He hesitates, on the edge of mouthing off, but I’d bet that he was part of the crew that went behind my back, did work on my machine that I hadn’t authorised, Kadi or no Kadi. Another jockey might have taken matters into their own hands, made an example of one so all the others understood. I’ll let him go with a little PT.

“Understood,” he mutters.

I wait for them to hit the deck, then spread my feet, take a deep breath, and stiffen all the muscle in my core. I close my eyes, and whisper, “Carry me.”

31.44

The floor speeds away. My head feels like it’s pulled free of my shoulders. My chest fills with fire, and makes me want to choke. My arms lock up, and my knees tremble.

48.09

62.13

My lenses shift in their focus-rings, trying to bring the world back from the blur. My reactor chamber reads a temperature spike, and pressures climb. My hydraulics flex and my fists stir in their housings. My wings press themselves against the cradle.

88.71

I can’t hold it. I have to catch my head before I drop it. My stomach turns and my throat constricts. I don’t hear the sound of tearing metal up ahead, or the shouts of the technicians.

2.43

I find Hail above me, holding me up by the webbing on my suit. Behind her, the cradle stands open, scaffolds scattered across the floor, the crew clear and watching. One of the lock-bolts has broken free of its mounts, landed end up on the concrete. The Juno stands in the midst of it, unsteady, a hand on its forehead.

Just like me.

“Christs,” says Hail, eyes on me, then on the machine. “How did you do that?”

I have to gasp for air. “I can hear it.”

IT SMELLS LIKE war in here.

And I’m barely through the door. I’ve got both feet on the ladder, and my back against the wall of the operator’s airlock, listening as the outer hatch winds shut below me. My helmet would normally filter it, but my suit is trading air with the Juno’s own supply, sucking it in through one-way valves in my face plate.

There’s the smell of oil from the hinges, and a sharp tang of hydraulic fluid. The plastic stink from the shell’s air scrubbers, and the mix of solvents and surfactants that keep mould from growing in its lungs. There’s plain old grease under everything else, but then, there would always be. The more of it drifts in, the more I recognise.

Hot metal mixed with body scents; a little acid underneath and a little iron overtop. Saline and blood and burnt propellant, acrid fuel and ozone. Other things more difficult to wash away.

Meat. Carbon. Fire.

Death.

A lot of it.