and trying to correct with too sharp a turn. System alarms are going, a muffled beeping from the cockpit, maybe pitch, maybe navigation, maybe comms, or maybe load, because the weight seems unbalanced, and Earthbound pirates are probably better at choosing lethal cargo than they are at packing it.
Petra swallows, only it’s hard to, and what doesn’t hurt feels numb. Voices snap back and forth in the murk, anxious words, though she can’t quite hear them. And it wouldn’t matter now if she could.
The meds are doing what they do, keeping her awake, keeping the mind going, though it blurs. But they’re doing nothing for the chill, for the shakes that make her teeth chatter, or for the heaviness pressing down on her chest, making each breath harder than the last.
It’s impossible to keep the shadows at bay, and what comes is what comes, memories that stream out of order, all the details crystalline.
Some are so random, so meaningless that it’s a miracle they were remembered at all, the flick of a silk fan, the haze of a purple sky, tiny Ada, with straight cut bangs, a big smile and a soft little nose, a whisper of breath in her ear. I love you, mama.
Tears burn, forming that hot blur that goes nowhere, causing that catch in her chest, so tight she can’t breathe. She rasps, but no sound follows, only emptiness, raw and agonizing, a vessel with nothing left.
Ada gone for years now. Clara…
Got to get control over this, wild thing. No time for being what you’re not, which is dumb, or dead. Time to put your faith in something. Time to do what’s left to do, because we both know you got the strength. Got to warn Voss, or he’s going to die. Voss is going to die.
Voss.
Still alive, still unhurt…
And now it’s those memories that are the clearest, that cool gaze of his, and the hint of his smile when she’s saying things she didn’t mean to, drinking vodka with the stars taking up the view, and no roles, or ranks, between them… the power of two in whatever equation keeps worlds spinning in chaos, with nothing lasting but what gets saved in the heart.
Jared…
Kazak isn’t beside her anymore, though she can hear his voice somewhere close by, talking to one of his men, his tone sharper, and clearer than it was a moment ago, though she still can’t hear every word. “---us there.”
“Extract transports---storm delay---”
“No. Unacceptable.”
“---flying blind.”
The old transport dips, rolling a bit, the pilot struggling to keep the wings level. It drops, and the braking jets fire, toppling bags from the racks, flinging storage compartments open. Supplies sluice from the shelf above, cascading down to hit the deck. Petra flinches, unable to move as a spray of thin silver welding rods falls loose around her.
A pair of gloves drop on her lap.
A helmet bounces across the floor.
In the main hold, heavy gas tanks roll and clank together, equipment escaping from tie-downs. Men curse, yell at each other. The Earthbounders shuffle around, focused on securing things she can’t see.
A small item nudges against her side, and she looks down, squinting to focus. The round top of a plastic container catches the light, a jar with a familiar label, a specific product used by her techs.
Welding anti-spatter.
Grease.
Only a criminal would find in luck in such.
She glances at her wrist locked tight in the restraint, fingers dangling.
Do what’s got to be done.
Twisting against the pain, she reaches down and grabs for the jar. It tries to slip out of reach, but she hooks it into her grasp, and slides it close. She’s breathing too hard, as if it’s a ton she’s lifted.
The ceiling blurs.
But she’s got a natural way with thievery, and turning a lid, one-handed in the dark, is a basic skill. The jar opens, lid dropping off into wherever. She runs her fingers into the grease, feeling it melt thickly along her fingers and slide up under her nails.
It takes a second to rub a slippery gob of it
Petra swallows, only it’s hard to, and what doesn’t hurt feels numb. Voices snap back and forth in the murk, anxious words, though she can’t quite hear them. And it wouldn’t matter now if she could.
The meds are doing what they do, keeping her awake, keeping the mind going, though it blurs. But they’re doing nothing for the chill, for the shakes that make her teeth chatter, or for the heaviness pressing down on her chest, making each breath harder than the last.
It’s impossible to keep the shadows at bay, and what comes is what comes, memories that stream out of order, all the details crystalline.
Some are so random, so meaningless that it’s a miracle they were remembered at all, the flick of a silk fan, the haze of a purple sky, tiny Ada, with straight cut bangs, a big smile and a soft little nose, a whisper of breath in her ear. I love you, mama.
Tears burn, forming that hot blur that goes nowhere, causing that catch in her chest, so tight she can’t breathe. She rasps, but no sound follows, only emptiness, raw and agonizing, a vessel with nothing left.
Ada gone for years now. Clara…
Got to get control over this, wild thing. No time for being what you’re not, which is dumb, or dead. Time to put your faith in something. Time to do what’s left to do, because we both know you got the strength. Got to warn Voss, or he’s going to die. Voss is going to die.
Voss.
Still alive, still unhurt…
And now it’s those memories that are the clearest, that cool gaze of his, and the hint of his smile when she’s saying things she didn’t mean to, drinking vodka with the stars taking up the view, and no roles, or ranks, between them… the power of two in whatever equation keeps worlds spinning in chaos, with nothing lasting but what gets saved in the heart.
Jared…
Kazak isn’t beside her anymore, though she can hear his voice somewhere close by, talking to one of his men, his tone sharper, and clearer than it was a moment ago, though she still can’t hear every word. “---us there.”
“Extract transports---storm delay---”
“No. Unacceptable.”
“---flying blind.”
The old transport dips, rolling a bit, the pilot struggling to keep the wings level. It drops, and the braking jets fire, toppling bags from the racks, flinging storage compartments open. Supplies sluice from the shelf above, cascading down to hit the deck. Petra flinches, unable to move as a spray of thin silver welding rods falls loose around her.
A pair of gloves drop on her lap.
A helmet bounces across the floor.
In the main hold, heavy gas tanks roll and clank together, equipment escaping from tie-downs. Men curse, yell at each other. The Earthbounders shuffle around, focused on securing things she can’t see.
A small item nudges against her side, and she looks down, squinting to focus. The round top of a plastic container catches the light, a jar with a familiar label, a specific product used by her techs.
Welding anti-spatter.
Grease.
Only a criminal would find in luck in such.
She glances at her wrist locked tight in the restraint, fingers dangling.
Do what’s got to be done.
Twisting against the pain, she reaches down and grabs for the jar. It tries to slip out of reach, but she hooks it into her grasp, and slides it close. She’s breathing too hard, as if it’s a ton she’s lifted.
The ceiling blurs.
But she’s got a natural way with thievery, and turning a lid, one-handed in the dark, is a basic skill. The jar opens, lid dropping off into wherever. She runs her fingers into the grease, feeling it melt thickly along her fingers and slide up under her nails.
It takes a second to rub a slippery gob of it
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