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A split second before the screen goes black and the ship trembles, I sense the trouble. Like the moment of silence that precedes a thunderclap, only in this case it is the sound of engines taking a quick breath before misfiring in unison.

The ship lurches beneath us, causing all of our feet to come off the floor before we crash back down. I pull Azalea into me, holding her body against mine so I can absorb the impact of the fall and keep her safe.

Tables topple over. Silverware clatters to the ground and glass cups shatter. Over the screams of the terrified passengers, I call out to Metis while shielding Azalea from any loose items that might fly our way. “Report!”

I strain to hear the AI through the din of chaos, and I only catch a few of the words she says. “... Engines… Alignment… Tier one… Reactors…”

Acting on instinct and adrenaline, I push up to my knees and pull Azalea up with me, then stagger us both toward the level four comms center. My only concern should be communicating with our captain, but I know that if Azalea leaves my sight my concentration leaves with her.

I reach a central pillar with an inlaid screen and direct Metis to connect me to the bridge. The shaking continues, but now most of the passengers have taken cover on the floor, their cries of fear softening into mumbled exclamations of worry, allowing me to better hear the comm.

Captain Millard’s face appears on my screen, shown through the camera of her command station. Her gaze does not seek ours, but is rather focused on the myriad of other screens and systems before her.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

She remains relatively calm, her face showing a hint of annoyance if anything. “I was going to ask you the same question, Mr. Volkav. What have you done to my ship?”

“Is it the same engine as before? Four on level one?” I’m hopeful the answer will be yes. Much easier to have the same problem with the same solution. If other engines have failed for different reasons, I estimate it will take approximately two minutes for the ship to plummet through the atmosphere and crash into the rocky, unforgiving terrain.

“Yes, that engine failed,” she answers. The glimmer of hope that blossoms in me is squashed with her next words. “And six other engines on the cargo level are either unresponsive or delayed.”

Dear God.

“It’s mechanical, nothing to be done from the bridge,” Elspeth continues, her voice shaking as the ship rattles us like marbles in a tin can. “I’d send crew in to manually activate backup coils but I’m not sure it’s possible in this turbulence.”

She is wise to be cautious. Our engine troubles from a few weeks ago pale in comparison to the current calamitous breakdown, likely due to the ship moving through actual atmosphere instead of the gentle nothingness of outer space.

I look away from the screen and pinch the bridge of my nose as I mentally run through as many possible solutions as my brain can process. Naturally, my eyes lock with Azalea’s, finding instant solace in her beauty and strength, and I lose myself momentarily in the deep blue of her irises, an iridescent ocean I could sink into happily. I think back through the moments that entwined my heart with hers. Outside the ship when she arrived to a burning bridge and I knew instinctively I had to save her, no matter the cost. In her room as we potted the tree we risked our lives for. Alone in the cargo bay.... The same cargo level that has now lost its engines seventy kilometers above the ground of Mars.

“You keep your tree in your room?”

Azalea is caught off guard by my question, as is Captain Millard.

“Tree? What the hell are you talking about?” Elspeth says from the screen.

“Not you,” I fire back, needing to progress this conversation quickly. “Azalea?”

She still stares in confusion, but offers a quick nod in response.

“Good,” I say, giving her arm a soft squeeze before refocusing on the screen. “Elspeth, does level two have landing gear?”

The captain thinks for the briefest second, likely because she knows my thoughts and is already a few steps ahead.

“No, but that’s not as important as manipulative thrusters, which we have on every tier,” she answers. “Are you sure you want to abort that level?”

Azalea’s eyes widen in alarm when she realizes what Elspeth and I are discussing.

“I am not sure at all,” I admit to Elspeth while keeping my eyes on Azalea. “But I cannot think of another option.”

“Metis,” Elspeth says, bringing our all-knowing companion into the conversation. “How long until impact?”

“One hundred and eleven seconds,” Metis replies calmly. “Shall I initiate a countdown?”

“For the love of Christ, no,” Elspeth replies with a caustic laugh. “Let us at least pretend we might survive.”

“Can you maneuver with engines misfiring?” I ask my salty captain, making a mental note to thank her for her good humor should we live to have such an exchange.

“Afraid not, love,” she responds. “Your idea is the right one. We have to drop weight so I can fly us to the landing site. Then we can find out how useful the landing gear would have been.”