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“I thought we would fly past their lands. I am sorry.”
“What are Eaters?” Holiday asks. “My Antarctic anthropology ain’t for shit.”
“Eaters of men,” Ragnar says. “Shamed castouts from the clans.”
“Bloodyhell.”
“Darrow, there must be a way to contact your men for extraction,” Mustang says, determined to find a way out.
“There isn’t. Asgard’s jamming array makes this whole continent static. The only tech for a thousand kilometers is there. Unless the other ship has something.”
“Who are they?” Ragnar asks.
“Don’t know. Can’t be the Jackal,” I say. “If he knew who we were then he would have sent his fleet after us, not just one black-ops ship.”
“It’s Cassius,” Mustang says. “I assume he came in a disguised ship, like I did. He’s supposed to be on Luna. It was one of the positives of negotiating here. They get caught going behind my brother’s back, it’s as bad for them as for me. Worse.”
“How’d he know which ship was ours?” I ask.
Mustang shrugs. “Must have sniffed out the diversion. Maybe he followed us from the Hollows. I don’t know. He’s not stupid. He did catch you in the Rain as well, going under the wall.”
“Or someone told him,” Holiday says, eying Mustang darkly.
“Why would I tell him when I’m on the gorydamn ship?” Mustang says.
“Well, let’s hope it’s Cassius,” I say. “If it is, then they won’t just hop on gravBoots and fly to Asgard for help, because then they’ll have to explain to the Jackal why they were on Phobos to begin with. How’d it go down, anyway?” I ask. “It looked like a missile signature from the back of our ship. But we don’t have missiles.”
“The boxes did,” Ragnar says. “I fired a sarissa out the back of the cargo bay from a shoulder launcher.”
“You shot a missile at them while we were falling?” Mustang asks incredulously.
“Yes. And I attempted to gather gravBoots. I failed.”
“I think you did just fine,” Mustang says with a sudden laugh. It infects the rest of us, even Holiday. Ragnar doesn’t understand the humor. My cheer fades quickly though as Holiday coughs and cinches her hood tighter.
I watch the black clouds over the sea. “How long till that storm hits, Ragnar?”
“Perhaps two hours. It moves with speed.”
“It’ll get to negative sixty,” Mustang says. “We won’t survive. Not with our gear like this.” The wind howls through our ravine and the bleak mountainside around us.
“Then there’s only one option,” I say. “We sack up and push across the mountains, find the downed ship. If it is Cassius in there, he’ll have at least a full squad of Thirteenth legion black ops with him.”
“That’s not a good thing,” Mustang says warily. “Those Grays are better trained for winter combat than we are.”
“Better than you,” Holiday says, pulling back her sealSkin so Mustang can read the Thirteenth legion tattoo on her neck. “Not me.”
“You’re a dragoon?” Mustang asks, unable to hide the surprise.
“Was. Point is: PFR—Praetorian field regulations—mandate survival gear in long-range mission transport enough to last each squad a month in any conditions. They’ll have water, food, heat, and gravBoots.”
“What if they survived the crash?” Mustang says, eying Holiday’s injured leg and our paltry weapons supply.
“Then they will not survive us,” Ragnar says.
“And we’re better off hitting them when they’re still piecing themselves together,” I say. “We go now, fast as we can, and we might get there before the storm lands. It’s our only chance.”
Ragnar and Holiday join me, the Obsidian gathering the gear as the Gray checks her rifle’s ammunition. But Mustang’s hesitant. There’s something else she hasn’t told us. “What is it?” I demand.
