“Pilot’s got them on the line, trying to talk them down,” says Hail. If there’s more, she doesn’t say it.

So I push. “But?”

“We’re running out of excuses.” The Spirit turns, cranes for a glimpse over my shoulder.

“It’s still shut, Hail. There’s no sign of anything.”

She turns. “Salt?”

“I’m pinging again, but there’s nothing on his channel.”

The Juno and I can feel four shells outside, spreading out around the cutter. Weapons locked on our little tub.

The cutter is designed for combat drops; the deck is thick, and covered in ceramic scale, resistant to heat and gunfire. The nose is a blade-edge, only just wide enough to fit the air-crew, made to slice through incoming fire rather than ride it out. The sides are thin by comparison, intended to be locked back out of the way. The ceiling is even thinner than the sides, meant to break away if the cutter starts sinking. It’s a dropship—emphasis on the drop.

We turn, snag our fingers where the doorframe meets the hull. “I’ll take another look.”

But Hail lands fingers on our shoulder. “No. If you’re going out, it’s going to be burning hard.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“They want a flight plan.”

“But that’s Andrade’s—” I tail off.

“Exactly.”

“Where is he?”

“The pilot can’t reach him.” Hail’s machine edges nearer to the door, flexes its knees and spreads its feet. “But it looks like Tower wants positive ID on everyone and everything.” She’s spooling, but isn’t feeding fire into her engines yet. “Get ready. We may have to turn and burn, pop screamers and hope they’ll keep us covered.”

Salt’s shell radiates heat. “Rally point?”

New connection available, says a window in my eyes. Accept?

A map of vectors and relative velocities unfolds, all plotted relative to Horizon and the glaring Eye in the distance. The closest thing you can get to a map in a place like this.

“It’s called the Stepping Stone,” says Hail. “This will take you there.”

The Juno and I look over them. “Good luck.”

Another pulse rides through us, just as loud as the first. I can hear the shells outside trading fire-solutions, and rails charging static against the background wash.

The cutter pilot pushes in on our net. “What’s going on? Why are they locking on us?”

“They’re locking on us, not you,” says Hail. “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of the way in a second.”

“Shit.” The line goes cold.

Salt chuckles. “Nice of him to call.”

“He’s spooked.” The Juno and I put an eye around the corner. “Something has tripped the pickets.”