that we’re approaching a system under Galactic Interdiction, that entry to the Octavia system is “extremely hazardous,” may result in “catastrophic consequences,” and “constitutes a violation of galactic law, as outlined by the Treaty of Verduum IV and cosigned by blah blah blah blah.”
I’m starting to hate life.
And then, a missile gets thrown our way and I remember why I like it so much.
Everyone’s changed out of their party gear and into uniform again, so at least we’re dressed for it. I deploy our decoys, warning everyone to hold on as I lay on the burn and go hard evasive. Our screens flare as the missile explodes behind us, lighting up the Fold a pure and burning white.
“Was that a nuke?” Scarlett asks, eyes wide.
“It sure wasn’t a pocket full of posies,” I reply.
“That poem is about the black death,” Zila says. “A pocket full of posies was supposed to ward off the—”
“Yes, thank you, little Legionnaire Sunshine,” Finian says. “But morbid Terran poetry aside, I do believe your fellow dirtchildren are trying to kill us and I thought our fearless leader said they didn’t want to do that!”
Tyler is looking at his scopes in disbelief. “I didn’t think they did?”
“Didn’t think? I thought you were meant to be a tactical genius!”
Ty raises his scarred eyebrow. “Finian, I hate to shatter your opinion of me, but this is probably as good a point as any to confess—”
“Hold on!” I roar.
Another three missiles are speeding our way along with a burst of fire from the Bellerophon’s rail gun batteries. I lean hard on the controls, throwing up another round of decoys. I weave through the firestorm, feeling the engine purr underneath me, fingers flowing over the controls, fast as thought. The blasts are thousands of kilometers wide, scorching the Fold as they blossom outward. But our Longbow is quicker, twirling and spinning through the rail gun storm, the rounds streaking soundlessly past her skin as she comes out the other side without a scratch on her.
“These bastards mean biz,” I growl.
“How long till we hit the Octavia FoldGate?” Tyler demands.
“Entry in four minutes, thirty-one seconds.”
“Can you hold them off till then?”
I look up at him and wink. “They didn’t name me Zero for nothing.”
We can see it in front of us now. Instead of the hexagonal titanium gates we Terrans use, or the teardrop-shaped crystal portals of the Syldrathi, this one is totally natural. It looks like a glimmering rend in the fabric of the Fold—as if torn by the claws of some impossible animal. It’s tens of thousands of kilometers across, edges rippling with quantum lightning. The view over its horizon shimmers like a mirage in a desert. And through that unthinkable tear in the universe’s skin, we can see faint glimpses of the Octavia star, burning red in a colored sea of realspace.
Bellerophon is pouring on the rail gun fire now. Any lingering question as to whether they actually want to kill us is answered as a dozen shells shear right past our port wing, missing us by less than a hundred meters.
“Great Maker, that was close,” Finian breathes.
“Shut up,” I growl. “I’ve got it under control. Realspace entry in sixty seconds.”
A rail gun round crashes into our backside, tearing a football-sized hole in the hull. Alarms shriek, the auto-containment systems kick in, locking off the breached deck. I glance at the damage report, realize we’ve taken a hit to engineering.
Not good.
“I thought you had it under control!” Finian shouts over the alerts.
“I thought I told you to shut up!”
Kal smiles, his eyes alight, totally at home in the chaos of battle. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him since we met. “You are not much of a warrior, are you, Finian?”
“Well, you’re not much of a …” The Betraskan blinks those big black eyes as he comes up short. “Wait, wait, honestly I had something really good for this yesterday. …”
Another depleted uranium round slices within three meters of our starboard flank. Hard as I’m flying, fast as I’m burning, there’s too many guns lighting us up. Longbows aren’t built to take on capital ships; it’s like throwing a terrier into a fight with a Doberman. Sure, the terrier might put up a show, but in the end, fast and angry as she gets, the little dog’s gonna end up on the bigger dog’s toothpick.
“Realspace entry, fifteen seconds!”
“Everyone hold on!” Tyler shouts.
The tear looms in front of us, filling our display. I can feel the pull of it