"I am experiencing significant processing degradation and operating at thirty-seven percent capacity. Alive is a generous characterisation." A glitch cuts through her voice, then steadies. "I am also detecting a large biosignature in close proximity to the hull. Shall I be concerned?"
"That's Horgox. He's—" What is he? An ally. A stranger who caught me when I ran. A male with a lifetime of violence behind him and circuit traceries he didn't choose carved into his skin. "He's helping."
"The fugitive referenced in the Sector Nine security advisory is helping you. Your definition of help continues to alarm me."
"Love you too. Now hold still, I'm pulling your core." The first mounting lock releases under my multi-driver. Then the second. My fingers are cramping in the awkward space, and sweat makes the tools slip, but this is what I'm good at. This is what I've always been good at. Fixing things, saving things, keeping broken systems breathing one more day.
The ship groans. A deep, structural sound that vibrates through the hull and into my bones.
"Main support is failing." Horgox's voice is strained, coming from outside. "Structural integrity compromised."
"Almost—" Third lock. One more. The groaning intensifies, and through the gap in the hull I catch a glimpse of his arms braced against the frame, every muscle locked, those blue traceries blazing bright with the strain. Synthetic response to physical stress; the circuits don't care about his comfort, only his output.
"You need to get out." Not a suggestion. A command, rough with effort.
"Not without Bebo!" The final lock releases and the core drops into my hands, warm, pulsing with residual charge. The size of my fist, the weight of everything that matters. "Got it. Coming out."
Scrambling backward through the cockpit wreckage, Bebo's core clutched against my sternum. The ship's groan becomes a scream, metal fatigue hitting critical, and I'm not going to make it out before the section collapses, I can hear it in the pitch of the failure—
Horgox's hand closes on the back of my jumpsuit andpulls.
The world tilts. My body comes through the gap with a force that rattles my teeth, and then I'm clear, and his arms lock around me, and we're rolling away from Buttercup's cockpit as it crumples inward with a sound I will hear in my sleep for a very long time.
We end up on the jungle floor. Me on top of him, Bebo's core safe between our chests, both breathing in ragged pulls. His arms are still locked around me, tight enough that my ribs protest, and his heartbeat slams against my palms where they're braced on his chest.
"You—" he starts.
"Successful extraction," I manage, holding up the core. "One hundred percent of Bebos retrieved."
His jaw works. He looks furious. "You nearly—"
"But I didn't."
"By seconds. Byseconds, you—" He cuts himself off. His eyes are blazing gold, pupils dilated to narrow vertical slits, and every line of his body radiates the specific tension of someone who was very recently certain they were about to watch someone die.
I should get off him. Should put distance between us, reset to professional, remind both of us that we are strangers in a survival situation and not whatever this looks like. His arms are still locked around my waist, and the heat of him soaks through my jumpsuit, and his face is inches from mine, and I am acutely aware of the geometry of this position in a way that has nothing to do with survival.
"Clever girl," he says, and the words come out rough. Grudging. Like the admission costs him something.
My stomach drops. Not the bad kind. The kind where your body recognises something before your brain does, and your brain is scrambling to catch up.
A drone whines in the distance. The sound lands like cold water.
I roll off him. He releases me. We're both on our feet in seconds, the moment severed cleanly by the reminder that this jungle is trying to kill us and we are on a clock.
"Tree cover." His voice is neutral. Whatever was on his face three seconds ago is locked behind the flat tactical mask ofsomeone who has been controlling his expressions for longer than I've been alive. "Now."
We run.
Twenty minutes later, I'm crouched in a nest of massive roots, jury-rigging a power interface for Bebo with salvaged cables and the kind of creative profanity that would make Mother Morrison proud.
"So." I glance at Horgox, who's positioned at the perimeter, watching the jungle. "My AI is judgmental."
"I preferrealistic." Bebo's voice crackles through the makeshift speaker, stabilising as the power interface holds. "Krilly has a documented history of optimistic risk assessments that result in catastrophic outcomes."
"I have survived every single one of those outcomes."
"Through increasingly improbable means." Bebo's tone is bone-dry. "Current situation analysis: stranded on hostile planet, pursued by corporate retrieval forces, partnered with a wanted fugitive, zero viable extraction options. Probability of survival beyond seventy-two hours: seventeen percent."
