Chapter 37
JOLIE
The ship doesn’t lift so much as rip itself free.
The moment the ramp seals, the entire hull shudders under us, a deep, violent vibration that travels up through my boots and into my spine, and the roar of the engines builds so fast it feels like it’s trying to peel the air out of my lungs.
The metal walls hum, not steady like the base, but strained, pushing against gravity hard enough to make everything feel heavier for a split second before it drops away.
“Hold on!” someone shouts from the cockpit.
“Wasn’t planning on letting go,” I mutter, grabbing the nearest support as the floor tilts under us.
The ship lurches sideways mid-ascent, a sharp, gut-wrenching shift that slams my shoulder into the wall, and I grit my teeth as my ribs scream in protest.
“Yeah,” I hiss under my breath. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
Hrask steadies himself beside me, one hand braced against the bulkhead, the other already moving toward the forward section.
“We’re not clear yet,” he says.
“No kidding,” I shoot back, pushing off the wall and following him.
The cockpit opens up in front of us, tighter than I expected, layered with controls that flicker between analog override and digital interface, and the pilot—Kilgari, broad-shouldered and completely unfazed—is already working the system like he’s done this a hundred times under worse conditions.
“They’re on us,” he says without looking back.
“Define ‘on us,’” I reply, stepping in behind him.
“Multiple interceptors lifting from the eastern platform,” he says, tapping a control that pulls up a tactical display. “Fast, coordinated, and very motivated.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That sounds about right.”
The display flickers, locking onto several fast-moving signatures climbing hard behind us, their trajectories tight and aggressive.
“That’s not a casual pursuit,” Hrask says, stepping up beside me.
“No,” I agree. “That’s a kill order.”
The ship jolts again, sharper this time, something striking the outer hull with a heavy, concussive thud that reverberates through the structure.
“They’re firing already?” I snap.
“Warning shots,” the pilot replies.
“Those don’t feel like warnings,” I mutter.
“They’re not meant for you,” he says. “They’re meant for me.”
“Great,” I breathe. “Love that.”
The ship banks hard to the left, the horizon tilting violently through the forward viewport as the ground below blurs into a streak of industrial sprawl.
“Hold on,” Hrask says, his voice lower now.
“I am holding on,” I snap, gripping the edge of the console as another impact rattles the hull.
The pilot adjusts something, his hands moving fast across the controls.
“They’re tightening formation,” he says. “Trying to box us in before we break atmosphere.”
“Can we outrun them?” I ask.
He glances back at me, one brow lifting slightly.
“Not without help,” he says.
“Then tell me where you need it,” I reply.
Hrask shifts beside me, his gaze flicking between the display and the external view.
“Jolie,” he says, his tone sharper. “You don’t need to—”
“Not finishing that sentence,” I cut in, already leaning over the secondary panel. “What do I need to do?”
The pilot exhales once, then nods toward the control cluster to his right.
“Defense grid’s partially manual,” he says. “Targeting assist is lagging because of interference. You can override it if you’re fast enough.”
“I’m fast enough,” I reply.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Hrask mutters.
“Get over it,” I shoot back, my fingers already moving across the interface.
The system resists at first, locked into standard protocols, but I push through it, forcing manual control into place.
“Alright,” I mutter. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The targeting display snaps into sharper focus, the enemy ships resolving into clearer shapes as they close distance.
“Three on our tail,” I say. “Two flanking.”
“Yeah,” the pilot replies. “And more coming up behind them.”
“Then we make them hesitate,” I say, adjusting the targeting.
“Don’t waste shots,” Hrask adds. “We’re not trying to win this fight.”
“I know,” I mutter. “We’re trying to survive it.”
I fire.
The recoil shudders through the ship, the defensive system kicking hard as the shot streaks past the lead interceptor, forcing it to break formation.
“Good,” the pilot says. “Again.”
“I’m not here for ‘again,’” I reply, adjusting my aim. “I’m here for ‘don’t get hit.’”
Another shot.
Closer this time.
The interceptor veers off, its path disrupted just enough to create a gap.
“Take it,” I say.
The pilot does.
The ship surges forward, engines screaming as we push harder toward the upper atmosphere.
“They’re adapting,” Hrask says, his voice tight as he tracks the display.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “So are we.”
Another impact slams into the hull, harder than the last, and the lights flicker briefly.
“That one wasn’t a warning,” I say.
“No,” the pilot agrees. “That one was a message.”
“Message received,” I mutter, firing again.
The enemy ships tighten their formation, their movements more aggressive now, less testing, more direct.
“They’re going to cut us off before we clear the upper layer,” Hrask says.
“Not if we break their line first,” I reply.
“With what?” he asks.
I glance at the power distribution panel.
Then back at the display.
Then at the engines.
“Everything,” I say.
Hrask’s gaze snaps to mine.
“Don’t,” he says immediately.
“Trust me,” I reply.
“That’s not the issue,” he counters.
“Then what is?” I shoot back, already moving.
“You overloading the system mid-flight,” he says.
“I’m not overloading it,” I reply. “I’m redirecting it.”
“That’s worse,” he mutters.
“Only if it fails,” I say, pulling up the power routing interface.
“Jolie—”
“We don’t have time for a better option,” I cut in, my fingers moving fast across the controls. “They’re closing, and we’re not going to outrun them at this output.”
The pilot glances at me, then back at the display.
“She’s not wrong,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I know.”
I reroute the power.
The system protests immediately, warning indicators flashing across the panel, but I push through them, redirecting energy from secondary systems into the engines.
“Hold on,” I say.
The ship responds instantly.
Acceleration spikes.
Hard.
The force slams me back against the console, my grip tightening as the entire structure strains under the sudden surge.
“That’s not subtle,” Hrask mutters.
“Subtle wasn’t working,” I shoot back.
The interceptors scramble to adjust, their formation breaking slightly as we surge forward faster than they anticipated.
“Now,” I say. “Punch it.”
The pilot grins.
“Gladly.”
The engines roar louder, the ship tearing upward through the last layers of atmosphere as the sky outside shifts from burning orange to deep, endless black.
“They’re still on us,” Hrask says.
“Not for long,” I reply, adjusting the defensive grid one last time.
I fire again.
Not to hit.
To scatter.
The shot forces the lead interceptor to break off just enough to disrupt the pursuit line.
“That’s it,” the pilot says. “We’ve got the gap.”
“Take it,” I repeat.
He does.
The ship surges forward, the stars stretching slightly as we push into open space, leaving the pursuit behind piece by piece.
“They’re falling back,” Hrask says after a moment.
“Yeah,” I breathe, finally easing my grip on the console. “They lost us.”
The tension doesn’t drop all at once.
It unwinds slowly, the adrenaline bleeding off in uneven waves as the ship stabilizes.
“We’re clear,” the pilot confirms.
I lean back slightly, exhaling for what feels like the first time in minutes.
“Good,” I mutter.
Hrask steps closer, his gaze moving over me quickly.
“You good?” he asks.
“I’m here,” I reply.
“That’s not what I asked,” he says.
“It’s the answer you’re getting,” I shoot back.
He huffs a breath, something like relief flickering through his expression.
“Fair,” he says.
The pilot adjusts the controls, the ship settling into a smoother trajectory.
“Where to?” he asks.
I glance at Hrask.
He looks back at me.
“Somewhere they can’t touch us,” I say.
“Somewhere that matters,” he adds.
I nod.
“Earth,” I say.
The word lands solid.
Final.
The pilot raises a brow.
“That’s a long run,” he says.
“Then start flying,” I reply.
He grins slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”