The Juno is old, older than the trainer, than almost anything else I’ve ever had the chance to fly. It was built at a time when every design expected weapons to fail, mechanisms to freeze solid, or jam with dust under alien skies. They used to issue shells with swords back then—blunt, flat, heavy things that barely deserve the name. They used to strap massive shot-cannons to their hulls—short range and nasty, with three whole moving parts, including the bullet.

When the Juno closes its hand, the fingers form a battering ram.

I look back at the huge door leading back into the ship. Kadi and his goons haven’t moved on it yet, and all of the locks are still in place. Good thing, too. If the Decatur makes it through, that young blood better have his A-game ready. Juno’s coming out swinging.

Hail waves to me, catches my eye. It’s my turn.

“Quickly,” she hisses.

I take a breath and push off as hard as I can. The sprint is heartbeats-long, and Hail has to catch me at the end, bringing me down in the lee of the hauler. My chest burns and my throat aches, more from the rush than the running. I let myself pant, and Hail doesn’t interfere.

This is what it feels like to be alive. I’d almost forgotten.

I find Hail’s eye and give her an A-OK. She nods, then points to her eyes, then downrange to the machine.

She’ll watch my back.

She mouths the word Ready?

I nod.

Hail holds five fingers up, and mouths Five.

One finger drops.

Four, I reply. I turn away and get ready for the run, keeping time in my head.

Three.

Two.

I push off.

I’ve made it ten steps when I hear a crash behind me, and the shriek of steel on steel. I risk a glance over my shoulder, just in time to see Hail roll out into the open, bringing her hands up above her head. The Juno is struggling to pull a fist clear of the flatbed wreck that used to be our cover.

Shit.

I keep pushing.

“Over here!” yells Hail. “Look at me. Look at me!” Her voice echoes around the dock. “Look at me. Remember who I am.”

There’s another crash. I’m halfway to the cradle when Hail shouts again.

“Rook!”

I change direction on instinct, turn hard enough that it nearly twists an ankle. The flatbed’s cab whips past me, trailing cable and twisted scrap, spinning as it hits the floor. It crumples in the corner, just ahead of me.

“Right!” shouts Hail. I almost don’t hear her. “Turn right!”

I see it. An emergency access, just wide enough for me. I turn, put my shoulder to the door and let momentum carry me through. At the speed I’m going, it’s like hitting a wall.