FINIAN
It took us nine more practice runs—and nine more deaths—but we’ve finally found a reliable way into the station. We’re actually getting pretty good at this. Any minute now, we’re going to start cracking in-jokes with Lieutenant Nari Kim.
I’m kidding. Lieutenant Kim wouldn’t know a joke if it fell from the sky and hit her in the head while everyone around her screamed, “Great Maker, it’s raining jokes!”
But speaking of our way in, it’s nearly time. I’m clinging to the outside of the station like it’s my one true love, waiting for my turn to worm into the waste ejection system. Zila disappeared two minutes ago, which means it’s fourteen seconds until I begin my run. I spend nine thinking about the way Scarlett winked before she climbed into the chute, and the remaining five thinking about Lieutenant Kim, because if this works, then we’ll have time for our first proper conversation with her, and I gotta stop pissing her off.
We’ve mastered the first part of the loop now, and it runs like clockwork. Kim spots our ship, and while she radios in to station command that she’s going to inspect it, we crawl into her fighter’s tiny cargo bay in our spacesuits.
Then our new friend Nari blows our shuttle to bits, her comms with the station fail, and at the eleven-minute mark of our loop she drops us off at the waste disposal vent. We’re hustling, because we’re all concerned that the quantum pulse we saw from the landing bay might damage something that could help us get home.
I’m feeling pretty good about the waste ejection system, though. It’s chaotic aboard the station since the accident that set all this off, and it was only a wandering security patrol that tripped us up last time.
My timer buzzes, and I shift into action, enjoying the last sensations of zero gee. The circular outlet of the chute irises open, and hooking my bag around my foot, I wait as it emits a puff of gas and ash.
I now have five seconds before it closes and the pressure within equalizes. I pull myself inside, yanking my boots and bag through the opening just as the hatch hums shut. And I’m left in the dark, which is cut through with a slice of light from my helmet.
The chute is barely wider than my body, and I’m stretched out with my arms in front of me. Even though I’m lanky, it’s still a tight squeeze. Scar must have struggled, with her curvier parts.
I decide not to think about those. It’s already kind of crowded in here.
Using hands and feet, knees and elbows, I shuffle along the chute as quickly as I can. I have just over two minutes before I meet the next load of hot ash coming the other way, which is not a death I want to experience—it hurt enough the first time. My body protests, and my suit makes everything harder. My favorite multi-tool sticks into my ribs.
The timer at my wrist buzzes to signal I have one minute left, and I push on, every movement small but urgent.
Another buzz.
Thirty seconds.
Chakk.
At last my helmet light catches the edge of the exit hatch.
“I’m here,” I call quietly, and Scarlett and Zila appear. Their helmets are off, their hands reaching into the tunnel for me.
They’re standing inside a wall cavity barely the width of a body. Nobody comes down here except the automated drones that pick up waste loads and deliver them to ejection outlets. One will be along in about twenty seconds.
The girls grab my outstretched hands and pull. I slide past the still-warm incineration ring and slither free—they lower me down, supporting my weight until I can rest on the floor. We all hold still, Zila’s boot against my faceplate, and I hear Scarlett behind me, muffled by my helmet.
“What’s in the backpack?”
“Just a few supplies. Tools. Snacks. You know, essentials.”
“Well, the way to a girl’s heart is through her—”
“Be quiet!” Zila hisses.
Scar pipes down, squeezing my ankle in thanks as the drone whirs into place overhead, discharges its load into the chute, then whirs away again. The station shudders around us, a siren sounding over the PA.
“Attention, Glass Slipper personnel: Engineering team required, Deck 19, Priority One. Repeat: Engineering, Deck 19, Alpha Sector.”
Once the drone is out of sight, we get to our feet, joints creaking. I take off my helmet as Scar hands me my bag. The air smells like smoke and burned polys, the lights are flickering, white into red.
“Ninety seconds until our window,” Zila murmurs.
We follow her quietly toward the access panel. All around us, alarms are screaming, damage reports pouring over the PA. This time—unlike last time—we wait, ears pressed against the panel until the security patrol rushes by. Then I pull out a multi-tool and pop the hatch.