If it was me on my own, I’d botch it in a second. I’d slip, maybe cramp up, or trip over myself and hit the wall.

34.88

But I’m not alone.

53.10

The Juno and I measure ourselves against the incline, do the calculations in the shared space between our heads. We pilot the flight suit back to the furthest edge of the step, and bunch ourselves down around knots of artificial muscle. We divert most of the available power to our legs and core, dig our toes into the stone and launch.

The first stride is as long as I could manage on my own, but the next is twice the size and completely impossible. A third, even longer, and we kick off, suddenly airborne. We’ve already plotted our flight path, skin tensing as the ledge rises to meet us. We don’t have the power to clear it, but we knew that already. We shuffle power back up from our legs, dump it all into arms and chest and shoulders. We catch the lip on one hand, kick out, wheel across the edge and come down on skidding feet, our armoured fingertips dragging behind us.

Hail watches us.

I blink. Me. Watches me.

28.13

“Are you sure you weren’t a Wolf?”

12.81

I shrink back into the boundaries of my own skin and battered muscle. My head feels cramped, like there isn’t enough space to hold me. Breathe in, breathe out.

I hold out my glove and flex the strands that power its knuckles. “I’m a jockey, same as any other.” I close the fist and meet her eyes, but I don’t know what to read in them. “A flight-suit is just a little shell, right? Same idea, just a little smaller.”

She watches me, but Salt gets in before she speaks.

“Well done. No, really.”

I find him down below, looking up with arms crossed.

“Just don’t be expecting a repeat.” He spreads his hands. “I’m not making the jump. I’m not even making the crawl. Either you haul me up, or you do the next part on your own.” He chuckles at our expressions. “What?”

We drag him over the edge, rinse and repeat for the last step, if a little slower and saner.

“Christs,” he mutters, once we finally clear the top. “Would you look at that?”

As if we could do anything else but stare.

I’D CALL IT a door, but that would be missing the point. It has all of the features—hinges, locking bolts, a heavy frame to hold it all in place—but you’d only call it that because you didn’t have a better word for it. I need something better; the idea of a door, taken somewhere deep and dark.

It lies where it fell, flat on the far side of the threshold, huge and threatening.