“Just wait ’til we get you in the air,” we reply. “You’ll never want anything else.”

Thirty-Two

THIRTY-TWO

“THE TIMER’S COMING up,” whispers Hail. “Get ready to push.”

The rest of us call back from our different posts around the foundry, covering alleys and long tunnels leading to Hangar D above. We start winding down our nets, trimming back anything that won’t help us turn or burn or fight the wind. Even gunnery takes a back seat; if we have time to trade munitions, we have time to die.

We’ve already plotted our way out—lines of cover and visibility that should carry us all the way across this sub-level and into the shaft of a service elevator three sectors away. From there, back into D. From D, back into the wind.

At least, that’s the plan.

The hollows will have eyes on the hole we rode down here, but we were never going to punch back out that way. The shaft empties into open space and airborne taxi lanes. Plenty of space to collar us, and not a whole lot of cover, no matter how fast we make the break.

The next elevator is a loss already; it feeds into a handful of habitation zones, which means it cut itself off when Hangar D started losing breathable air. The locks wouldn’t be much trouble if there weren’t blast-doors to match. Hangar D works with shells and live ammunition, and it’s built to take the hits as they come.

So we’re going to make for the next shaft after that. It’s as wide as the one we took to get here, and it opens into the narrow ravines between D’s berthing blocks. It’ll give us a fighting chance out of this place, so long as we’ve got the velocity.

Besides, if everything goes to plan, the hollows will have plenty to distract them.

Two of the Cluster machines edge forward, but they keep Hail close behind. They can fight right on the bleeding edge, but she’s still got the better set of eyes. Together, they probe the battered corridor for creepers, listening to the creaks and moans of the old ship.

Bor brings up the rear. She’s got the same lenses as Hail does, but their heartbeats throb too loud and hot to put them together. A few paces apart, and we can just about hide them.

We stand near the back because we’re the quietest, even by the standards of the other Junos. Our reactor has more airtime than the other machines combined and tripled, and our little star doesn’t burn quite so bright as it used to. When all of us make a break for the surface, there’ll be enough exhaust-wash from the others to keep our signature hidden.