The ground is close. Horrifically close. We’re well under a thousand yards, and even though part of my brain knows that jumps have been made from as low as two hundred feet, there’s nothing I can do about the survival instinct screaming at me to never let go.
“Ten seconds to drop. Wait—” Wen’s voice cuts off abruptly as the Beamer swerves.
Spins.
And then, even worse, flips.
Pain shrieks through my wrists as my hands twist in the canvas. The comm fills with confused shouts as every soldier in the bay goes ass over head. I find myself staring down at the ceiling of the cargo hold, trying to decide whether to let go and try for a better grip or let the canvas straps slowly wring the life out of my fingers.
“Get this ship—” Arso starts, but another vicious twist of the Beamer’s controls chokes her silent.
“Ettian,” I hear Gal whisper.
It’s time. Gal’s scrambled the navigation, tricking Wen into flying a mile off from the communications tower we’re targeting, positioning us squarely over a patrol that the Archon soldiers won’t see coming until it’s too late. My gaze fixes on the bay door, the open ramp, the welcoming sight of the prairie below.
“On me!” I shout, and let go.
Gravity steals me, pulling me hard into the floor as Wen rights the ship. I tuck into an awkward roll, spreading my wings, and tumble clean off the ramp. The world spins wildly, and I struggle against the buffeting winds. My suit catches me, yanking my arms back as I level my chest against the horizon. The comm in my ear buzzes with the confusion of the soldiers behind me, but when I twist my head, I catch ten shadows in my periphery as the Ruttin’ Hell’s engines scream into a rapid ascent.
I let go. All animal. All instinct. In a Viper, you retain a little of your humanity. In free fall, you’re a missile. But there’s an uncanny moment when the air pushes hard against my wings—a moment where I’m not clad in silk but in the lightweight, impenetrable armor of a knight’s powersuit.
A moment when I’m invincible. A moment I feel right.
“Ettian,” Arso’s razor-edged voice warns in my ear. She’s spotted the communications tower—so far from our current position that there’s no chance we’ll make it.
“Trust me,” I shout over the wind.
And for once, my words ring true. I shift our course with an abrupt dip of one arm, veering us away from the tower, away from the patrol, away from anywhere anyone expected us to end up. I wait for the objection, but none comes. Another glance over my shoulder finds the soldiers nosing into formation behind me. The plan has fallen apart, and they know I’m their best hope of making it safely to ground.
Which is happening in a matter of seconds. We’re close enough that I can pick out the individual tufts of prairie grass. I hazard a look over my shoulder, catching both the distant spires of Trost gleaming in the late-afternoon sun and the far-too-close plume of dust kicked up by a patrol truck veering toward us.
“PULL,” I bellow, and grapple for the cord on my chest. A flap, a flutter as the pilot chute unfurls and yanks the main chute out, and then my chest feels like it’s about to snap in half as the straps go taut. I glance up, making sure the chute’s unfurled completely, then down in time to swing my legs up and catch the ground.
I go down hard, stumbling, staggering, finally managing to throw my weight backward, dig my heels in, and plant my ass firmly on the prairie. Dust clots the air around me, and I desperately try to quiet my gasping lungs enough so I can hear how close the patrol truck is. The rest of the soldiers swoop past overhead, steering their chutes expertly enough to land on their feet.
With a tug of the releases, I shed my chute, then rip my helmet and goggles off. The whine of the patrol truck’s engine sharpens in the distance. I stagger upright, tamping down the urge to jog after the rest of the squad.
Arso whirls on me. Her eyes narrow when she sees how I’ve planted myself apart from them. “C’mon, kid,” she snaps. “Everyone form up on me. Guns up.”
I hold steady.
“Get your ass over here,” Arso snaps.
I flick a switch on my chest, and the comms go dead. Her voice drops from my ear to several feet ahead of me, flanked by the confused mutters of the soldiers.
“There’s a way out,” I call, grateful for the way my volume disguises the otherwise-obvious tremor in my voice. “Dead ahead is the least-staffed gate on the perimeter. Ten soldiers can take it easily, and there’ll be a truck you can use to get a head start. To get somewhere safe before this all goes to hell.”
“What do you mean all goes t—oh, you son of a bitch,” Arso hisses. In an instant, her gun snaps up, and her boltfire slams hard into my chest.
Into the deflector armor she doesn’t know I’m wearing beneath my wingsuit.
I go down hard, my back slamming into the dirt. There’s no question it’s where I belong now. Arso rushes toward me with the soldiers at her back, ready to beat me senseless or shoot me in the head while I’m down. “There isn’t time,” I plead, rolling onto my knees. “A patrol’s coming. You have to go now. I can head them off for you.”
She stops short, her teeth bared in a snarl vicious enough to knock a dreadnought out of orbit, but I see the calculation in her eyes. The immediate satisfaction of revenge versus living to fight another day. With so much at stake, there’s only one right choice. The one she’s made before.
“You have to go,” I repeat. “I can’t save the Archon fleet, but I can do this much. I’m so sorry.”
Arso shakes her head, spitting into the dirt. “Traitorous whelp,” she growls, but her gun goes down all the same. Over her shoulder, I catch Sims’s despondent eyes, and my gut twists. I knew this would happen when I got to know them, and still I let it happen. Sims, the kindly, well-read soldier dreaming of finding his moms and their oceans again. He’s done nothing but make me feel welcome, and in return I’ve welcomed him to my homeworld with a knife in the back. I deserve every inch of how much it crushes me to face my betrayal head-on.
With one last snarl, Arso turns tail and jogs off, the rest of the squad closing in formation around her as they head for the gate ahead.
I crawl to my feet, watching them go with my heart in my stomach. Somewhere in the free fall, I’d convinced myself that this would feel good. Heroic, even. That I was finally going to do the right thing.
I feel nothing but sheer, mind-numbing terror as I turn toward the distant plume of the patrol truck’s dust, lift my hands over my head, and start walking.
CHAPTER 26
WHEN THE TRUCK rumbles to a halt, six armored Umber soldiers pour out. Their faces are shielded by helmets and goggles, but one of them nearly takes off at a run when he recognizes me. “Ettian?” Ollins shouts, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.