I spot Dr. Aria Patel. Impeccable, even now, still smelling faintly of sanitizer. Medical kit thumping against her hip. She sees the blood on my sleeve and reaches for me without asking. I think about how many New Terran soldiers she patched up over the past couple of years. I wonder how many of them knew their doctor was a veterinarian who had to cross-train on humans.
I shake my head, brushing her away. It’s fine. Not worth the time. She nods once, but I can see the calculation in her eyes. Wherever we end up, she’s going to need Maya and me on our feet. I hate putting myself first, but I have to do it. I can’t help anyone if I’m down. Or dead.
Piper limps in, arm around Reema, the botanist. Reema’s gone pale, coughing like she’s breathing smoke, but she's still got both arms locked around her case. Seed samples. Biogenetic archives. Whatever’s inside is too precious to abandon. She doesn’t say a word. She just holds on.
Something brushes the back of my knees. I twist, already halfway to a swing, and catch a flash of auburn hair. It’s Quinn, our journalist. Cross-trained as a cryptographer. Of course she’s still got her notebook. Of course she’s writing even now. Her pen scratches as she stumbles past. Paper is archaic, but Quinn insists on using it anyway.
We started with twenty-four. Down from over two hundred women who began our training.
I count who’s left.
Twenty.
Maybe less if Reema goes down. Whoever sent us here knew the numbers. Twenty-four women left for the final run to the evac site. Ten seats on the shuttle. We’ve done better than they expected.
The bay jolts hard, metal groaning, lights flaring, floor plating snapping under our boots. A chunk of catwalk crashes down behind us, smashing what’s left of the banner into the floor like a final insult.
“We have to go now,” Tessa says. Soft voice. Firm spine. No one argues. I wouldn’t have figured a chef would be chosen for a survival mission, but she has a quiet authority that speaks volumes. And, like the rest of us aboard, a human genome that’s never been scientifically altered.
Dana and I head back to the ramp to help the boarding process. The shuttle groans beneath us like it doesn’t want to hold our weight. Too bad. We’re not giving it a choice.
The craft is warming up, and it smells like expired coolant and something vaguely electrical—wires overheating or systems barely holding. The ten acceleration couches look passable enough, and they’re built to hold men. It’ll be tight, but we women will fit. Frayed harnesses, rusting brackets, and foam padding that’s probably full of mold. The rest of the chamber is all cargo netting, stripped-out compartments, and handholds meant for conditions this ship hasn’t seen in years.
We pile onto the couches. There’s no room for order or ceremony. Just sitting, clinging, trying to find a way to lie as flat as possible for liftoff.
We’re a tangle of desperate bodies and held breath, trying not to think about how loud our hearts are beating or how fast our chances are dropping.
Lila's voice wavers across the cabin. "Elena, do you think anyone else made it out?"
“No,” I say quickly. Firmly.
It shuts her up. But there were supposed to be other crews. It would be suicide to broadcast our positions. As far as I know, what's left of the human race is strapped in beside me. We can’t worry about anyone else right now.
Tessa slides a hand onto Lila’s shoulder. “We make this count. For all the ones who didn’t make it.”
Dana slams her palm against the control panel. The hatch whines, then grinds shut. Seals engage with a hiss and a flicker of the lights. We’re locked in.
I exhale sharply. Across from me, Maya mirrors the motion, blowing out a breath like she’s trying not to cry. Her shoulders droop. Mine tense.
She tilts her head, working her jaw. Pressure equalizing. Or maybe she’s fighting off a sinus cold. I don’t know. But now I’m wondering if anyone brought meds for it. I didn’t. My medkit is basic. If someone has a serious medical event on ascent, we’re screwed.
With a minute to launch, the platform under us shudders and starts its climb to the surface.
The nav board glows brightly. Every status light is a warning. Life support is uncertain. Engines are cycling. The auto guidance we need to launch without an expert pilot is nonexistent. There’s just a blinking prompt, daring me to do something.
I’m the only engineer left. So yeah, I’m doing something.
I crawl to the guidance console, threading through knees and boots and tangled limbs, and slap a manual connection into place. “Manual override?” I ask the system out loud. Probably pointless. The shuttle AI’s struggling to come online.
The response is a red light and a long, sulky beep.
Great. We’re flying on spite.
I adjust the config anyway. I take ten seconds to flip a bypass. Patch in the diagnostic. It will have to be enough.
Behind me, the women shift just enough to let me wedge back into a slice of couch.
Quinn stares forward, eyes blank. Piper rolls her ankle, testing the prosthetic with a click. Sloane slots her chip into the emergency port, chin tucked, expression unreadable. Nav data. Her job starts when the rails end.
