Bor has skill enough to beat the swarm on her own terms, calculations or no, but she can’t fly forever. We can hear her shell echo as PHADAR and augurs start finding lock, almost feel the crackle of rails reaching out for her.

The Cluster will never get tired, and you could almost say the same for us. The body in our saddle is fighting to stay alive, but we can force it to breathe even when the gee is trying to choke it, use the artificial muscle in its suit to keep its blood from sinking to its feet. It will live as long as we’re around to keep it that way. Salt will be the same—alive for as long as we can keep up the fight.

A line opens from Hail.

“What do—”

But the Cluster has already decided.

“—we—”

It works at the speed of thought, flashing between their machines and the rest of us. New directions stream in, new simulations playing out where we can see. Hail and Bor aren’t fast enough, but we live it all in heartbeats.

“—do?”

Not that, we send. We can’t. You can’t.

But the Cluster disagrees, three machines at once. We promised to help you fight the flood. If one of us lives, all of us do.

We push back, try to force a change in their predictions. You can’t.

Two Junos are already curving off, swords drawn. They won’t have time to work their guns—it takes too long to find a clear line of sight, and rails don’t have the force to clear the way.

The blade isn’t a weapon on its own—it turns a whole shell into a weapon. Their path will bring them around, take them right against the hull, supersonic. One will stay with us, carry Salt back into the wind. Two will likely die.

No. Not like this.

Our path curves around, to carry us away and then back to the break. We’ll hit just as the Junos are set to cross our path, their swords held out, to carve through hollow steel. To cut us a way out.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

They turn away, sharp and sudden, none of their calculations where we can hear. All we have is their fading song, the last breath of Salt’s old tune.

Not again.

We throw our curve wide, make a turn that almost kills the living thing that sits in our saddle. We draw on their tails, our own blade easy in our hand.

What are you doing? asks one, almost a whisper.

“Rook!” comes the call from somewhere down the path we were supposed to take. “Rook!” again, Hail shouting herself raw. Again, and now the voice is Salt’s.

They don’t have time to do anything else.

This is who we are, we reply, but it isn’t bitter. Can-openers on fucking angel wings.