Chapter 73

Chapter Seventy-Three

Based on how sweat was rolling down Connor’s back, he figured it must be midday. The sun was certainly blinding enough when he looked out from the shade under the Lucky Sevens. Even that shade wasn’t enough to diminish the misery of this miserable, murderous world.

Yemi shook sweat from his eyes. “Yemi hates the heat of the planet.”

“You and me both.” Connor arched his back, trying to fight off the start of spasms. His breath was deadly, the taste in his mouth foul. He needed more water. He needed rest.

But they still had work to do on the landing gear.

He pointed to where Yemi should place the big chisel on the stripped bolt head, then brought back the big hammer.

Connor clenched his teeth against the noise that was to come. It would be like a bell ringing out over a valley, summoning the giant bug things from the nearby woods. Or maybe it would summon worse.

But they had to get the bolt head off to remove the plate, and they had to remove the plate to finish replacing the landing gear.

So Connor struck, and the noise rang out.

Paint scraped off the bolt head, which deformed, but the chisel didn’t shear through.

He struck again. And again.

The bolt was a silvery, mangled mess of metal but wasn’t quite cut through.

Yemi blinked sweat away and glanced over his shoulder at the woods.

Nothing was charging toward them. Yet.

Vicente squatted at the rear of the spacecraft, where he’d been guarding since the start of work on the Lucky Sevens. He mopped sweat from his head with a grimy towel. “How much longer, Boss?”

Connor struck the chisel again, and the bolt head flew past Yemi’s face. They exchanged a relieved look, and Connor tossed the big hammer down. “Bolt head’s off.”

“We’re done?” The heavy weapons expert smiled.

“Not long.”

Yemi went to work boring out the few centimeters of bolt that remained while Connor set out the pieces they needed to replace on this final strut.

They weren’t going for pretty or even permanent. Replacements would only need to be functional.

With the money they’d been paid, they could limp back to the nearest starport and have professionals completely overhaul the Lucky Sevens. It was long overdue.

But step one was survival, and that meant getting done before the bugs returned.

Yemi pried the covering plate off, and the two of them removed the damaged parts, then slapped the replacements into place and sealed everything up.

The whole time, Vicente paced, swinging Mamacita in an arc wide enough to cut down anything that came out of the woods.

Nothing did.

Steps thudded against the ramp, then Selen dropped into view, grunting when her boots hit the mossy ground.

She dropped to a knee. “What’s the word.”

Connor waited until Yemi finished driving a bolt into place, then began putting the tools back in their bag. “It’s not pretty, but we can launch.”

“I knew you two could do it.”

Yemi snorted but kept his attention on the tools, leaving Connor to smile at their captain.

He looked toward the ships they’d salvaged from. “I think we’d do better trying to repair that big ship.”

“It’s not built for a mercenary team.”

“That ship’s big enough to handle anything.”

She stood. “Lucky Sevens has a history. We go back.”

He knew the body language and the tone in her voice: She’d made her mind up.

Let it go, he told himself.

When he and Yemi came out from under the ship, Selen was still scanning the distant woods.

She dusted a bit of moss from the knee of her pants. “Must be a better way to the ruins. Maybe there’s a path or some sort of protection, like a tunnel.”

Connor shrugged. “It’s all suicide. We did what we could.”

“We made mistakes.”

“You mean besides coming here in the first place?”

Yemi stopped at the end of the ramp, pointing at the Lucky Sevens with the parts they’d replaced. “Lucky Sevens flies now. Yemi showers, then sleeps.”

He trudged up the ramp, the metallic clatter of the ruined components barely rising over the angry boom his booted steps.

Vicente whistled and backpedaled, waving a thick, muscular arm wildly. “Let’s go!”

Selen headed into the ship, but Connor stood at the ramp base until the Moon twins were in sight, then waved them and Vicente up. Once they were all inside, and the ramp retracted, Connor squinted at the woods, then checked his pocket computer.

The stopwatch showed four hours and twenty-two minutes.

It was a curious thing that the bugs had been all around the area when they’d flown over a couple days before.

Why hadn’t they attacked now?

He remembered a saying his father had often used: Never question good fortune, and never seek ill fortune.

Maybe that was what they were doing coming to this planet.

Connor cleaned up and swung by the galley to grab a bite of spicy protein paste with those who’d spent the morning outside. The smells of their meals mingled—garlic from the Moons, cumin from Vicente, and cinnamon from Yemi.

They chatted about the corpses and the signs of firefights inside the ships, but mostly they speculated about the giant bugs.

Anxiety hung over them. It saturated their speech and influenced their movements.

For Vicente, it was the way he was closed now, his arms wrapped tight beneath his thick pectorals. Normally, his hands were in constant motion, and his arms were out wide.

The Moon twins kept their eyes down. They spoke softly and infrequently. Not a single mention was made of their brother or Moon Corporation.

And Yemi spent most of the meal studying the fresh scrapes and bruises on his fingers, as if expecting them to swell up and for tiny bugs to burst out of the darkened flesh.

Connor felt the anxiety in his chest: struggling to breathe, his heart pounding.

When he was finished, he slipped out and headed up to the top deck.

Once he was sure no one else was around, he banged on the communications room hatch. “Gregor?”

The hatch opened, but it was Lem who stood there. “Lieutenant.”

A strange uncertainty reflected from the android’s shifting eyes, but he stepped back to let Connor in.

Once inside, he closed the hatch, his nose wrinkling at Gregor’s body odor and the reek of cigarettes.

The communications expert held up a bag. “The data cores.”

After a second, Connor took the bag—Gregor wouldn’t make eye contact. “Is something wrong?”

Lem straightened. “The Lucky Sevens computer system…” The android’s eyes went to the communications console, then dropped to the deck. “It made mistakes.”

“Mistakes?”

“Data was corrupted.”

“How does a computer make mistakes, Lem?”

Gregor shook his head. “The computer offered suggestions when rebuilding the data, then…” The older man ran a hand over his bald head. “It was not suggestions. It just…did these things.”

Lem shifted, almost as if to shield the communication expert. “The computer snipped data. The behavior is unprecedented in my experience.”

The bag felt heavy in Connor’s hand. “I told you to make backups.”

“Yes. We understood, Lieutenant.”

“We needed this data. It could have held—”

Connor’s pocket computer vibrated. He pulled it out: Selen. This wasn’t the right time, but he answered. “Yes?”

“Meet me in the cargo bay. Now.”

She disconnected.

More strange behavior? Didn’t she understand their priorities?

He put the computer away with a sigh. “I’m sorry if I yelled at you.”

Lem stared at the communications console, mouth hanging open.

Connor let himself out. He had to get down to the cargo bay to find out what had Selen so angry. Maybe she’d finally accepted that it was time to go.

What he feared she was doing was exactly what his father had warned not to do all those years ago: seeking ill fortune.