2. Jax #2
It gives with a shriek of tortured metal. The canopy jerks free just enough to pry open. Smoke billows out, hot and choking, carrying the stench of burnt circuitry and scorched fabric.
“Okay,” I say to myself, voice steady by force of habit. “Okay, you’re doing great.”
I lean in, squinting through the haze.
She’s slumped in the pilot’s seat, restraints still locked, head tilted at an angle that makes my stomach drop. Dark hair sticks to her face with sweat and blood. A gash along her temple seeps sluggishly, tracking down her cheek.
“Hey,” I say, softer now, even though I know she can’t hear me. “I’ve got you.”
The alarms spike in pitch, as if offended by my confidence.
I reach in and fumble for the release, fingers slipping on scorched polymer. The buckle sticks. Of course it does.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” I mutter, bracing myself.
The heat inside the cockpit is brutal, pressing in on all sides. My lungs burn with every breath, smoke coating my tongue. Sweat runs down my spine, pooling at my waistband.
The buckle finally gives. I catch her weight as she slumps forward, heavier than I expect, dead weight dragging at my arms.
“Easy,” I murmur, hauling her against my chest.
Her skin is hot, flushed with fever or shock or both. Her pulse flutters under my fingers, fast and shallow. Alive, though. That matters.
A sharp, rising whine cuts through the chaos.
Fuel cells reaching critical.
“Time’s up,” I say.
I stagger backward, half-carrying, half-dragging her clear of the cockpit. My boots skid on loose gravel as I put distance between us and the wreck, lungs screaming for clean air.
The explosion hits seconds later.
Heat slams into my back like a physical force, knocking me forward. The ground shudders, a concussive wave rippling through the desert. I go down on one knee, curling around her instinctively as fire roars behind us.
Debris whistles overhead, clattering against stone. A shockwave rolls past, tugging at my clothes, my hair, the edges of my awareness.
When the noise fades enough to hear again, I’m breathing hard, heart hammering like it wants out of my chest.
“Still with me,” I murmur, checking her pulse again. Fast, but there. “Good.”
I shift her gently onto her back, laying her out on a patch of ground mercifully free of flame. Her breathing rasps, uneven, chest hitching with each inhale.
Temple training kicks in without conscious thought.
I scan her quickly, hands moving with practiced efficiency. Head wound. Possible concussion. Bruising along her ribs where the restraints caught her. A nasty burn along her forearm, blistering already, skin angry and red.
“No spinal deformity,” I mutter, running my hands lightly along her neck and back, careful not to move her more than necessary. “That’s something.”
I shrug off my pack and dig out the med kit, fingers trembling only a little now that the immediate danger has passed. The desert heat presses in, relentless, but adrenaline keeps me sharp.
“Sorry,” I tell her quietly as I clean the cut on her temple. She doesn’t react, lashes fluttering once before stilling again.
I dress the wound quickly, firm pressure to slow the bleeding, then secure it with a seal. The burn gets a cooling gel, my jaw tightening as I work.
“You picked a hell of a place to land,” I say, though there’s no humor in it.
Her clothes are scorched and torn, flight suit blackened along one side. The smell of burned fabric clings to her, sharp and acrid.
I sit back on my heels and take a breath, forcing my heart rate down.
Off-world tech. Forbidden zone trajectory. A crash violent enough to light up the desert.
“This is bad,” I mutter.
I glance back at the wreckage, now a twisted, burning skeleton against the sand. The shape of the hull gnaws at me, familiar in a way I don’t like. Alliance design cues, stripped of markings, modified for speed and stealth.
“So you didn’t just wander in,” I say quietly.
I look back down at her, really look this time.
She’s human. That much is obvious. Not local, though. Her skin is too pale for this sun, even accounting for shock. Her hands are scarred in ways that speak of work, not leisure. Pilot’s calluses.
“Who are you?” I murmur.
Her answer is a shallow breath and nothing more.
Staying here isn’t an option. The smoke will draw attention. Bandits. Scavengers. Worse.
Sweetwater sits far enough out to be defensible, close enough to reach if I move fast.
I glance at the seedlings strapped to the crawler, then back at her unconscious form.
“Looks like you’re coming with me,” I tell her.
I lift her carefully, adjusting my grip to support her head and injured arm. She groans faintly, brow creasing, but doesn’t wake.
“Easy,” I murmur again, the word becoming a habit. “I’ve got you.”
The crawler feels suddenly smaller as I settle her onto it, rigging restraints to keep her stable. I secure her with more care than strictly necessary, double-checking every strap.
The engine rumbles to life beneath my hands as I climb back into the driver’s seat. I cast one last look at the wreckage, committing its position to memory.
Off-world ships don’t crash in my desert by accident.
“Sweetwater it is,” I say, nudging the crawler into motion.
The desert stretches out ahead, vast and unforgiving, the heat already reclaiming the ground where fire touched it. I steer away from the smoke and toward the long road home, eyes flicking between the horizon and the woman breathing shallowly beside me.
Trouble has a way of following people like her.
I have a feeling this is only the beginning.