Chapter 43
At some point time had come undone.
Connor thought it might have been at the start of the violent shaking that had the shuttle interior rattling and groaning. That had to be it.
Or it could be the cold. Without his environment suit, and with the ship already damaged from the landing, they didn’t have much heat.
Whatever it was, when he looked down at his stopwatch app, the numbers crawled. Emerald pixels blinked out and others activated, all while the dark sky separating the shuttle from its destination sped by.
He took in a deep breath and nearly gagged on the fumes—leaking fuel.
Drew didn’t seem bothered by the smell. Maybe it was nothing.
But they needed another three minutes from the rocket engine to reach a safe point, the spot where the planet’s gravity wouldn’t be able to drag them back down, where their inertia would carry them to the Lucky Sevens.
Three minutes.
It seemed like an eternity.
Looking away from the stopwatch would help. Without his eyes actually gluing the pixels in place, they would flow more quickly.
“Connor?” Drew’s hands pressed against the tops of her thighs.
“I’m okay.” He laughed. “I’m just thinking how crazy it is that seconds can be perceived differently when you’re doing something frightening or painful.”
She smiled. Her head bobbed up and down. “Is that a stopwatch?”
“Yeah. I had estimates for how long we had to go to reach space.”
“And?”
“Another—” Connor blinked at the pocket computer. Time really was undone. “—two minutes. And some seconds.”
“We’re still going.”
There was that. “Do you smell fumes? Like fuel?”
“It’s safe. We found a cracked seal. I’ll patch it when we get on the Lucky Sevens.”
A cracked seal. A ruptured fuel line. A broken relay. A disabled warning light.
How had they even gotten as far as they had?
Drew squinted at the cockpit windshield. “I really am doing everything I can to keep all of your systems running. I know Selen doesn’t believe me.”
“In, what, ten minutes? Nine? Soon. We’ll have your evidence. Okay.”
Connor wasn’t sure what that evidence would be, but he needed the engineer focused on getting the shuttle repaired, not worried that she didn’t have Selen’s trust.
Martienne twisted around in the pilot seat. “Connor, I need you.”
She pointed at Yemi’s co-pilot chair before Connor could ask what to do.
He put his pocket computer away, unbuckled the harness, then struggled against the acceleration that made him feel three times as heavy and pressed against his heart. The gap between his seat and Yemi’s wasn’t even two meters but felt like kilometers.
Gasping, blood pounding in his head, Connor finally managed to push up, stretch out his arms, and clamp onto the co-pilot seat back.
Then he pulled himself forward, slipped around the raised armrest, and collapsed, breathless.
That was a good thing. It meant they were still climbing.
He strapped in. “What do I do?”
The pilot shook her head. She was absorbed in some problem with the console: buttons needed pushing; switches needed flipping; keys needed tapping.
Ahead of them, the last of the clouds were gone. Stars twinkled.
Finally, Martienne slammed a hand on the console. “No choice now.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you are about to become a pilot.” She wrapped a hand around a grip on a raised section separating their stations, then pointed with her other hand at a lever. “Flight controls, you see? And that? It is thrust. You have the same, on your right side. See?”
“Um. I thought we were aiming—”
“Do not talk. Only listen. Grab the control stick.”
Connor wrapped his hand around the stick the way she had the other gripped. “Okay.”
“Now, gently push forward and to the right. Hurry.”
It was like the thing wasn’t a control mechanism at all but a single chunk of metal made to look like an operational control device. “I can’t budge it.”
“Yes. That is the problem.” The pilot frowned. “Something has been damaged in the wreck, something we missed. In atmosphere, these activate surface control panels, you understand? Rudder, flaps, ailerons.”
They were terms Connor had heard Drew and Yemi chatting about, things that caused the shuttle to turn or dip its nose or gain elevation in atmosphere. “I understand.”
“Without these controls, we have gone off course.”
That would’ve been nice to know earlier. “Are we—”
“Sh!” Martienne tapped the control stick again. “Soon, we break into space, yes? When this happens, there is a short time of maneuvering left.”
“And I need to help you?”
She smirked. “Do exactly as I say, and do it when I say.”
The rumbling of the rocket changed. It had been growing less noticeable, but now it barely shook the deck beneath his feet.
They were running out of fuel.
Rather than look alarmed, Martienne went through the routine of flipping switches, pushing buttons, and typing on her keyboard.
Then her face went hard, and she grunted. “Forward and left, now!”
Connor fought against the stick, which could actually move now, but only just. The muscles of his right arm transitioned from strained to aching to fire.
It seemed to please the pilot, who nodded. “Pull back, hard left toward me…now!”
The stick was even easier to move now.
Out the leftmost pane of the segmented windshield, lights twinkled like stars reaching out.
Not starlight but running lights: It was the Lucky Sevens!
They were in space!
Martienne repeated her switches, buttons, and keyboard routine. “Now, ten degrees left of the top.”
Connor saw how she was trying to move her stick and did the same with his.
Now the Lucky Sevens was centered in the windshield.
The pilot sighed and relaxed a little. “This is the good part. Return to your seat.”
He almost blushed at her words. Praise was rare from her, and that was definitely the vibe she’d given off.
Drew’s eyes were huge. “You piloted the shuttle?”
“More like provided some muscle.” Connor buckled in, then shook out his right arm and massaged from shoulder to wrist.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard her sound so…scared.”
“Yeah. That’s a little odd. She’s flown unarmed ships into combat zones.”
“Really?”
What could scare someone like that?
Connor twisted toward the cockpit, hoping to ask Martienne if something had gone wrong. But the sight of the Lucky Sevens distracted him.
It was still almost centered, and they were coming up toward the bottom, heading right toward the open hangar bay hatch.
But it finally dawned on him that there was no rocket rumble coming through the deck.
No thrusters. No maneuvering. No braking.
And they were still moving at a dangerous clip.