He reached over, wrapped one massive hand around mine on the controls. The gesture should have been distracting. Instead, it steadied me. Grounded me.
"You're forgetting something," he said. "You're the most brilliant electrical engineer I've ever seen. And I'm very good at fighting. Together, we're considerably more dangerous than three raider ships expect."
His absolute faith in me was terrifying and exhilarating and completely insane. I loved it.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. What do you need me to do?"
"Can you reroute all remaining power to weapons? Everything except life support and minimal thrusters?"
I pulled up the systems architecture, saw what he was planning. "That'll leave us nearly dead in space. One more hit and we're done."
"Then don't let them hit us. Can you do it?"
"Give me thirty seconds."
I worked while flying, my hands splitting attention between the controls and the power management systems. It was stupid and reckless and probably suicidal, but then again, that described my entire approach to living lately.
Power flowed from engines to weapons. The shuttle slowed, becoming an easier target. But the weapons array lit up like nothing Liberty-class ships were ever designed to support, enough firepower to punch through raider shields in one sustained burst.
"Ready," I announced. "But Vaxon, we get one shot at this. Miss, and we're sitting ducks."
"I don't miss." He adjusted targeting parameters, calculated firing solutions with the same cold precision he'd shown fighting. "On my mark, full stop. All power to weapons."
The raiders closed in, sensing victory. They formed up in attack formation, preparing to finish us.
"Now."
I killed the thrusters. We hung motionless in space, surrounded by tumbling asteroids, completely vulnerable. The perfect target.
The raiders opened fire.
Vaxon opened fire first.
The shuttle's entire weapons array discharged in one massive, coordinated burst—the kind of sustained firepower that should have been impossible from a ship this small, that only worked because I'd rerouted every available system and pushed the conduits beyond rated capacity and probably shortened the shuttle's operational lifetime by years.
The energy beam caught the lead raider ship dead center. Shields collapsed. Hull breached. The ship shattered in a brilliant explosion that lit up the asteroid field like a miniature star.
The second raider broke formation, tried to evade. Too slow. Vaxon tracked it with inhuman precision, a second burst catching its engines. The ship spun out of control, crashed into an asteroid, and exploded on impact.
The third raider turned and ran.
Vaxon didn't pursue. Just sat back in the co-pilot's seat, markings pulsing with satisfaction, and said: "Told you we'd make it."
I stared at him. At the tactical displays showing scattered debris where three raider ships used to be. At the power readouts that showed we had approximately forty-seven seconds of life support remaining before the jury-rigged systems failed completely.
Then I started laughing. Couldn't help it. The hysterical, exhausted, we're-somehow-alive laughter of someone who'd just survived something that should have killed them.
"You're insane," I managed between gasps. "Completely, absolutely insane."
"Says the woman who flew through an asteroid field in a damaged shuttle with no shields."
"You told me to!"
"And you did it brilliantly." He squeezed my hand, still wrapped around the controls. "Elena. Breathe. We're safe."
I breathed. Tried to, anyway. My chest felt too tight, adrenaline crash hitting hard now that the immediate danger hadpassed. We'd done it. Survived raiders and derelicts and impossible odds. Rescued Will and Lisa. Lived through another day that should have been our last.
"Mothership, this is Rescue Seven," Vaxon said into the comm. "Mission successful. Requesting emergency docking procedures. We're running on reserve power."
