Marked (11 page)

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 his 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.

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.

“How do I brake this thing?!” I pump the foot pedal to no avail. “These only work in drive mode!”

“Landing brakes!” Miyu shouts.

Fahra lunges for the stick just right of the yoke. Gasping, he struggles to get it moving, but it's lock-jam stuck. Miyu fumbles to unfasten her restraint, but I scream at her. “Stay buckled or you're dead!”

And if I let go of the yoke, we'll all be.

Fahra pulls, straining at the brake until sweat runs into his eyes and his arms look ready to rip out of their sockets. One last growling effort and . . .

The metallic whine of brakes taking hold slices through the air. Triumphant, Fahra lets go and collapses against his seat. We hurtle down the runway like a dying meteor, grinding hard after meeting atmosphere. Two tons of flaming tin can tossed at a twenty-ton space freighter, its rear doors an open mouth.

Here it comes,
my brain screams,
here it comes.
We roll on. The ramp. The loading rim. The empty hold. I hold my breath as we skid to a wheel-smoking, gear-grinding, teeth-rattling stop, coming at last to a violent rest.

“Destination alert,” the system chirps. “You have arrived.”

WE'VE ARRIVED, ALL RIGHT, JUST A WHISPER FROM THE BACK
wall. Couldn't squeeze even a runt like me between it and this rig. All three of us? We let out a breath.

But no time to thank our Lucky Star or jump out to kiss the ground. The first thing I hear is the freighter's boosters firing up. As the cargo bay doors close behind us, the sound quakes through every surface, and we're shaken so hard I fear we'll fall apart, leaving so many bags of bones on the bolt-bitten floor. Only when the doors finally seal is the roar less than paralyzing.

We stumble out of the skybrid, crippled by the gut-swoop lift of vertical takeoff. Hands reach out to help, and it's only then I realize that Larken's guards are gathered in the hold of Miyu's vac. They get us on our feet and start
hustling us toward the aft end of her tough little freighter. On the stairs, at the cockpit door, I notice how the guards flank Fahra. They've pinioned his arms, their eyes alert and suspicious.

“Hold on,” I tell them. “He's with me.”

They don't back off, but they let his arms fall to his sides before escorting us into the roomy cockpit. Miyu's vac's got more screens than most pilots would know what to do with, and every bit of loose gear is still perfectly racked, labeled, and stowed. Girl runs a tight ship. I swear, she'd make an excellent crew chief. Forget my old boss, Benny Eno. Give Miyu a garage.

The pilot's chair swivels our way as Larken greets us. “Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah. Me too.” I scan the wide windows, then the defensive grid. A small army's still on our exhaust.

“Strap in,” Miyu orders. “Get ready to blast.” There's a long row of jump seats behind the pilot's platform. While the guards stand by, Fahra and I take our places there.

“I'm guessing you'd like your spot back,” Larken says to Miyu.

“Yes, but I could use an experienced hand by the com.”

He takes the hint, rising to claim the copilot's chair at her side, and Miyu sinks into her own throne. Reflexively, she guides the controls, smoothly shifting us out of auto-
ascend. We pick up a hair-raising burst of speed as she shoots us into an evasive bullet arc.

We all watch the grid, bracing for a last-ditch barrage of IP fire. But it doesn't come. Instead, the enemy vacs fall back, one by one, tucking tail and turning toward the harbor. The sight should wash over me like relief, but now I'm even more uneasy.

I gape. “They're all . . .”

“Not
all
.” Miyu points at the grid. “Look there. Three LF-35s at four o'clock. They're still following. Steady position. They're keeping their distance.”

“They're tracking us,” I say.

Miyu nods.

“Got any weapons?” I pause, prepared to stretch the truth. “I'm a half-decent gunner.”

“Yes and no. I'm running a light freighter here, not a battle vac,” she says. “I've modified the system and racked two barrels for pulse fire, but a lot of good that's going to do us now.”

Larken answers her thoughtful frown. “I'm guessing you've diverted all power to the accelerant, just to keep up this pace. So pulse fire's out. Not enough juice for that.”

Miyu sighs. “I can give you firepower or I can give you speed, but I cannot give you both.”

“We're no match for those fighters,” I say. “Are we?”

“Nope,” she says, as if putting a lid on any wild ideas I might have had. “Lucky for us, they aren't firing.”

“But we can't go back to base like this. We can't just lead them there.”

“That's exactly what we
must
do,” Larken says. “There is nowhere else for us to run. Besides, it's not as if your friends aren't prepared. Captain Nandan can deal with a few rogue fighters.”

“I won't compromise the rebellion again,” I say.

“The commmander is correct. Pray they follow us,” Captain Fahra offers. “Better they follow than shoot us down on the way.”

“How can you say that when it will betray our position? Benroyal will know exactly where we're hiding in the Strand.”

“I guarantee he already knows,” Fahra says. “And these fighters are likely ordered to merely follow and scout. They will not engage at the border. The Strand is too sacred. Attacking there would mean war.”

“But you don't understand,” I counter. “Benroyal would cross any line. He'd do anything to get what he wants.”

“With respect,” Fahra interrupts. “Perhaps it is you who does not understand. I do not mean such an attack would bring the usual conflict—skirmishes in the Gap or common riots. I mean it would beget
real
war, rivers of blood
shed across two planets, such as your people have never seen or would ever see again. That is what burning the Strand would bring to Benroyal's door.”

“That's enough,” Larken says icily. Blue eyes lit, he glares at Fahra, then turns his back. He sighs, glancing at me. “What kind of trouble's followed you, Phee? Why did you bring this—”

Fahra straightens, unafraid. “I am Fahra, captain of the Queen's Guard, servant to Her Majesty, assigned and at oath to protect—”

“I know who you are, Captain,” Larken says, freezing out the familiar litany. “I'm just wondering what you're doing here.”

“About that . . .” I interject, anxious to dial back the tension.

“Guards, please escort our unexpected guest to the hold,” Larken commands his guards, then casts us the side-eye. “If you'd be so kind as to excuse us, Captain. Phee owes me a mission debriefing.”

“As you say, Commander,” Fahra replies. Silent, he allows Larken's men to lead him away.

The moment the cockpit door closes behind them, Larken starts in. “You'd better have a stellar explanation, my friend. Why is Queen Napoor's personal bodyguard on this vac?”