Calling it a sword makes it sound like it’s sharp. It isn’t. The edges are flat; the Juno is strong enough that it won’t make any difference.

We jab Avery on the shoulder. It’s playful, but he looks hurt for half a second. Understanding dawns a moment after that and pulls his face up around a smile.

We offer him another in return. “Nice one, Ave.”

Fifteen

FIFTEEN

WE GET A line from flight control, and it’s heavy. The kind they use when they’re planning on dumping massive files across the net, or running thick encryption. This one’s empty, though. There’s no audio, nothing much of anything once the Juno’s finished handshaking with the Tower nets. A minute comes and goes in silence.

“That you, Bell Tower?”

There’s a crackle, like there’s something blocking the receiver. “This is Bell Tower. Sorry, two-eleven.” There’s another break. “Are you ready to fly?”

We open our lenses. Our ground crew are already in their bays, and the SO stands out front, scraping at something on the deck with the toe of his boot. We ping Salt’s machine, shell-to-shell, and it echoes back.

Saddled and prepped for launch.

“We are good to go, Tower.”

She doesn’t reply immediately. The line crowds with voices, scuffing boots, and warning chimes. Someone is shouting.

“Are you all right, Bell Tower?”

“All clear, two-eleven,” she says, though her voice hints at something else. “I’m trying to get you something to go on—anything more than I’ve got.”

“Let’s have it.”

She takes a deep breath. “All right. All right.” And another. “Recovery flight one-thirty-five put out this morning. Complement of four, plus half of flight one-thirty-four. Plan had them headed for a weather station in the Borders. It got hit sometime last night.”

“Got hit by who?”

“The feed from the station makes it look like Sigurd. They got some silhouettes. Obs tagged Mirai and Corvier.”

My sweat runs cold. “What happened?”

“That’s the problem. We have no idea.” She breathes in, lets it out slowly. “They passed a signal buoy about an hour after they launched, but that’s all we’ve got. The next thing we know, we’ve got two survivors burning hard to get back on board.”

“But?”

“We’ve got one of the jockeys on line, but he’s incoherent. The other isn’t responding.”

“But the shell’s still flying.”

She mistakes it for a question. “Still flying, and a lot of other things too. We can’t decide if it’s on autopilot or not.”

There’s an edge in her voice. She doesn’t think it’s autopilot.

“Where are they now?”

“Berthing block twenty-eight. It’s a few rows above you.”

“Both shells?”

“Both shells. They came down hard. No holding pattern, no pathing, nothing. It was all we could do to get the doors open in time.”