Pain detonates through my ribs, sharp and raw.
The world goes black for half a second.
When I blink back to life, the cockpit’s sideways.
Flames lick the cracked edges of the viewport.
The smell of burning metal and leaking fuel chokes me.
I unhook the harness, drop hard onto the tilted floor.
Every part of me screams in protest.
Doesn’t matter.
Gotta move.
Gotta get out before the whole wreck goes up.
I stumble toward the hatch, kicking debris out of my path.
The control panel sparks and dies when I slam my hand against it, so I plant my boots and slam my shoulder into the emergency lever.
It groans.
Sticks.
I grit my teeth and heave harder.
With a screech of abused metal, the hatch pops open, smoke and hot wind blasting in.
I haul myself out onto the cracked, dusty ground and collapse to one knee, coughing hard.
The freighter groans behind me.
I don’t look back.
No time.
Already I can hear the rumble of engines—scout bikes, by the sound of them.
Petru’s cleanup crew.
Coming fast.
They’re not here to offer surrender.
They’re here to finish what their missiles started.
I push to my feet, muscles screaming, and start moving.
Every step hurts.
But I keep going.
Because that’s what you do when the world’s burning around you.
You move.
