“Copy, two-eleven. Clearing priority approach to D-Lower. Waiting on ground crews.” There’s an echo of someone speaking, like they’ve turned away from a microphone. “Crews report and flashes are up. SOs are ready to receive.”

I breathe in, let it out slowly. “Thank you, Bell Tower.”

“No problem, two-eleven.” Her voice picks up, just a hair. “Steady as she goes.”

With that, she’s gone, replaced by the dull monotones of the SO and ground crews calling in, going to work. The Juno replies before I can find the will to speak, pushing stock responses across the net.

I touch the saddle. “Old bird.”

The counter drops, but it doesn’t feel like I’m losing grip. The connection turns to haze, loses resolution until all I can feel is the wind on my skin.

“Thank you,” I whisper. It warms at me.

Hail doesn’t let me float. “Don’t tell them.”

Her voice comes from nowhere. It’s just as ragged as my own, but she has the same cold steel that Bell Tower had a moment ago.

Salt asks the question before I can. “Don’t tell them what, exactly?”

“About the hollow machines.” She clears her throat. “Don’t tell them about the hollows, or anything else we saw. If anyone asks, Sigurd’s jockeys died on impact.”

I almost bite my tongue. “They’ll think we did it. They’ll think we broke in and—” I trail off.

“And shot them?” The steel takes an edge. “That’s what you were going to do.”

I stutter, but Salt has my wing. “There’s a line between thinking and doing, Hail.”

“Maybe so, but no one will judge you. As far as any NorCol badge is concerned, Sigurd murdered one of our own in cold blood.”

“And so we took two eyes for the one we lost?” growls Salt. “Like hell.”

“Maybe we did, maybe we didn’t. Maybe we just hit them so hard they didn’t survive the landing.”

“Why?” I manage. It carries, but only just.

“I need time. Time to do some digging on this before NorCol brass finds out.”

“Digging?”