by Jenny Martin
On Castra, you don’t run into these much anymore. You can hardly even find them on the black market. I’ve only seen one other Lucky Star up close, a sweet silver restoration. Benny only let me drive it once, and even then, he’d only let us take it for a quick run around the dunes. Because back home, vacs own the skies and rigs eat the pavement, and never the two shall meet. Keeps things nice and simple and safe. But this old cruiser? Looks dangerous as hell. Count me in.
“Aren’t these illegal?” Miyu asks.
“On Castra,” Fahra answers.
“And here?” I say.
He swipes his flex against the rig to unlock it. “In Manjor? As long as the accelerant core’s disabled, no one cares. Take a look around. These people have nothing. Rigs are expensive. Better to modify one than to scrap it.”
Fahra lifts the side door of the dubious skybrid and waves us into its small passenger hold. Three jump seats in the back, pilot’s and copilot’s in the front. Compliant, Miyu scrambles to the rear, but I slip past her, taking the pilot’s seat. There’s a modified steering wheel, throttle and controls. I check out the dash-screens—original design, same setup as the one in Benny’s garage. Surprisingly simple. I guess it’d have to be, to allow just about anyone to gear up and fly.
“Move aside,” Fahra protests. “Or sit in the back with your friend.”
“No way. I’m not passing up the chance to drive one of these again,” I say, hands already on the wheel. “If we’re rolling, I’m driving.”
“That is unacceptable, I cannot—”
“I am a former Corporate Cup racer, winner of the 2393 Sand Ridge 400.” Already, the smile’s tugging at my lips. “Before that, lead crew for Benny Eno in Capitoline. Best in sixty-three straight runs. So go ahead and forget any more talk of riding along. Get in. I’m driving.”
I swear I nearly get Fahra to grin. He takes the copilot’s seat and buckles in. Miyu climbs in the back. “I’ll navigate, then.”
I press the ignition. The skybrid—our Lucky Star—answers in a rhythmic, low but climbing roar. I hear systems powering up and thrusters idling, and the sound of it pierces deep, awakening something within me. Flaring into life, a long quiet itch begins to burn. Deep breath. Gut check. Hands on the wheel.
“Alrighty then. Let’s blaze.”
And then, of course, I punch it.
“Stay on this course,” Fahra commands. He programs a route on the navigation screen, and I’m quick to follow it. I can tell he and Miyu are none too thrilled to be plastered against the backs of their seats as I zip down the crowded alley, then careen onto the main road, the sputtering, raging river of traffic cutting through the center of Manjor. And I’m not even going at it that hard. There are plenty of cabs around us, speeding along far more recklessly.
Those rigs, they want attention. They need everyone to know they’re coming through. But I’m stealth gliding, ghosting through split-second gaps wherever I can, tucking us into night’s empty pockets. Slipping past every rearview mirror, I push the limits of inconspicuousness. In the dim fog of sea spray and exhaust, we’re nothing more than a flash of paint and taillight.
And it’s getting us where we want to go in rusting good time. We’ve nearly reached the top of the hill. In seconds, the twilit bay will be at our feet.
“When should I exit?” I ask Captain Fahra.
“Three more gates, then—”
We crest and he stops.
And suddenly I see it too. Shadows looming in the skyline. Officers parked at the next three exit gates. The armored rigs on the ground and the squadron of sleek black battle vacs hovering over the harbor. Guns out and searchlights on, the IP are on the move, blighting the city like flies on a spoiling feast.
“Tell me this is routine,” I say to Fahra. “That the Interstellar Patrol is always out like this.”
He shakes his head. “No, not this many. Something is wrong.”
Miyu groans, and I see what’s caught her attention. Through the windshield, I spy half the ships in the bay start to move out. All lit up, they drift like scattershot constellations. The smugglers are leaving, and that’s a bad sign.
Here on the hill, traffic slows and we’re almost crawling. The hovering vacs turn and begin heading our way.
Miyu’s saying something, but I can’t hear her. The panic bomb’s gone off inside my skull, and my heart skids against the back of my throat. My flex buzzes, and I pull it out. There’s another message from Larken.
KL: PULLING UP ANCHOR. HIDE WHEREVER YOU CAN. THEY’RE LOOKING FOR YOU.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Before I can reply, he flexes again.
KL: HOLD TIGHT. STAY IN THE CITY. WORKING ON AN EXTRACTION PLAN.
“What is it?” Fahra asks.
I toss the card at him. “Answer for me. Tell Larken we’re coming. Right now.”
For a second, the captain’s frozen. Miyu blurts out what his eyes are asking. “Phee, are you crazy? We’ll never make it to the docks.” She leans forward once more, until she’s at my shoulder. “Look down there. They’re already pulling over rigs right and left, and we’ve got no way to reach the Andalan. You need to slide over, jump the curb, and turn around. We need to get underground until this blows over. It’s our only option.”
In my head, the last rational shreds tell me to listen to her. The words flap and squawk, white flags snapping in the wind. Slow down. Turn back. Lay low. But there’s another voice too. The girl I used to be. The girl who wasn’t afraid of wrecking her rig or getting arrested. She whispers something else.
If you go underground, you won’t leave this city alive.
The IP are swarming. I have to get us all out of here. Right now or never.
Traffic grinds to a stop. I stare at the dash, the navigation screens and dual controls. There’s only one way to get out over that harbor . . .
“Tell Larken to get Miyu’s vac ready for takeoff,” I say to Fahra. When he opens his mouth to protest, I shut him down. “Do it. Now. Tell him we’re coming in hot, and to clear the aft end of the deck.”
Fahra takes the card, flexing furiously as I give orders. “Tell him to empty Miyu’s cargo hold. Get rid of everything but enough fuel to make it to the Strand. And tell him he sure as sap better be ready to fly.”
Fahra obeys, but Miyu’s still jaw-jacking at my ear. “Phee, I know what you’re thinking, but—”
“I thinking you’d better reach back there and fire up the accelerant core.”
“What? The core’s disabled. There’s no getting this thing off the ground. I thought Fahra was pretty clear on that.” She looks at him for confirmation. He nods.
“So un-disable it.” When she doesn’t catch on, I walk her through, step by step. “Just look down, on the left by your seat, there’ll be a small panel. All you have to do is open it. There will be four switches, two for the accelerant boosters and two for flight control. Probably blue. Yeah, they’re usually blue. Flip them up. All of them. Easy as—”
“The panel. It’s bolted shut,” she growls.
Ahead, the line of rigs starts moving again. At each exit gate, IP soldiers are pulling over vehicles, tagging cargo and scanning drivers.
“What’s our plan B?” Miyu asks.
My eyes flick to the blade at Fahra’s hip. “Dagger,” I snap, jerking my chin.
Quickly, he hands it to Miyu.
“There is no plan B,” I tell her. “Pop that hatch.”
A second later, she wedges the knifepoint into a gap at the top of the panel. At first, she tries inching the blade in, moving it back and forth. The panel groans, but won’t quite give.
I feel the roar of the approaching vacs. There’s not much sky between us now. “Miyu, I need those boosters . . .”
Frantically, Miyu redoubles her efforts. Fahra slips out of hi
s restraint, as if to help, but she’s already on it. Crouching, she levers herself over the panel, then gasps and kicks and curses, driving the blade in with her boot.
Thwack!
The panel snaps and flies off, hitting the back of my seat. Miyu dives for the switches.
A second later, the flight console answers. “Core activated.”
Miyu whoops, victorious.
For a second, the skybrid holds its breath, then shivers as the core powers up.
Instantly, we’re blinded by a dozen searchlights. A ring of vacs hovers over us now, their engines screaming, sirens blaring, sounding the alarm. Moving in, they tighten the noose.
I feel the panic closing in, a living, breathing monster, its jaws at my throat. Against the glare, I blink and thumb the sweat out of my eyes. Flight options flicker on my screens. I tune everything else out and focus on the words rapid ascent and vertical takeoff. The text flashes from red to green.
I hesitate. The ghost in me whispers, wheels up. Now.
“Better buckle back in,” I shout. “Hold tight. Things are about to get ugly.”
I swipe both options, and the Lucky Star answers. We lurch into a deafening roar.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I CAN PINPOINT THE CREST OF THE PANIC. AT MY COMMAND, the beat-up skybrid rockets up like a blazing, angry sun. Angling under an enemy vac, we reach the ceiling of our ascent and my body jerks against the restraints. Normally, the chin-snapping jolt would push the sweetest adrenaline high. But this time, I’m white-knuckling the most dangerous ride of my life.
I tighten my hold on the flight control, the modified wheel that hums and quakes in my grip. The yoke’s a living, struggling thing. Too much pressure, and we’ll veer off course. Too little, and we’re out of control. The skybrid’s nose jumps, hiccupping against the air, and we’re slammed again. I strain for more altitude. Sliding past another vac, we level up, and my eyelids snap wide open to dusk-
purpled clouds. It’s the clouds that chase away the fear.
We are really flying.
Another blink. Two enemy vacs in our path and three more on our exhaust. I pull up, and we slip between the behemoths at twelve o’clock. They have power, but we have speed. Too slowly, the larger IP ships adjust course, roaring after us.
“Captain Fahra,” Miyu shouts. “Put Larken on the com.”
We plunge right, and Fahra swipes my flex card against the com screen. Larken immediately answers.
“WHAT PART OF ‘HOLD TIGHT’ DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND, PHEE?” Larken shouts.
“No time to argue,” I answer. “Just get ready for—”
“Phee!” Miyu warns. “Watch out!”
I lever the controls again, ducking under a line of pulse fire. No, not pulse fire. Disruptor flare. I can tell by the sound—a low, throbbing, shockwave-rumbling noise that grinds in my bones—and the weird, ozone-y aftertaste in my mouth. Flare is the worst. Doesn’t just jack up networked systems, but leaves you feeling like your insides are turned out. As I swing up to dodge another hit, it occurs to me: The IP aren’t aiming to blow us to bits. They’re trying to force us out of the air.
One-billion-credit bounty. They aim to take me alive.
Larken’s still squawking on the com, and everything’s coming at me at once. “Hang on Larken, we’re coming your way,” I tell him, then turn on Fahra. “This thing got any weapons? Sub-orbital shields? If this bird’s got any super-secret special modifications, now would be a great time to let me know.”
“Are you joking?” He looks back at Miyu. “She is joking, correct?”
Instead of answering, Miyu leans forward and shouts into the com. “Larken, I think Phee’s going to try to land—”
“I am going to land. On the Andalan. And then we are getting the rust out of here.” A hard-climbing, gut-churning left to avoid the latest burst of disruptor flare, but we catch the rim of it, and our screens stutter. Thank the stars, it’s only a split-second glitch.
“Watch it,” Miyu says. “We won’t survive a hard systems reboot.”
“Look . . .” I pause. I’m about to argue, but then I remember we don’t have time to fight while three . . . no, four full-sized battle vacs are gunning for us. I course correct, and we swoop below the largest IP beast. I swipe the accelerant controls and beg the system to give me everything it’s got. We lurch forward, jetting toward the freshly scuttled harbor. There are so few ships in bay now. Ours hovers at the edge.
Just when I think we’re going to get over the water free and clear, more vacs drop from the clouds. It’s like the skies are bleeding Benroyal stooges. I’ve got nowhere to go but . . . over, up, down, knife-twist up again. “Hang on!” I say as I manhandle the stubborn yoke. The Andalan’s directly in our sights now. It’s hovering over the waves, bailing fast.
“Larken,” Miyu barks again. “Working on final approach. Feed us a systems beacon for landing.”
“Affirmative,” he answers. “Lock in on six-seven-six-three.”
Instantly, Fahra responds at the controls, and we pick up the beacon. The nav screens blink with new data, and guidelines—a narrow flashing green track and instrumentation readings—appear on our windshield.
The emerald flash distracts me from the fighter vac at seven o’clock. The one who’s belching a steady rain of flare. I angle sideways, but it’s too late. We stutter again, and the screens blank out. We hold our breath for one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .
“Booster guidance is gone. Losing altitude,” Miyu warns. “Think we’re going to—”
“Come on . . .” I growl at the skybrid. “Come on, you battered old piece of—”
WHOOSH.
The boosters stir and our Lucky Star twitches back to life, screens winking bright.
“Core systems back,” Fahra says, recovering the route. “Beacon’s still a go.”
No time for victory shouts. I glance at the returning guidelines. We are way off course. So far under our target trajectory, I’m surprised we’re not under the waves and feeling the spray. I maneuver, straining to force us high enough. For a second, we bounce back between the guidelines. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and intuition tells me to slide right. We move and sink beneath another barrage of disruptor flare. Recovering, I pull up, desperate to get us back on track.
The Andalan’s dead ahead. We are still too low and coming in too hot. Right now, if I try to land, the laws of physics will tear us apart. I ease down the accelerant and milk the controls for more altitude. Still, I fail.
The beacon alarm sounds, stealing my focus and pulling me out of consciousness. Every pulse of the Klaxon strikes like a fist at my temple until I’m limp, darkness hovering at the edge of my vision. I’m . . . going to . . . black . . .
Scuffling by my seat. A hard slap to the cheek.
“Don’t you dare pass out,” Miyu barks at me. Hands lunge over mine, reaching for the wheel. Captain Fahra. “Stay with me,” Miyu demands. “Breathe through your belly. Ease it out. Exhale.”
She thumps my hip as I come back around. “Clench up, Van Zant. Tighten your legs.”
Her voice comes at me like a fuzzed-out, otherworldly signal, but I do it. Every command’s a lifeline, pulling me out of the tunneling dark.
“That’s it,” she coaches. “Squeeze ’til it hurts.”
I obey. The blood rushes back to my head. Still shaky, but rust it all, I’m back. I get a better grip on the wheel. “I’m okay,” I say to Fahra.
He eases his hold. Slowly, he pulls back.
Miyu’s still at my ear. “I’ve got this,” I rasp.
“We’ve got this,” she clarifies.
I nod, eyes on the horizon, thankful for Miyu. We’re bouncing in and out of the guidelines, closing in on the Andalan’s deck. On the screen, instrument readings flash. The nav system drones, “Warning.
Warning. Reduce rate of descent. Adjust angle of approach. Engage landing sequence.”
I start to bug out again, but Miyu talks over the voice. “You don’t have to be a pilot to land this. The beacon’s going to do most of the work. All you have to do is chase the right number. Use the wheel. See that ten thousand reading? Bring it way down.”
I obey. The skybrid whines as we decelerate. Eight thousand. Five thousand. Two thousand. Fahra works the flight screen. Wheels down for landing.
IP vacs crisscross the sky, and I can’t believe we’re still in the air.
“Ease up. Keep pulling that speed down,” Fahra says. “That’s it. Adjust the angle.”
I’m still shaking. The yoke jerks in my grip and we bounce, in and out, in and out of the guidelines. A roar shatters the sky. The rumble of disruptor flare at our tail. I can taste it, as sharp and electric as barreling death.
Almost there. The Andalan cargo’s been pushed to the edges of the deck. A narrow channel runs through the center, a string of deck lights leading straight to Miyu’s vac, the freighter’s bay doors open and waiting. Again and again, system warnings trail the blaring alarms. Decelerate. Decelerate. We’re coming in all wrong. Miyu scrambles back to her jump seat and buckles in. “Get under five hundred. Now. Now!” she barks.
I battle the yoke, gripping until there is nothing left of me but burning hands. The numbers on the screen roll back. One thousand. Eight hundred. Six hundred. Five fifty.
The deck. We crash down in a seismic hammer fall of speed on metal.
Skid. Crack. Bump. Groan.
We roll down the ramshackle landing strip like we’re on fire. Are we on fire? I choke on smoky haze. The friction’s boiling our wheels.
We cut through the gray plumes, and I see the end of the line. We’re still going too fast, and if we don’t slow down a notch or ten, we’ll slam into Miyu’s vac, or worse, veer off, tumbling over the far edge of the deck.
