Page 20 of Last of Her Name

He pulls up a comm channel and keys in several numbers. A moment later, a reply message pops up. “Okay, I sent a distress code, and they’ve given us clearance to land if we can, but that’s it. We’re on our own, and they’ll expect us to check in with security as soon as we touch down.”

“Nice work,” I murmur. “So they’ll wait to shoot us untilafterwe’ve landed.”

“It gives us a chance, at least,” he returns edgily. “By the way, I saw the gravity generator.”

I pause to meet his eyes.

“Stacia, what in the ever-blazing stars happened down there?”

“Why are you asking me? It’syoursecret spaceship.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I look back at the controls. One of the simulations has settled on a course that should get us to Sapphine’s surface on what accelerant we have, but there’s little margin for error.

“We can worry about the gravity generator when we’re safely on the ground. Or, uh, ocean.” Right. There is no dry surface on Sapphine. “For now, let’s just land this thing.”

Once we’re in atmo, I can activate the ship’s emergency gliding function to navigate Sapphine’s skies and find safe harbor. But the wings won’t do us any good up here, where there’s no wind to sail upon.

I grab the space suits from a narrow storage compartment in the cabin, tossing one to Pol. We put them on in silence.

“Here,” he says, when I have trouble latching my helmet to my suit.

I stand still as his fingers work under my chin. He looks pale, blood crusted on his temple, and his breath mists on his visor glass. I’ve always teased Pol for his seriousness, but now there is an even deeper set to his eyes; shadows cling to him that I’ve never seen before. I’ve been so angry with him the past few days I hadn’t even noticed how haggard and tired he looks.

“Stace …” He pauses, his helmet nearly touching mine, but his eyes still lowered. “If we don’t make it—”

“We’ll make it.”

“Yeah, but still, there’s something I … need you to know.” He raises his eyes to mine, and they burn with such intensity that my stomach twists with sudden apprehension.

“Stop. We’renotgoing to die today.”

I turn and sit down, strapping into my harness. Oxygen vents from a tube by my ear. It tickles, a minor annoyance that seems magnified by my heightened nerves. I swat at it, but it stays in place, like a tiny snake hissing into my ear canal.

My thumb hovers just a moment over the lever that will divert the ship’s air supply. Then, with a heady rush of recklessness, I flip it.

The interior hisses as the air is sucked out of the cockpit and cabin.

“If you’re wrong,” Pol says, “then you’ve just killed us.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I growl, and I punch in the command to commence venting.

The ship creaks and groans as it tilts. The thrusters are meant for minor directional adjustments, not for propelling us across vast distances, but we’re in no position to be picky. We can’t hear the air leaving the ship, but I see it spurt from the caravel’s nose as it turns us to the left. That was two or three hours of life, gone in an instant.

Stars, I hope I’m right about this.

“These suits hold seventy-five minutes of air,” Pol says. “How long till we break atmo?”

I mumble a reply, and he has to put a thick-gloved hand on my shoulder to make me speak it louder.

“Ninety minutes.”

Pol’s hand drops. He sits back, face white. “Stacia …”

“No talking. Skip breaths. Make it last.”

The next hour passes with excruciating slowness.