Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,73

is pinched in the corner of her smile, and the look in her eyes is verging on that dangerously manic glint she wore when I first met her. She glances up at me, letting out a smoky breath that clogs the air. Gods of all systems, Corinthian weed is not messing around.

“Absolutely not,” I tell her, and grab her by the shoulders, dragging her out of the seat as she kicks and twists and fights.

“Come on,” Wen yelps. “I told you—I’m a pilot.”

“I’m not taking any chances.” I shrug off my pack and dive into the pilot’s seat before she can scramble back in.

“Drove the tram fine yesterday.”

“It was on a wire. Gal, how’re we looking?”

“One second,” he says, jamming his fingers against the door controls. “We’ve got incoming—soldiers who heard the shot. All on foot. We good to go?”

I glance up at Wen, who blows another puff of noxious-smelling smoke in my face. “Rewired permissions on the landing gear, and I think I did what I needed with the engines.”

“You think?”

She gestures to the controls as if to say, Try me.

I spur the engines. A powerful rumble overtakes the ship as they spin up, and my own manic grin breaks loose. The transporter is no Viper, but it runs with smooth confidence, a far cry from the Ruttin’ Hell. I punch the thrusters, and my stomach swoops as the shuttle takes off.

Gal slips into the copilot’s seat, and a second later the navigation flickers to life. “We’re two miles away from base proper,” he says, tapping the location with a finger. “Want to see how fast we can burn them?”

I wheel our nose onto our vector. “Hey, Wen? Make sure our guest doesn’t bump his head. And put that damn thing out before you hotbox the cockpit.”

There’s shuffling behind me, followed by a vaguely affirmative grunt. I glance back to find that Wen has one hand wound in the webbing overhead meant to be used as a handhold and the other fisted in the pilot’s jacket. She lets the joint drop from her lips and drives her heel into it, giving me a nod. “Punch it,” she says.

I oblige her. The transporter leaps forward, sinking me deep into my seat as we streak over the town and toward the towering fence crowned in barbed wire that marks the border of the base’s territory. Just for fun, I let us dip down until we clear it with mere feet to spare. It’s been two days since I last flew and over a week since I last flew something good. I’m not letting this go to waste.

We’re barely forty feet past the fence when an incoming communication chimes. “Shuttle Thirty-Seven, this is Henrietta Base. Your report time was noon. Please state the reason for your unscheduled approach.”

I nod to Gal, and he picks up the line. “Base, this is Shuttle Thirty-Seven. One of our guys passed out. We’re bringing him back so medical can have a look at him.”

There’s a brief pause, the static crackle of an open line. All three of us stare intently at the dash.

“Base to Shuttle Thirty-Seven, who is this?”

“Heavens and hells,” I mutter.

“Shuttle Thirty-Seven to Base, I’m gonna be honest with you,” Gal says. “We’re out for an audience with the leadership of the Archon resistance, and I realize this isn’t the best way to start a relationship—”

“Where is the authorized pilot, Lieutenant Briggs?”

Gal glances back at the pilot, squinting at the nametag pinned to the front of his uniform. “Lieutenant Briggs is aboard, but…indisposed. Please don’t shoot anything at us. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Wen giggles, swaying. I hitch the shuttle up with a burst of the attitude thrusters, and she nearly topples over. We streak across an open plain, running parallel to a well-worn dirt road. I keep us close to the ground, but not too close.

On the horizon, I catch the distant forms of low, flat buildings. Hangars. Dormitories. The silhouette is different, but the sensation is the same. It feels like the academy.