The Stepping Stone’s reflector passes below us, almost close enough to touch. A little less fire, a little closer to the edge, and we might have broken ourselves on it—probably lost a leg at the knee. Even now, we throw as much thrust as we can muster, but for a second, then another, we’re caught in the currents.

“Are you clear?” comes the call from Salt. “Rook?”

I can’t call back, not just yet. The universe spins and shakes and howls around us, but we’re fighting back, flaring wings and trimming flaps, spitting thrust to level out. Salt floats into view, already turning to match our heading. The wind doesn’t seem to bother him.

“I’m clear,” I manage, a moment before we’ve actually straightened out. It feels like we’ve taken a beating. “We’re clear. Holding steady.” I have to work for air between the words.

The Decatur watches us for a moment longer, but drifts clear, giving us space to work the jitters out. “On your wing,” says Salt.

“Don’t forget,” says VINE.

“Shut up.”

We’re already working the angles, watching as our systems trace the blueprints out, counting off the places where the station’s skin runs too thick, or the Eye-light interferes.

It takes us most of a minute just to get our weapon clear of its mounts, another to straighten out again. Hail or Salt could probably do the damage just as well, but there’s every change their rails would cut through-and-through, turning VINE’s little mind to scrap and sparkling ashes.

So the Juno and I burn hard, work to keep ourselves floating while we line up a shot. Hail’s shell lingers overhead, her systems marking the Stone with digital flares from her augurs, and the ghosts of her munitions, loaded and ready to fire.

“The lines are open, VINE. You have five seconds after she hits.”

“And then? You will kill me?”

The holographics open up and a simulated Spirit blasts its way through a simulated Stepping Stone, shattering its internal structure in a dozen places, splitting the hull and leaving it open to the wind.

“I won’t,” says Hail. “But I won’t have to.”

VINE’s nets swell. “As soon as I am loose.”

No pressure, then.

We hold ourselves as steady as we can as our weapon warms in our hands. We play the shot out in our head, again and again. We revise the angle, change the windspeed, but there’s too much noise. The wind curdles around us, catches on our hands and the ugly silhouette of our rifle. Our wings can’t hold us steady.

“Salt.”

“Read you.”

“Mind running interference? I need a slipstream.”

“Moving up.”