Page 48 of Starfighter’s Salvation

At least he was alive. We all were. And my mate was going to keep us that way. He was the best pilot I'd ever seen. He'd flown us out of worse situations than this one. It had been in a game, sure. But he'd told me the training simulations were based on real missions, flown by Velerion Starfighters.

Thank God it wasn't Dekker in the pilot's seat. I realized if it was anyone but Corvan, I'd be in a full-blown, scream my head off panic.

One of the Scythe must have fired because Corvan dropped the ship so fast the floor tried to leave us behind. I heard the shot pass overhead. A second struck the port side. A third fighter closed in from above. I saw its shadow cross the medbay window.

“Corvan, top side!”

“I see it.”

The defensive cannon fired. One heavy pulse shook the ship. The Scythe crossed my view of the window trailing flame. Brennix looked toward the cockpit.

One of the researchers had an opinion to share. “Rescue pilots don't usually shoot like that.”

“He's a Starfighter.” My one statement of fact seemed to calm everyone, including me.

One of the enemy fighters returned and fired another burst. The medbay exploded in noise. Lights went out, came back on red, and one equipment cabinet opened across the room. Supplies flew everywhere.

“Report,” Corvan ordered.

“We're fine. Your cabinets need better locks.”

“Port thruster is failing. We're going down. Brace for impact.”

This time he gave us almost three seconds of warning. Generous. I locked my arms through the rail and planted my boots against the deck. The rescue ship turned sharply. Metal screamed along the port side. Rock flashed by us on the other side of the small, medbay windows.

Then we hit. Corvan would object to the word crash. It felt like one anyway. The ship slammed onto the ground, bounced once, and slid beneath a rock overhang. Every monitor alarmed at the same time. For ten seconds, all I did was look around and make sure everyone was still breathing. Cassia swore. Brennix swore louder.

Tavar’s monitor kept beeping. The cockpit hatch opened, and Corvan filled the space, alive and upright, one hand still braced on the frame. The sight loosened a knot I had refused to notice I was carrying.

“Gina?”

“We’re good.”

He crossed to me before anything else and looked me over — head, chest, arms, legs — taking inventory. Only when he was satisfied that I wasn't hurt, did he turn to the patients.

“Port thruster is damaged. We can't outrun them, and we don't have the guns to fight,” he said. “Their fighters cannot target us under the overhang. Ground patrols can, but it'll take them time to get here, and they can't use their sensors in the dampening field. We stay here until dawn, then I'll use the daybreak to launch and the rising star to blind them.”

“Can you repair the thruster?” Brennix asked.

“I don't have the right parts or equipment. But the fuel line is intact. It will hold for one ascent.”

“One?”

“If we're lucky.”

“Are we lucky?” Heady injury Halix mumbled.

Corvan looked around the packed medbay. “We found you and you're not dead. I'd say you're all extremely lucky.”

Fair point. At least I thought so.

“How long do we have to sit in the dark and play hide and seek?” Cassia sighed, but she wasn't arguing.

“Six hours.”

One apprentice groaned.

“Look at the bright side,” I said. “You finally get to sleep.”