"Jalina, I need to tell you—" I started.
"Not here." She glanced around at Vaxon's security team, at the medical responders working over the unconscious survivors. "Not in front of everyone. But yes. We need to talk."
"When we return?—"
"When we return," she agreed.
It wasn't a resolution. Wasn't forgiveness or reconciliation or any of the things we probably needed. But it was a promise—that whatever existed between us, whatever had been damaged by fear and poor communication, could potentially be repaired.
If we were both brave enough to try.
The transport ship jumped back to Mothership space, carrying three survivors, nine crew members, and two beings who'd just survived multiple near-death experiences while avoiding the emotional conversation that actually terrified them most.
I'd volunteered for a rescue mission into hostile territory.
And I still hadn't told Jalina I loved her.
Outstanding tactical planning, Zor'go. Truly exceptional.
Chapter 11
Jalina
The raider's first shot hit our shields before I'd even finished checking Maya's vitals.
"Shields at ninety-two percent," Vaxon announced from tactical, his voice carrying that particular calm that security personnel cultivated for moments when everything was going catastrophically wrong. "Second hostile vessel powering weapons. Make that three vessels. Four."
I gripped the edge of the medical bay's fold-down cot where Maya lay, barely conscious, her breathing shallow. Blood from the gash on her temple had dried in rust-colored tracks down her face. Beside her, the two other Liberty survivors, Jacob and Tess, lay strapped to emergency gurneys, their vital signs weak but stable.
We'd found them. After six months of wondering, of hoping, of feeling guilty every time I let myself be happy on Mothership, we'd actually found Liberty survivors.
And now raiders were trying to kill all of us.
"Jalina." Zor'go's voice came through my comm, steady despite the ship shuddering from another impact. "I need you on the bridge."
"The survivors?—"
"Medical team can stabilize them. You're more useful helping us not die."
He had a point.
I sealed the medical bay door and sprinted down the corridor, using the handrails to pull myself forward as our shuttle, designated Rescue Seven but known to everyone asLucky Strikebecause it had survived seventeen impossible missions, banked hard to avoid incoming fire. The walls were standard Mothership gray, punctuated by emergency lighting that bathed everything in amber. I'd never noticed how narrow these corridors were until I was running through them while being shot at.
The bridge was chaotic when I arrived. Vaxon at tactical, his three security officers manning defensive systems. Pilot Officer Kret'nor, one of Zor'go's Operations team, at the helm, her purple fingers dancing across controls with the precision of someone who'd flown through worse than this. Probably.
And Zor'go, standing at the central console, surrounded by holographic displays showing our position relative to the raiders and the asteroid field that had become our battlefield.
His ice-blue eyes found me immediately. "We have a problem."
"I'm aware. The multiple ships trying to kill us gave it away."
"The problem," he continued without acknowledging my sarcasm, "is that our original exit vector is blocked. Raiders are using a pincer formation to drive us deeper into the asteroid field."
I moved to the console, studying the tactical display. Four raider vessels, smaller than us but faster, more maneuverable, were systematically cutting off our escape routes. Behind us, the asteroid field grew denser, the rocks larger and more chaotic in their rotation patterns.
They were herding us toward a kill zone.
"Why not fight through?" I asked. "We have weapons."
