank, undecorated door of the gamejumper as if he hoped to see through it. What would be outside when it reopened? What had happened to all the human teams which had gone before? How long had they lasted? Had they just been slaughtered right at the moment of arrival, like in the ancient wars of Earth? The coppery taste of fear was like blood in his mouth. What was the Game even about?

Three and a half minutes to go. Meathead tapped his knees, looking around as if seeing the craft for the first time. Anna had her eyes closed, controlling her breathing, and her face in repose was almost more beautiful than in motion, Neb thought. Buzz stared straight ahead. He had done what he could, and now the rest was down to fate and luck. Grey and Jasper sat side by side. Jasper was murmuring something to himself, lips barely moving. A prayer? Neb wouldn’t have thought Jasper was the praying type, but as Buzz often said, you only really know someone when you see them under pressure.

Grey looked over and caught Neb’s eye.

‘Hell of a first time, Doc,’ she said.

Neb smiled back, knowing it looked nervous. ‘It’s gametime,’ he said.

‘Gametime even for you, Doc,’ Mallory murmured almost automatically, unable to let the moment go without an insult.

Two minutes to go. They knew the Gate was spinning up outside, starting its transport cycle, the energy fields building. But in the shuttle, the silence was total, like being deep underground. There was nothing to hear, and no window to see the light. Nobody moved or made a sound.

‘Thirty seconds,’ Buzz said.

The atmosphere was thick. Neb stared and stared at the gamejumper door. What would he see when it opened? City? Countryside? Desert? Something completely unrecognizable? He had thought and thought about the moment of arrival and now it was rushing towards him unstoppably fast, out of control. He was fucking terrified.

‘Ten seconds,’ Buzz said. ‘Stay sharp.’

Neb watched the clock. Nine… Eight… Seven… He felt an incredible urge to run, to rip off the straps holding him in place and claw at the door with panicked hands. He could almost see himself doing it, feel the emotion of mingled shame and terror.

Six…

Five…

‘It’s fucking gametime, baby,’ Meathead said quietly, mostly to himself.

Three…

Two…

‘Get ready,’ Buzz said.

Two years of training, a whole life of studying the Main. Uncounted hours. All came down to this moment.

One.

Gametime.