Chapter 51

In Connor’s experience, chaos had a way of snowballing. If one system failed, it led to other systems failing. If a mercenary botched his duty, another overcompensated or panicked and failed hers.

That was what was happening to the Lucky Sevens.

One after the other, lights on the co-pilot panel flickered between amber and red before settling confidently into the red. Warnings beeped from his headset and flashed on his pocket computer display. The ship went from shuddering and creaking to outright bouncing and shrieking.

Martienne’s chair emitted a loud squeal when she spun it around. “Life support is out.”

“I know.” Connor had thought it might be failing when it spat hot, fetid air at him.

But that wasn’t a crisis, not compared to the other systems.

The landing gear light hadn’t budged off its ugly, hateful red in four minutes.

On the main display, the belly camera showed spurts of heat far below.

Gunfire. Lots of it.

Connor snatched up his computer and connected to Drew. “We need to land in three minutes.”

“I know.” The engineer grunted, like she was lifting a boulder three times her mass over her head. “The forward pump is shot. It’s gushing hydraulic fluid everywhere.”

“Then we blow the gear.”

“You blow the gear, the pressure ruins the actuator and drains the reservoir. We get one landing, then I have to rebuild the system.”

Martienne’s chair squealed. “The landing gear pump failed?”

Connor bowed his head, ready for one of her cursing fits. “And if we blow the gear—”

“No. You blow the gear only for the emergency landing.” The pilot closed her eyes, then nodded, as if she’d had a short internal argument. “We do not land.”

“Our people are down there!”

“They are. And I will hover. You must go to the cargo bay and rig netting.”

“Can you pilot—?”

“Go. I have flown worse ships through combat.”

“The point-defense guns…they might be effective against the outer edges.”

“Go.”

Connor popped the harness and launched from his seat, adrenaline like electricity in his blood. The pain in his leg was barely noticed.

With only the three of them aboard, Connor slid down the ladder using the side rails rather than the rungs.

Drew looked up from where she was cleaning up leaked fluids. “I’m sorry.”

He jogged to where the extra cargo netting hung from the bulkhead near the inner airlock door. “It’s not your fault. We’ve pushed the ship too far for too long.”

“I could’ve fixed most of this with just another week.”

“Another week and parts we didn’t have.”

Connor unhooked netting and cables, feeding cable clasps through the eyelets to create a hammock. Whoever was on the ground would have to undo one side, set the cargo cases on the netting, then reconnect everything.

That took time.

He assembled two more netting bundles, then popped open the inner and outer airlock hatches. There were five winches anchored beneath the slot where the ramp slid out. He clasped the cables to winch hooks and set the netting bundles on the airlock floor.

Muggy wind tugged at the bundles, but it wasn’t enough to pull them out.

That left him more than a minute.

Connor hurried back into the cargo bay. “Drew, can you keep those netting bundles from flying out?”

The engineer looked up, blinked, then wiped her hands off and tossed her towels aside. “Yeah. We hauling them in?”

“That’s the plan.”

He waited just long enough to see her grab the safety handle inside the airlock, then bolted full speed for the ramp and up it.

What he needed was in his cabin. He burst in, dropped to his knees in front of his closet, and hauled out the trophy box he hadn’t touched in a while.

It was black enamel, painted around the edges with delicate gold details like dragons. Brass clasps held it closed.

He popped those and took out the sheathed swords inside.

Years of training made it easy to strap the weapons over his shoulders while running.

That left time to stop at the weapons locker, swipe through the security mechanism, and haul out the other reason for coming up from the cargo bay: the Xerxes Tech 191 Asp light machine-gun.

Blue nickel plating…

auto-acquisition targeting system…

7mm caseless rounds tipped with explosive gel…

It was a weapon Vicente sneered at, but Connor liked its high rate of fire and low mass. He only carried a single drum of ammo, which was usually enough.

By the time he was back in the cargo hold, he had the machine-gun dangling from a strap over his chest, tip pointed down.

Drew turned back from the airlock, raising her pocket computer. “Fifteen seconds! They need evac!”

He picked up the pace. “Tell them I’m coming.”

Then her eyes went wide. “Oh. Are you—?”

Connor waved her out of the airlock. “I’m getting my team out of there.”

She backed out. “Their muzzle flash…it’s like shooting stars.”

The engineer was right: Short tails of fire flared in the midnight gloom, tracing from tip to head for just long enough that the eye caught them.

A semicircle of lights sat atop cargo cases, turning a small wedge of darkness daylight bright. Inside of that wedge, alien things darted forward, spurted dark blood when bullets struck, then retreated back from sight.

The Lucky Sevens stopped a few meters shy of the fortification, then dropped until five meters overhead.

Connor grabbed the nets, released the lock on the winches, and jumped.

There was a second before impact, long enough to smile.

He hit the ground with a painful suddenness and rolled clear of the nets.

Not ten meters away, the ground erupted. Things burst up—shapes his infrared barely picked up.

Switching to ultraviolet was as simple as a blink; now he saw them.

The bugs had been tunneling, attempting a wide flank.

Three of them closed.

And Connor pressed the trigger.

With all the other weapons firing, the Asp’s distinctive, high-pitched drone was probably drowned out.

He heard it.

More importantly, the bugs felt it. They exploded—legs falling away from ruined body sections that almost glowed in the weapon’s muzzle flash.

The first three fell.

Two more closed, then fell.

Then another three.

Connor slapped the quick-release on the gun’s strap and let the weapon fall to the ground. He drew his swords and darted right, closing on the nearest bug.

It lunged, the forward legs coming up with frightening speed.

He slashed, and the legs fell to the ground.

The chitin protecting the alien things was hard—he felt the resistance with the strike.

His blades were harder and sharp.

With its front legs gone, the lead bug backpedaled.

Another replaced it, slashing with its legs and moving to Connor’s left.

He avoided the attack, but he caught the other bug moving around to the right. That was the real threat.

It rushed forward and slashed at the same time its buddy feinted.

Connor tumbled away, and the two aliens struck each other.

The one to the left fell, its head a gory ruin.

Those slashing forelegs had to be avoided.

Connor got to his feet as the last bug charged—too fast.

Then a roar of gunfire came from behind him, and the bug spurted a heavy fluid and limped away before collapsing.

Someone slapped Connor on the back: “We’ve got to go!”

It was Rudy.

There were dark bags under his twitching eyes, and his face was wet with gore. His breath was as rancid as a sewer.

He looked ready to collapse.

Connor cleaned then sheathed his weapons and scooped up the Asp while the old sergeant covered their retreat.

A cargo net dropped between them, and Connor dragged it toward the remaining cases.

Rudy whistled. “Leave it!”

That was when Connor realized there was no one else on the ground.

They had to abandon the gear.

Overhead, a motor whirred, and the cargo netting rose.

Connor sprinted over to Rudy, hooked an arm around him and the netting, and held on for dear life.