Chapter 1 #3
Reaching in, she picked up the mounting bracket lying loose in the bottom of the casing and held it up to the light, turning it over in her hand.
The bolt holes were clean.
If the relay had sheared off during the hard landing, the holes would be warped. The metal would be twisted, torn by the force of the screws ripping out. But these were perfect little circles.
Someone hadn’t just neglected this ship. Someone had taken a wrench, unscrewed the bolts, removed the relay, and put the bracket back.
Her brother’s face flashed in her mind. Standing on the loading dock, hands in his pockets, looking bored while she did the pre-flight. Just needs a firm hand, Cait. He’d smiled. The arrogant asshole had actually smiled at her as he said it. She’d give him a fuc-fudging firm hand.
Then he’d sent her out here in a ship rigged to fail.
Insufficient. The voice in her head was louder now. It sounded a lot like her father. You missed it. You let him do it.
The bracket felt heavy in her hand, colder than the air around it.
Fred. Tell me I’m seeing things.
Accessing vis-comm lens. There was a pause and her vision flickered, just once, letting her know that Fred could see what she could. You are not seeing things. Primary assessment: sabotage.
“Show me.”
Micro-serrations on the incision. Consistent with a standard-issue maintenance multi-tool. There was a pause. Not like the first. This was heavy… loaded. Bolts are clean. No stripping. Someone didn’t just break it, kid. They took it apart.
She set the bracket down on the access panel. Carefully. Because if she didn’t do it carefully, she was going to put it through the hull plating.
Her hands shook. A fine, high-frequency tremor that started in her fingertips and vibrated all the way up to her shoulders. Not fear. Heat. Anger… no, this was fury, a nuclear fire that started in her gut and burned all the way up.
Kian.
The image of him on the loading dock checking his chrono and looking bored while she ran the pre-flight, hit her.
She’d thought he was being his usual pain-in-the-backside self.
The heir apparent, too busy for his little sister’s project.
Too important to care about a supply run to the ass-end of the galaxy.
Oh no, now she realised. He hadn’t been bored at all. He’d been patient.
He’d handed her a coffin and smiled while he did it.
Just so he could look at their father and say I told you so.
Or worse—so she’d have to call for a tow, and he could be the hero who bailed out his incompetent little sister.
Again. She’d thought she was the worst pilot in the galaxy…
How many times had he done this before? How many times had he sabotaged her in the past?
“Son of a…” She choked the word off. “Fuc-fudging bastard.”
Language, Fred said automatically. I’m logging it. Secure file. Encrypted. The key is already randomized.
“Good.” She picked up the bracket again, turning it until the sun caught the pristine threads. “Get every angle. Every tool mark. When we get home, and we are going home, Fred… I’m going to shove this evidence down his throat.”
Straightening, she wiped the grease from her hands onto her flight suit and looked out toward the garrison. The heat haze distorted the perimeter fence, twisting the grey metal until it looked like a mirage.
Parac’Norr.
She knew what was on this planet. Well, she’d read the briefing… Blood Rage. Mad men. Alien monsters… all locked away where they couldn’t hurt anyone and only let out to go onto the battlefield.
She’d signed up anyway. High stakes, high reward. It wasn’t about the money though. This was the kind of run that proved she wasn’t just a silly little girl kept around as eye candy.
It was her audition. Her chance to prove she belonged at the table. So she’d signed up for the hostile planet… she’d accepted that the universe might try to kill her.
But she hadn’t signed up for her own brother holding the knife.
“Right.” The word scraped past the knot in her throat. “Okay. What’s next?”
Hydraulic cylinder… port landing strut. Power relay… housing, starboard.
She hesitated, then added a third item. Fuel line patch. Fred had flagged a weep during descent. It was a minor thing, barely worth noting in atmosphere. But minor became critical in the vacuum of deep space, and she was done underestimating what minor could do to this ship. Or to her.
“Read back,” she muttered, staring at the list as it scrolled through her eyeline.
It was short and terrifying. She didn’t have the parts. She definitely didn’t have the credits to buy them but that made no difference on a prison planet.
You missed the seal on the intake valve, Fred said, his voice flat in her ear. And the coupling for the lateral thruster shows stress fatigue. Also, we need coolant. A lot of coolant.
She didn’t argue. Just added them. “Anything else?”
A stiff drink and a new family, he suggested. But I suspect the budget won’t stretch.
“Funny, Fred. Very funny.”
I’m a riot. It’s the only thing keeping my circuits from frying.
She snorted, the sound harsh in the quiet heat.
Across the pad, the air shimmered, distorting the shapes of the other ships like reflections in a dirty puddle.
The veteran on the far left had her ramp up, locked tight.
Paranoia or just good sense? Probably both.
But the older woman with the mid-size hauler, she had her cargo bay open. Crates stacked near the entrance.
Inventory. Spares.
She clipped the comp to her belt and slid the access panel back into place, locking it with a sharp twist of her wrist. The metal burned her fingertips and she hissed again.
Cait. Fred’s tone stopped her before she could stand. Not his snark voice. The one he used when the math didn’t add up. I’m flagging the encrypted file to your solicitor’s secure channel. Immediate transmission.
She paused, wiping sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand. “Why? We can send it over when we get back.”
Because if something happens to you on this rock, he said, there should be a record somewhere that isn’t on this ship. Somewhere Kian cannot scrub.
She sat back on her heels, the grit of the slabcrete biting into her knees.
Through the open cockpit door, she could just see the edge of the console where his cartridge was plugged in.
A battered grey box, scarred from a dozen transfers, housed in a custom interface she’d built herself when the manufacturer stopped supporting his model.
Her family called him defective. Glitchy.
A liability. They’d tried to replace him three times.
She’d told them where they could shove their upgrades.
“Do it,” she said softly.
Transmission complete. Receipt confirmed. There was a moment, then a second. Stay in visual range of the ship, Cait.
“I always do, Fred.”
I know. I just like to say it. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Or something.
“You’re a nag. You know that?”
I’m a tactical flight AI with a robust survival protocol. Nagging is a feature, not a bug.
She rolled her eyes, the tightness in her chest easing a little. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”
Standing, she tucked the comp under her arm and started across the pad. The sun hammered down, turning the air into a solid pressure against her skin. Her boots crunched loudly on the gritty surface as she headed for the mid-size hauler and the woman moving in its shade.
She had a plan, a repair list, a route home. When she got there, she had a case to build that would bury her brother so deep he’d need a mining permit to see sunlight.