Ana bolted upright in bed.
An explosion thundered through the ship, the lights flickering, dimming to a terrifying emergency red. The rattle was so fierce, it shook the empty glasses off the community table. Riggs’s leg, propped up next to his bed, fell over. From the highest shelf, D09’s favorite book clattered to the floor. It lay there, open to a bookmarked page about medicine and scar tissue. She quickly jumped out of bed to close it and put it back. The other crew members crawled out of their bunks, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.
“What’s it?” Riggs muttered, as Wick pulled him out of bed and handed over his mechanical leg.
“An attack,” replied the Cercian.
The sails quivered with the extra weight, rattling the ship.
Still in her crumpled clothes from yesterday, Ana ran for the cockpit, her hand skimming along the wall for balance.
Lenda stumbled out after her, hopping into her boots. “We’re in protected space!” she cried, short blond hair sticking straight up in a cowlick. “Who’s shooting at us? Is it the Messiers? The Royal Guard? Should we suit up?”
For a brief, terrifying moment, Ana thought it was the Tsarina come back to finish her off, even though it had crashed into Palavar hours ago. It couldn’t be the malware—Di had destroyed it. The memory was burned into her retinas every time she closed her eyes.
The ship jolted again, and threw her against the wall. A shuddering rumble followed, and the sound of an air-vac, sharp like an inhale somewhere belowdecks, sucking a breach in the ship secure again.
She made it to the cockpit, where Jax sat with a map of the cosmos lit up around him. Wick, tucking in the tail of his shirt, slid into his comms station, trying to decode the message blasting across their feed.
“Jax, report,” ordered the captain as she stormed into the cockpit, sliding into her bloodred frock coat. She put a steady hand on the back of the pilot chair.
“Two klicks and closing, sir. It’s an Armada, class seven.” An Ironblood ship. “Faster than it looks and heading straight for us.”
“Can’t we outrun them?”
“Right sail’s punctured, putting strain on the left, so I can’t steer worth shit—damn it,” he cursed as another missile tore through the same sail. Warning lights glowed red against his determined face. “I didn’t even see the ship before they attacked. No warning, no nothing—”
Another explosion rattled the Dossier, so close to the cockpit it threw Ana off her feet. Her shoulder slammed into the floor. A shower of sparks spewed from one of the control panels. Wick yelped, shielding his face.
The cockpit plunged into darkness before flickering back to life with emergency power.
“Captain!” Jax righted himself in his chair again. “Captain!”
Dizzy, Ana scrambled over to the captain lying on the floor a few feet away, grabbing a fistful of Siege’s coat to roll her onto her back. A nasty gash bled down her forehead, soaking into her black hair. Talle, bracing herself in the doorway, rushed over to her wife and pressed the back of her hand against Siege’s mouth.
“Breathing,” Talle said in relief.
“Good. Ana, get in a seat,” Jax instructed. “We’re in for a bumpy—”
Another blast hit somewhere starboard. More warning lights. Emergency lights.
Wick gave a shout. “Message incoming! It’s—” His eyebrows furrowed, and he turned around in his chair to face Ana. “Toriean el agh Lothorne.”
Even as the ship blared its warning sirens, a silence sank over the cockpit. They had all heard the phrase before. Seen it carved on the hulls of derelict ships and on the foreheads of unfortunately spaced men.
The Valerio motto.
“They’re asking permission to board,” Wick added.
“Let me guess,” Jax growled. “On the condition of our surrender.”
“Yeah,” replied Wick.
Riggs slammed his metal foot into the side of the ship with a sharp ping. Another line in the solar sails snapped off, leaving them barely able to coast.
“Right sail down,” reported Jax. “Left’s at forty percent—we’re sinking. Fast.”
“What do we do?” Talle asked, kneeling to put Siege’s head on her lap. Her fingers were curled around the captain’s coat collar protectively. “I can’t get her to wake up.”
Riggs was shaking his head. “We have to escape! We don’t surrender to Valerio ships. In fifty years, I never have!”
“How?” Wick shifted nervously. “We’re sitting ducks, Riggs.”
“I knew that Valerio kid was bad luck. Barger did too!” Lenda raged, slamming her fist against the doorway she had braced herself against.
Ana couldn’t take all the noise. Her chest was tightening, making it hard to breathe—the cockpit narrowing, walls squeezing together—
“We gotta outrun them.”
Jax scowled at Riggs. “You wanna drive? I’ll let you—”
Lenda argued, “We should fire back!”
“Against that ship? Good luck hitting it—”
“Stop arguing!” Ana shouted, and the cockpit plunged into silence.
Di would’ve known what to do. He would’ve calculated the odds and figured out how to—to what? Escape? Keep them alive? But Di was dead, and it was her fault. All this was her fault.
And now the rest of the crew was going to die.
“We have to accept the terms,” she heard herself say, voice wavering. “We don’t have a choice.”
Because there was no way to escape. Because if they tried, they would die. The crew of the Dossier had been through enough chases and firefights to know the endgame. They knew the story of a ship with a punctured sail in the middle of open space. They’d seen it happen to others before.
Ana had never thought the Dossier would become one of those ships. And it was all her fault.
“We don’t have a choice,” she repeated, her voice tight. “I don’t want anyone else to die.”
Wick leaned forward in his chair and radioed in their surrender. Jax eased the Dossier to a stop and sat back, releasing the controls, as the screens in front of him dimmed, showing their coordinates. There were no more explosions, no more noise, except for the Valerio creed that echoed in Ana’s ears like a siren.
Even though she didn’t know the Old Language, she knew the words.
Toriean el agh Lothorne.
Glory in the Pursuit.