"Weapons lock attempt."
"Shields?"
"Seventy-three percent. Won't hold under sustained fire."
"Then we don't give them sustained anything."
A spiral manoeuvre, something Zola taught me in advanced evasion training. Razor's Edge fires; the blast hits an asteroid in our wake, exploding it into a debris cloud.
"Chaff and decoys into the debris," I say, and Horgox is executing before the words finish, his hands on the countermeasures panel as naturally as if they were my hands. "Forty seconds of sensor confusion."
"Plenty."
I push Buttercup the Second harder, threading through rock like a needle through fabric. Horgox calls obstacles before they appear on visual, trusting my reflexes to translate his data into survival. His calm feeding my focus, my confidence feeding his trust, two nervous systems covering each other's blind spots.
"Magnificent," he says.
I nearly clip an asteroid. "You're complimenting meduringa chase?"
"Observing facts. Your piloting is precise, intuitive, and beautiful."
"After we survive, you can compliment me. During the chase, call out obstacles."
"Asteroid, forty degrees port, fourteen seconds."
"Thank you."
His amusement layered beneath tactical focus. He finds me funny even under fire. The knowledge makes me fly better, which is an absurd thing to discover about myself but entirely consistent with everything I've learned since a seven-foot-twogladiator caught me in a jungle and changed the trajectory of my life.
We clear the field's edge with shields at forty-two percent and my pulse hammering. Sensor check: Razor's Edge is damaged, shields depleted, slowing.
"Pursuit no longer viable," Horgox confirms.
"Jump coordinates plotted," Bebo announces, managing to sound smug.
"Do it."
The stars stretch. Buttercup the Second's FTL drive engages. Gone.
Jump space. Safe. Medical supplies intact.
I lean back and let the breath go. Horgox's hand finds my shoulder, warm and solid, and the relief flows in both directions.
"Cargo bay secure," Bebo reports. "Medical supplies undamaged. Hull scoring on starboard side, shields depleted, but nothing that won't buff out."
"We did it." My voice sounds strange. Giddy.
"We did it." His pride for me, specific and fierce.
"Partners."
"Always."
Frontier Station Kappa is smaller than Junction One, more utilitarian, the kind of station where people work hard and don't waste resources on aesthetics. The docking clamps engage with a clean thunk, and beside me I can feel Horgox cataloguing the station layout, checking sight lines, running the security assessment that his body does automatically.
The station medic meets us at the bottom of the cargo ramp. Dr. Kess, Ytrillian female, four hands already scanningcontainers before we finish lowering them. Her iridescent skin pulses with urgency.
"Courier Baxter? Thank the stars. We've had an outbreak. We needed these supplies two days ago."
