The crew moved fast. Priest booted the Black Fang’s systems, cutting external feeds to prevent an automated lockdown. Gravel dropped into the pilot’s chair, hands flying over controls. It had been a long damn time since he had to fly this ship himself—Fang had handled piloting since she joined.

  The clamps let out a metallic groan as they released.

  “Stealth vector engaged,” Priest reported. “Keeping us under sensor sweeps.”

  Through the viewport, Fang sprinted across the docking lanes, smoke billowing behind her from the fried power junction she’d left in ruin. She had even nicked a guard jacket from somewhere, and on her petite frame, the jacket turned into an overcoat. She held the access card in her hand before realizing it was now useless and tossed it aside. It seemed like she had to flash that card earlier.

  Earlier, Gravel wasn’t sure if Fang was slightly fatigued or not, but now he was fairly certain she was a bit more than slightly fatigued.

  “I hate you guys,” she panted over comms. “I hate you all.”

  “You sound super funny running with that mask on.” Hunter was already at the ramp controls. “Keep running, sweetheart.”

  Fang leaped. The ramp wasn’t even fully lowered, but she grabbed the edge, hauling herself up as Hunter yanked her inside.

  “Go, go, go!” Gravel fired the thrusters, banking hard as they cleared the docking bay doors. Sirens blared below, targeting arrays snapping online.

  “We’ve got auto-missile locks!” He shouted.

  “Not for long.” Priest rerouted power to countermeasures, scrambling targeting signatures just as a streak of fire shot toward them. The missile lost its lock, spiraling wide before detonating in the lower docks.

  Gravel exhaled sharply, hands gripping the controls tighter. “Been a while since I had to do this myself.”

  Hunter smirked. “You rusty?”

  Gravel scoffed. “Please. I could fly this thing blindfolded. Uh, at least, before Fang changed the interface. Now where the fuck is the . . .” He squinted at the console, flicking switches at random. “The thruster balance? The nav-lock? The—why the hell is there a ‘coolant purge’ button right next to the weapons array?”

  Fang’s voice blared through comms. “Don’t press that.”

  Gravel froze mid-reach. “Okay, noted. But seriously, where’s the—”

  The ship lurched as an unauthorized system recalibration warning flashed red across the dashboard.

  Hunter shot him a look. “What. Did. You. Press.”

  Gravel frowned at the blinking panel. “Probably something unimportant.”

  The ship shuddered, alarms flaring across the console as a high-pitched whine built up in the engine core.

  Fang’s voice crackled through comms. “Gravel, I swear on Priest and everything holy, tell me you didn’t just disable inertial dampening.”

  Gravel braced himself as the Black Fang tilted unnaturally to port. “Define ‘disable.’”

  Priest said, deadpan amidst Fang’s scream in the distance. “You turned off gravity compensation. We’re about to get pasted against the bulkhead if you don’t fix it. Let me take over.”

  “You’ve piloted a ship twice in your life,” retorted Gravel.

  Hunter, clutching the nearest surface, growled. “Turn it back on before I turn you off.”

  Gravel rapidly flipped switches, trying to retrace his mistake. “Alright, alright, nobody panic, I got this. I—”

  A sudden burst of acceleration threw them all sideways as the engines recalibrated with a violent jerk.

  Fang’s voice was pure exasperation. “You’re the worst.”

  Gravel finally found the right switch and jammed it back into place. The ship leveled out, alarms cutting off one by one.

  A tense silence.

  Gravel’s fingers flew over the console, bringing the Black Fang to a steady hover just above the alley where Fang waited. The ship’s engines hummed low, barely audible over the distant din of sirens.

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  Fang’s voice sounded over comms. “Open the damn ramp. I’m not hanging around for an encore.”

  Hunter tapped a control, and the rear hatch lowered. Fang sprinted forward, leaping onto the ramp just as she threw a look over her shoulder. No immediate pursuit, but they weren’t waiting to find out.

  She skidded into the hold, taking her mask off and throwing it on the ground with a plop. “Go . . .”

  “Already moving,” Gravel called back, fingers dancing across the console. The Black Fang lifted off, thrusters flaring as they banked upward, threading through the maze of Kestris’ lower skyline.

  Priest’s visor flickered as he scanned telemetry. “No pursuit yet.”

  Gravel exhaled, pushing the throttle forward. “Good. Let’s keep it that—”

  Warning: Air Traffic Violation. Priority Response Unit Scrambling.

  Fang groaned, dropping into the co-pilot’s seat with head slightly slumping forward. “You—huff—couldn’t fly casual for two minutes?”

  Gravel clenched his jaw. “Listen, I haven’t had to fly the ship myself since you joined. You rewired half the controls! And who gives a shit about air traffic laws?”

  “You keep pressing buttons like they haven’t changed.”

  “Where the fuck is the—” Gravel’s fingers hovered over the wrong panel, nearly triggering the ship’s distress beacon.

  Fang slapped his hand away. “Not that one!”

  “Maybe label your damn buttons!”

  “Maybe don’t fly like a drunk—LEFT, LEFT!”

  Gravel yanked the controls just in time, narrowly dodging an incoming patrol craft. The Black Fang twisted into a sharp ascent, engines whining under the sudden maneuver.

  Priest’s visor updated. “Still no pursuit lock, but we don’t stay in orbit . . . we jump now.”

  Gravel gritted his teeth, finally finding the right control. He engaged the jump drive, locking coordinates beyond Garmin-44’s monitoring zones.

  The Black Fang shuddered as its engines roared to life, struggling to generate enough power for a jump after sitting cold for so long. Warning lights flickered across the console—LOW ENERGY RESERVES. SYSTEM CHARGING.

  Gravel swore under his breath. “Jump drive’s gotta spool up. We need a minute.”

  Priest’s visor pulsed red. “They have locked onto us. Ground units moving in.”

  The ship lurched as turret fire streaked past, clipping the hull.

  “Shields up!” Fang shouted, already flicking through controls.

  Hunter unholstered her rifle. “Then we make sure they don’t get another shot.” She turned, sprinting toward the rear turret controls.

  The Black Fang tore through the thinning atmosphere, engines straining as the jump drive fought to spool up. The last remnants of Kestris’ undercity vanished below—but pursuit wasn’t letting up.

  Hostile signatures detected.

  Priest’s visor pulsed red. “Skijets incoming.”

  Gravel glanced at the readout. A half-dozen high-speed pursuit skijets—light, single-rider craft barely more than an exposed seat strapped to a thruster core—were closing fast. Their compact frame made them fragile, but they could weave through fire like gnats and mount grappling harpoons to latch onto larger ships.

  Hunter clicked her tongue. “We’re getting chased by glorified jetpacks.”

  “They are faster than us in atmo,” Priest warned. “Jump drive is at fifty percent. We need another minute.”

  “Why is everyone asking for another minute?” Fang muttered.

  Sloan had been silent since takeoff, arms folded, gaze locked on the pursuing crafts through the viewport. When she finally spoke, her voice was tight. “I can take weapons control.”

  Fang scoffed. “You any good?”

  Sloan replied, “I’ve done it in simulations.”

  Hunter cut in. “No shooting. We’re trying to lose them, not start a war. The second we fire, we’re gonna become intergalactic criminals.”

  The lead skijet surged ahead, its pilot lining up a mag-clamp harpoon at the Black Fang’s underbelly.

  “Not happening.” Hunter pivoted to the rear turret controls but didn’t fire. Instead, she rerouted the ship’s thruster output, sending a sudden burst of exhaust in the skijet’s path. The pilot veered off-course to avoid the scorching plume, but two more took its place, this time coming from above rather than behind.

  “They are wising up to the heat trick,” Priest noted. “Coming in from higher angles.”

  Sloan’s grip tightened on the co-pilot’s seat. “They’re trying to cripple us, not kill us.”

  “Comforting,” Gravel muttered. He pulled hard on the thruster, sending the ship into a sharp barrel roll. The skijets scrambled to adjust—one clipped the Black Fang’s stabilizer, spiraling out of control before detonating.

  Jump drive at seventy percent.

  One of the remaining skijet riders leaned forward, angling an energy caster at the ship’s starboard side.

  “Gravel, drop us left!” Fang snapped.

  He hesitated—then yanked the controls. The Black Fang veered down hard, just as the energy shot seared past where they’d been. Fang fired the vent thrusters again, sending a short burst of heat and debris into the nearest skijet. The rider jerked away, momentarily blinded.

  Hunter sent another burst of exhaust, clipping one of the pursuers. “Priest, where’s my jump?”

  “Ninety percent!”

  The final skijets closed in—too close. The rider at the forefront twisted mid-air, their harpoon firing directly toward the viewport.

  Sloan moved.

  She lunged forward, grabbing Gravel’s wrist and yanking the controls up. The ship pitched violently, the harpoon barely scraping the underside instead of punching through.

  Gravel didn’t have time to yell at her.

  Priest’s voice cut through the chaos. “Jump drive ready!”

  Gravel slammed the engage switch.

  The ship shook. Quaked. Convulsed. Then shook again.

  The skijets dropped away. The stars stretched.

  They were gone.