Our escape went off hitchless, probably not because they weren't interested in pursuing. Everything about our recent cluster-fucking screamed set up. They didn't follow because the only people who had really wanted us were leaking vital organs all over other people's ships back at the port. Someone, presumably Fuckenheim the magical headless herpeton back there, had dropped an anonymous tip with the guard, hoping we'd dig ourselves a hole (like we did), and flee to the port expecting the wrong ambush (a fair assumption). We should have been trussed up to drain. Shit, I wouldn't even be surprised if he'd set up the fix with the Promoters to take Tom out of the equation. We must have pissed someone off bad.
There isn't a whole lot to do while in rift. Sit around, trying not to think too hard about how fast you're going or what exactly you're moving through. Digging holes in reality and then spitting yourself into them at high speeds seems great in theory but it leaves some unnerving existential questions that are really best left unexplored by the amateur. And it really is best to avoid asking the folk who know, you never get used to the way they laugh about it.
"Ritt," Phaa hummed from behind my hammock. "Our hero isn't dead. He wants to talk. I, uh... how much did you give him Cap? 'Cause that poor fuck has been through some shit tonight and the way he was talking, while I was working on him by the way, I'm not sure he's gonna come down."