“A crew of Sigurd shells made it inside the perimeter near B,” says Andrade, right in my ear. “Three of ours already burning. There are reports from the stern as well, but my contacts aren’t responding.”

Hail is furious. “Where have you been?”

“Trying to find you a new cover story. Tower is hunkering down. Our window is dead.”

“Then we jump.”

“Not so fast.” The line pulses for a second. “You’ve got company.”

Something tugs at my stomach; the feeling you’d get when you’ve put your machine into a dive and the gee starts pushing you around. It’s nothing to do with me; it’s feeding in along the net from Andrade, and my subconscious is doing its best to express it.

At the other end is a map marker, somewhere below us. I follow it, and find the source among the clouds.

A dark shape rises through the froth, trailing streamers from its conning towers and gun barrel. A destroyer, NORCOL writ large across the upper faces of its hull. The points are streaked charcoal black, edges showing silver where the breeze has worn its paint.

A lone transmission rolls in through the ceiling, a hundred channels wide, strong enough to batter its way through my buffers.

“This is the NCSV Leoni Grey to unidentified shells. Power down and surrender yourselves immediately. Repeat, this is the Leoni Grey. You are surrounded. Power down, and surrender immediately.”

“Listen to me.” There’s a pause as Andrade gathers himself. “There are two flights on their way to you now, and one already taking aim. You can’t outrun them, and the Grey can track faster than you can move. They’ll light you up.”

“So what? We just wait here?”

“No, Hail. You go on as planned. You fly as hard as you can.”

“Great idea,” I growl. “My machine won’t make it.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. Just work yourselves a flight plan, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Something clicks in my ear. I turn, and spare a glance for where Andrade’s hangar meets the wind. Horizon’s armour is crawling. I push the picture to Hail and Salt.

Our shells trade tightlines, comparing plans and flight vectors, jinks and high-gee curves, holographic countermeasures. Together, they plot our way through bursts of simulated fire, railshot and warheads and whatever else may come.

“Are you ready?” asks Andrade.

“As we’ll ever be.” I breathe in, let it out slowly. “Hey, Andrade?”

“What?”

“Don’t let them touch you.”

“UNIDENTIFIED SHELLS,” ROARS across the open. “This is your final—”

3, says a counter running down the corner of my eye.

“—warning. Cut your engines—”

2

“—and surrender yourselves immediately. You have sixty seconds to—”

Horizon’s hull opens below us and Andrade dawns across it. His machine falls across the open, turning in place, drowning everything out in the deep fires of its engines.

“—comply.”

The last word trails away.