As soon as she’s gone, I rush to the twins.

“Oh, stars, that looks bad.” I bend down next to Drom but can’t bring myself to try to yank the spear out of her. It will probably just do more damage. “We need to get back to the ship. Now. Help me, Pol.”

Drom lets out a cry of pain as we both work to lift her up. Shouts down the hall announce pirates approaching quickly.

We race as fast as we can manage down the corridors of the enemy ship. They’re gaining on us fast, and by the time the bridge to Fortuna comes into sight, I’m shaking from exhaustion and terror.

“Lyre!” I shout as I see her peering out from the entrance. “They’re coming. Please tell me you cut us loose!”

Lyre nods, her eyes very wide as she sees the state of us and hears the pirates close behind. I push Drom at her and turn to deter them with laser-fire, slowly backing toward the ship while my younger siblings hobble forward. Only when they’ve made it do I turn and race to follow. I slip on the blood-soaked corridor and nearly lose my footing before stumbling into the safety of the cargo bay.

Momma is still crouched behind the storage containers, pulse rifle trained on the ship’s entrance, blood smeared down the side of her face. A shocking amount of dead pirates are piled in the cargo bay in front of her, none even close to reaching her. Their bodies are so thoroughly riddled with holes that Momma’s weapon must have been at work. Bile rises in my throat at the sight. Usually, our skirmishes don’t end with quite so many bodies, but it seems Momma really wasn’t screwing around this time.

Sometimes it’s all too easy to forget the things my mother’s done to build up our family business, and the things she’s willing to do to defend it. Even after all our familial bickering, seeing her like this fills me with a childish sense of awe. No wonder the pirates don’t seem eager to follow us here.

“Let’s go,” Momma barks once we all stumble on board, shutting the ramp behind us and effectively ruining my moment of admiration. Pol and Lyre ease Drom to the floor near the stairs, and she leans her head back and shuts her eyes with a groan. Momma has already started checking on the cargo crates, with barely a glance to spare for her injured children.

“Drom’s hurt,” I say. “She needs medical attention ASAP.”

“She’ll get it as soon as we’re out of here,” she says without looking up, moving to the next cargo crate. “Get a move on.”