starships, and the best Twilight’s ground troops could do was stay out of the way and keep their distance from the hull. Meanwhile, the bridge crew, engineering, and the gunnery staff—along with the
Apailana’s Promise
, if the gunship hadn’t been destroyed in a surprise attack—would try to keep everyone alive.
Namir recognized the energy and purpose in the crew members and despised them with every step they took. They weren’t to blame, but there was nothing worse than feeling useless and stupid during a fight.
Namir’s assigned shelter was the mess hall. Twilight soldiers were pressed tight against one another when he arrived. The room stank of sweat. Someone called his name and waved from near the entrance—Sergeant Fektrin, one hand cupped over an ear and the other fiddling with his comlink.
Namir pushed his way through. Fektrin finished speaking into the comm as the ship rumbled again. “All shelters report in,” he said. “Head count is a few short, but we assume it’s just stragglers.”
“Take their names when they show up, report any fresh meat to me,” Namir replied. “Any idea who’s attacking?”
“Something bigger than a pirate, smaller than a Star Destroyer.”
The deck lurched, and several soldiers toppled into their peers. Namir kept his balance as Fektrin cupped his ear again before growling, “Section ten. Might be a hull breach.”
Namir swore reflexively. So much damage so fast was never a good sign. But section ten was low-risk. Not much there except—
He swore again. “What about the brig? Is it intact?”
Fektrin looked confused, then winced as he was struck by comprehension. “Nothing from the guard, but that could mean comm trouble or—”
Namir was already heading out of the mess.
He knew that in all likelihood, the prisoner was secure in the air lock. Maybe she’d already been relocated. But he’d found an excuse to do something other than wait and he’d taken it.
As he approached section ten, Namir reached a blast door in the corridor. Someone had sealed off the hall. He checked the panel readings, saw there was still life support beyond the barricade, and decided to chance it. The air lock wasn’t more than fifty meters out. How bad could it be?
Namir tapped in a code and felt an expulsion of heat break against his face as the door irised open. The corridor howled like a storm. Orange flame raged out of air vents and severed pipes, splashing into the wall and causing metal panels to warp and shriek. Namir stumbled back a step, then fell to his knees when the ship shook.
He swore again and wished he’d brought his helmet.
He pulled his shirt up to half shield his face and wrapped his hands in the ends of his sleeves. The fabric was, in theory, fire-resistant; in the field, he’d seen combat outfits fuse to men and women’s skin before it caught flame—not strictly comforting, but proof of durability. He paused long enough to wonder about the fire’s temperature—was it fueled by chemicals from the pipelines?—but shrugged away the question. He didn’t have the expertise to apply the answer if he’d had one.
Namir resisted the urge to charge forward. He couldn’t afford to stumble or fall if the ship took another hit. Instead, he set a deliberate pace, knees bent for balance and to keep his body small. The heat was searing, but soon the pain seemed to plateau—agony ravaged his skin, and it neither grew worse nor faded. He felt no different when he pushed through a curtain of flame than when he left it behind.
Then he was at the air lock.
The door was sealed. At the base, lying flat as if she’d been slammed unconscious against the door by one of the ship’s upheavals, was the on-duty guard. Namir couldn’t tell whether the woman was still breathing, but the flames hadn’t reached her. A glance through the air lock’s view panel revealed that the governor was still inside, sitting cross-legged at the far end of the room.
Suddenly Namir
Apailana’s Promise
, if the gunship hadn’t been destroyed in a surprise attack—would try to keep everyone alive.
Namir recognized the energy and purpose in the crew members and despised them with every step they took. They weren’t to blame, but there was nothing worse than feeling useless and stupid during a fight.
Namir’s assigned shelter was the mess hall. Twilight soldiers were pressed tight against one another when he arrived. The room stank of sweat. Someone called his name and waved from near the entrance—Sergeant Fektrin, one hand cupped over an ear and the other fiddling with his comlink.
Namir pushed his way through. Fektrin finished speaking into the comm as the ship rumbled again. “All shelters report in,” he said. “Head count is a few short, but we assume it’s just stragglers.”
“Take their names when they show up, report any fresh meat to me,” Namir replied. “Any idea who’s attacking?”
“Something bigger than a pirate, smaller than a Star Destroyer.”
The deck lurched, and several soldiers toppled into their peers. Namir kept his balance as Fektrin cupped his ear again before growling, “Section ten. Might be a hull breach.”
Namir swore reflexively. So much damage so fast was never a good sign. But section ten was low-risk. Not much there except—
He swore again. “What about the brig? Is it intact?”
Fektrin looked confused, then winced as he was struck by comprehension. “Nothing from the guard, but that could mean comm trouble or—”
Namir was already heading out of the mess.
He knew that in all likelihood, the prisoner was secure in the air lock. Maybe she’d already been relocated. But he’d found an excuse to do something other than wait and he’d taken it.
As he approached section ten, Namir reached a blast door in the corridor. Someone had sealed off the hall. He checked the panel readings, saw there was still life support beyond the barricade, and decided to chance it. The air lock wasn’t more than fifty meters out. How bad could it be?
Namir tapped in a code and felt an expulsion of heat break against his face as the door irised open. The corridor howled like a storm. Orange flame raged out of air vents and severed pipes, splashing into the wall and causing metal panels to warp and shriek. Namir stumbled back a step, then fell to his knees when the ship shook.
He swore again and wished he’d brought his helmet.
He pulled his shirt up to half shield his face and wrapped his hands in the ends of his sleeves. The fabric was, in theory, fire-resistant; in the field, he’d seen combat outfits fuse to men and women’s skin before it caught flame—not strictly comforting, but proof of durability. He paused long enough to wonder about the fire’s temperature—was it fueled by chemicals from the pipelines?—but shrugged away the question. He didn’t have the expertise to apply the answer if he’d had one.
Namir resisted the urge to charge forward. He couldn’t afford to stumble or fall if the ship took another hit. Instead, he set a deliberate pace, knees bent for balance and to keep his body small. The heat was searing, but soon the pain seemed to plateau—agony ravaged his skin, and it neither grew worse nor faded. He felt no different when he pushed through a curtain of flame than when he left it behind.
Then he was at the air lock.
The door was sealed. At the base, lying flat as if she’d been slammed unconscious against the door by one of the ship’s upheavals, was the on-duty guard. Namir couldn’t tell whether the woman was still breathing, but the flames hadn’t reached her. A glance through the air lock’s view panel revealed that the governor was still inside, sitting cross-legged at the far end of the room.
Suddenly Namir
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