By that logic, Bor will have it hardest—her machine is hotter and louder, and she’ll by flying into sensor-webs and guns already looking for her—but she’s also a former Hasei. Hasei’s Sabres and Chillons are sharp and fast; if she’s fought for half the time that I have, she’ll have done it all on pure velocity.

The first minute passes with nothing but darkness and shipboard groaning to show for it. Then another.

Something’s wrong, sends Bor.

We’re two minutes in, replies Hail. Two thirty now. A delay like that barely deserves the name.

The Cluster turns around. Why? it asks, three machines and a hint of Salt. What makes you say that?

We come up on 3:00.

This was time-sensitive, replies Bor, and Andrade knew that. He’s fought his way into D once before. He knew how hard this would be.

So he wouldn’t keep us waiting? we ask.

Not unless there was a way to let us know. He’d find something. If there was a change of plan, he’d—The line dies before it can finish. What was that?

One of the Cluster drops on its haunches and rests its fingers on the deck. We can feel the edge of something through our feet, but it’s just more creaks and murmurs from old Horizon.

Hail can feel it now—the subtle shift in pitch and volume. What is it?

Look, says the thing that lives with Salt, its headlamps cutting through a drizzle of rust.

We’re registering longitudinal gee, says the Cluster, all as one.

It’s tiny, though, replies Hail. Maybe there’s a storm brewing.

What kind of windspeed would that take? asks Bor. To shake a ship like this?

The ground is shivering now, and bloody iron rains down on us. We can feel the deep groans coming in through the deck.

Registering acceleration, says the Cluster.

A sudden shock runs through the floor, tearing it out from under us. Every shell goes down, but the Cluster reacts in time to soften the landing, one Juno to each of us, steady hands and straining hydraulics. They haul us level, and shore us up before the next quake hits.

“What the fuck was that?” shouts Hail, network taking over from quivering tightline beams.

“The pressure’s coming from the stern,” says Salt, calm and almost flat. “But it’s caught on something. Near the prow.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

“They’re doing it again,” we realise.

The others look back at us. “Doing what?” asks Bor.

The same thing they did to Sigurd’s boat.

The roar grows louder, sets everything to the same tectonic beat.

“Those are engines!” we shout. “They’re trying to break the moorings!”