I pause halfway to the door. I shouldn’t be surprised that my mother isn’t coming to Titan just to collect me. Of course she’ll have business to conduct after three years away, and Altair is an old contact of hers. Still, Momma would meet with him for only one reason. The thought of her selling weapons into the war I recently left—the war that people I love are still fighting in—makes me uneasy. But it isn’t my place to say anything, not to the general or to my mother.

“Thank you for warning me,” I say before the silence grows too thick.

“Of course. And, Sergeant Kaiser?”

I pause with my hand on the door, but this time I don’t look back at him.

“You’ve made your planet proud.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Red Baron

Scorpia

The floor tilts and the ship groans. The whole vessel shakes as Fortuna’s engine struggles to pull in the right direction, but she’s fighting a losing battle. The Red Baron is a hell of a lot bigger than us and will have no problem dragging us close enough that they can force their way inside.

Once I’m sure I can keep my footing, I follow Momma’s shouts down to the cargo bay. Lyre is carrying gear out of the supply closet, and the twins are already armed to the teeth—knives strapped to their legs, guns slung over their backs, grav-grenades at their hips. I check in the supply closet, but as I thought, everybody’s already grabbed the good shit. We have only a few sets of body armor, which have been claimed by Momma and the twins, and the weapons are all taken as well.

“Spare a blaster?” I ask Drom as I emerge, but she grunts and pushes past me to grab her armor from Lyre. “Aw, c’mon, you have enough weapons to neutralize an entire planet!” I shout after her as she walks away. Pol moves to join her near the ramp door, but I grab his arm and yank him to a stop. “One blaster. Please?”

He scrutinizes my face.

“You drunk?”

“What? No. You saw how much I drank. I’m not a lightweight.”

He sighs, unclipping a laser pistol from the back of his belt and delivering it into my waiting hands. He places it very delicately, as if it’s fine china rather than a weapon powerful enough to blow a hole through someone’s skull.

“Don’t lose it.”

“I’m not going to lose my only gun.”

“That’s exactly what you said last time,” he mutters, but hands me a smoke grenade as well before he follows his twin.

I turn to Momma, who is bent over the cargo. The five crates are tightly secured enough that the impact doesn’t seem to have rattled them.