Perspiration trickled down the back of Cavalon’s neck to help drench his already damp collar. He flashed them a stiff grin. “I got it, guys,” he huffed. “No worries.”
He began to heft the missile up, and they both rushed over, taking some of the weight to help him lift it off the ground, then together they hauled it across the room to the maintenance cradle.
Pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead, Cavalon caught his breath for a few seconds while looking over the missile in the improved lighting. A series of identification and batch codes were etched into the casing, and, no surprise, every piece of it had been stamped with the Larios Munitions logo—a thick-bordered hexagon framing a splintered triangle. As one of the five royal houses of the Allied Monarchies, the Larios family had secured their role as primary weapons contractor for the Legion centuries ago. But they went by Larios Defense Technologies now—they hadn’t been called Larios Munitions in ages.
Cavalon cleared his throat. “Uh, how old are these missiles?”
“The Argus is from the end of the Viator War,” Emery answered. “So, a couple of centuries?”
“Void.” He dusted off the nose of the missile to hunt for the command-controls compartment. “I figured you’d have updated firepower.”
Warner scoffed and crossed his arms.
“Yeah, bud,” Cavalon sighed, “I’m starting to get that vibe.”
Emery giggled. “Yeah, they don’t give us much to work with out here.” She skirted the workbench and sidled up beside him. “All right, so what’re we doin’？”
Warner moved forward and hovered over the tiny woman’s shoulder, looking down expectantly. Cavalon’s face warmed. He knew what he was doing, but something about the way they looked at him like he singularly possessed all the answers in the universe stressed him out. This whole being-useful thing would take some getting used to.
“Uh, well … I’ll do this first part,” Cavalon said, eyeing them warily. With only one cradle, there wasn’t really a way to make this more efficient than one at a time. “But, grab me an impact driver? Should have a little star-shaped bit.”
Emery knelt under the workbench, clanging around as she dug through the shelves, finally popping back up with an impact driver in hand. She passed the tool over to him, smacking her gum.
“Wire cutters next,” he said.
She nodded and disappeared again, while he ducked under the nose of the missile to the other side of the workbench. He zipped off the six screws holding a section of the chassis in place, then pried the ancient panel free. He pulled out a clump of bundled wires.
Emery appeared over his shoulder, assaulting him with the fruity smell of her bubblegum. “Whatcha doin’？”
“Uh…” He lifted a brow at her, and she dropped the wire cutters into his open palm. “Disabling the arming unit.”
Her curious expression stiffened. “Uh … manually?”
Warner grunted. “There’s gotta be a way to do that through the computer.”
“Probably,” Cavalon agreed. “But I think we already established no one knows how to use the software.”
With the edge of the wire cutters, he split the seal bundling the cabling, then singled out the wire in question and snipped it in half.
“Bloody void,” Emery squeaked. “Yet you know how to do it that way?”
Warner shook his head. “And you were askin’ us who the missile specialist was?”
Cavalon scoffed. “Trust me, I’m no specialist.” He moved to the tail of the missile. “Anyone can figure out how to take something apart.”
Emery’s eyes narrowed.