I’m going to bring it all crashing down.
I feel the weight of my little velvet bag pinned against my chest by my armor. There’s no telling what will happen next, so I slipped it in my front pocket when nobody was watching. Now it scorches me like the reentry burn has seared it. What would my parents say if they could see me now? Would they even bother saying anything?
Or would they just see how forsaken I am?
“Ettian,” Gal warns. The Beamer shudders around us, and one of the skipships noses into the windshield’s periphery.
I unstrap, standing on shaking legs. I want to pretend it’s the aftereffects of reentry or fear of the jump, but I’m so ruttin’ sick of lying to myself. “Wen?” I croak.
She tips a gentle salute up at me.
I salute back. “Look out for him, will you?”
“You got it,” she says, then turns her gaze pointedly to the dash so I can bend down and pull Gal into a rough kiss.
His fingers find my collar, tugging at the wingsuit. “Be careful,” he murmurs against my mouth, and I hate how final all of it feels. I want to tell myself that there will be other chances, but everything beyond this moment is mired in the uncertainty of battle. So I sink hard into this kiss, my hand tangling in his hair, my head filling with just him, just this moment, just lips and tongue and teeth.
And when we break apart, my terror triples. Because it’s not enough—all of him, the promise of his future, everything I’ve thrown my soul away for. It’s not worth what we’re about to do.
I can’t let it show on my face. Gal cuffs me gently on the side of my helmet, then knocks his knuckles against my chest. The deflector armor beneath my wingsuit hums, ready for action. His eyes catch on its shape, and his lips twist bitterly. We’ve always flown into battle side by side. He’s always had my back. And now this carapace is all I have to protect me when I need him the most.
“Keep flying,” I whisper hoarsely, the roar of the air around us stifling the words as they leave my mouth. “No matter what, keep flying.”
He gives me a grim nod, and with that, I leave him.
When I drop into the cargo hold, I find it transformed. The narrow cots have been packed up and pressed against the walls, and everything’s been tied down. The ten Archon soldiers are dressed in the same garb as me, their weapons strapped to their chests, their gear carefully distributed across their bodies. As I scramble down the ladder, Sims lifts his hand in greeting. The demo guy looks ten times more threatening with heavy ordnance strapped around his ankles, but the effect is somewhat offset by the silky wings bridging his limbs and body. “Ready?” he asks, nodding to the cargo door.
“No,” I reply honestly, pulling my goggles up from around my neck. I can’t look him in the eye. I might have been able to before I heard about his moms and the jellyfish, back when he was just a smiling face leading me around Henrietta Base, but now, knowing him, knowing what I’m about to do to him…
“Don’t look so grim, you two,” Arso says and chuckles, clapping her hands. “It’s gonna be good to stretch our legs and get some solid ground under them.”
“You’re leaving out the concerning distance between here and that solid ground,” Tarsi mutters from the back wall. The rail-thin sniper is pressed as far from the bay doors as she can get, and I don’t blame her. With her proportions, she’s going to be a leaf on the wind.
“How many drops have you got on you?” Arso asks her, shouting to be heard over the burn of the rotary thrusters as Wen adjusts our vector.
“Two hundred and eighty-five in total, hundred or so on missions, and I hated every single one of them,” Tarsi snaps back.
Arso lets out a booming laugh. “What about you, kiddo?” she asks, looking me up and down.
I crack a nervous grin. “Forty-seven. All in training. And one ejection seat, but I don’t think that counts.”
“You’ll be fine. And if you aren’t, well…It’ll be fast.”
Tarsi blanches.
“Coming up on the target,” Gal announces through the intercom. “Dropping the ramp in thirty seconds. Hold on to something.”
We line up along the walls of the cargo bay, our fingers finding purchase on canvas handholds stitched along the wall. I check my watch. Our altitude is closing on a thousand yards fast, the skipships forcing us lower and lower. The academy must be in sight by now, and I switch the line of my gaze to the seam where the cargo ramp meets the edge of its frame.
Against all odds, I’m almost home.
“Hold tight, people,” Wen announces. “Slight course adjustment.”
My fingers clench as she throws the ship into a disorienting swerve. My feet fly out from underneath me, and I add a second hand to the canvas. Confused muttering rises from the soldiers, and I know they must be checking our position on their maps.
We’re supposed to be targeting the academy’s communications tower—the relay point for an entire system of command. It’s all but guaranteed that no missiles will target this ship a second time, giving the Ruttin’ Hell all the clearance it needs to drop a team in, blow it to hell, and then get out.
At least, that’s what the Archon soldiers think is about to happen.
“Ruttin’ junker girl,” Arso mutters, craning her neck toward the cockpit as our feet settle under us. “Hey, kid!” she barks, pounding a frustrated beat on the bulkhead. “We’re off course! Fix it!”
The Beamer flies level, unhurried, unbothered.
Arso’s eyes narrow beneath her goggles. “Ettian, tell your pet project to get this ship on track,” she snarls.
I don’t meet her gaze. “Trust her. Focus on the jump.”
The intercom crackles overhead. “Communications check go,” Gal shouts. A burst of static rings in my ear, and the voices of the other soldiers drop from shouts to normal levels as our comms start filtering the noise.
“Testing, Red One,” Arso says. “Sound off. Make it snappy.”
Call signs ring out one after another, moving around the cargo bay in a circle until I announce, “Red Eleven,” with as much conviction as I can manage.
“Communications clear,” Arso declares, though I don’t miss the look she sneaks at her watch. We’re still off course, and it’s eating at her.
“Communications clear,” Gal echoes. “Opening the cargo door.”
The low rumble of the engines gives way to the howling wind as the ramp thunders down. The Ruttin’ Hell sways in the air, our nose listing dangerously upward, and I grip the handhold tighter to keep from sliding out the rear. Someone’s jacket whips past my head, and laughter snaps through the comm as the soldiers scold whoever failed to pack their gear right.