Starflight (Starflight, #1)(91)

“How is he?” she asked through the link.

“He’s unconscious,” Cassia answered. Without missing a beat, she crawled across the wing to manually open the pilot’s hatch. She tugged on the lever, but it didn’t budge. “It’s jammed. Renny, bring the crowbar.”

“I’ll get the hydraulic pliers, too,” Solara said. “Just in case.”

She ran back to the ship and returned to the shuttle to find that Renny and Gage had already forced open the hatch. Tossing aside the heavy pliers, Solara moved closer and peered on tiptoe at Kane. The pilot’s harness kept his body upright, but his helmet hung low between unmoving shoulders.

Fortunately for all of them, Cassia didn’t waver. She plucked a vial of ammonia gas from her kit and filtered it into Kane’s helmet. The smelling salts made their way into his oxygen supply, and he jerked awake so quickly that his face shield struck Cassia’s, sending her tumbling into Gage, who in turn fell off the wing and landed on his backside.

Cassia scrambled to Kane’s side and blurted in a rush, “Are you okay? Does it hurt to breathe? Is anything broken?”

Groaning, he tipped back his head. “How’s Doran?”

Cassia replied by smacking his helmet. “Answer me!”

“Okay,” Kane called, shielding his head. “Yes, no, and maybe.”

Cassia released a long breath through the com. Her shoulders rounded, and then she abruptly began crying. In between sobs, she probed Kane’s shoulder and asked him if it hurt. When he told her no, she slugged him hard and shouted, “I thought you were dead!”

“Ow!” He rubbed the spot and started to make a wisecrack, but Cassia shut him up by raising both their face shields and kissing him hard on the mouth. He didn’t seem to mind the oxygen loss. The way he gripped the back of her neck and held her close said he’d rather suffocate than break the kiss.

That was when Solara knew they could manage without her.

“I’m going on foot to find Doran,” she announced. She set her com-link to track his signal, then followed the beeps until she faced the right direction. “He’s not very far. I’ll report back when I get there.”

Gage handed her a pulse pistol and mouthed, Take this.

She tucked it beneath her utility belt, nodding in thanks.




Doran couldn’t run forever—or at all, really—so he decided to hold his ground. If he was going to die anyway, he might as well go down fighting. He didn’t have a utility belt stocked with gadgets, but fate had gifted him a quarterback arm and all the rocks within reach.

They would have to do.

He palmed a stone and stood tall as the bullish man approached. After testing the rock’s weight in his hand, he drew back and hurled it at the Daeva’s face, where it dinged off the side of his helmet and disappeared into the night.

Unaffected, the man marched slowly forward until Doran could see his eyes, cold and hemorrhaged into a webbing of red where the whites belonged. With a slight tilt of his head, the Daeva fixed his crimson gaze on Doran and held it there for a few moments as if scanning him through a database, which was a very real possibility.

The man tapped his com’s external speaker. “Doran Spaulding,” he said in a flat, robotic distortion that chilled the blood. “Where is your shipmate? The girl called Cassia Rose.”

Doran snatched another frozen stone from the ground and swung it at the man’s knee, but the Daeva was twice as fast, grabbing Doran’s wrist and squeezing until the rock fell from his fingers.

“Where is she?” the Daeva repeated.

“Gone,” Doran yelled, wincing in pain as the vise on his wrist tightened. “She changed ships at the last outpost.”

“You’re lying.”

“I swear! She took a medic job on a luxury liner. I think it was called the Zeni—”

Quick as a cobra strike, the man clutched the base of Doran’s throat and lifted him up until both boots dangled in the air. Doran’s windpipe constricted under the pressure. Hungry for breath, he clawed at the fingers gripping his neck. His face tingled and swelled, eyes throbbing as they met the bloody gaze in front of him.

“Let’s try again,” the Daeva said. He turned and dragged Doran toward the shuttle. Once there, he set Doran on his feet and allowed him to breathe right before slamming his helmet into the steel hull. “Where is the princess?” the Daeva said.

He pounded Doran’s head against the shuttle until his face shield cracked wide open. Steam poured from the gap, and Doran fell to the ground, disoriented. To compensate for the breach, his helmet released a burst of heated air in a steady hiss that ate through his tank’s reserves. With his helmet spewing oxygen, he had a few minutes left—at best.

“Suffocation is a horrible death,” the man said, and swept a gloved hand toward his shuttle. “I can fill my craft with warm air for you—if you take me to the girl.”

Against Doran’s will, his eyes turned to the cushioned pilot’s seat, visible through the open hatch. He was tempted to say yes, and then sabotage the man during flight or lead him in the wrong direction. But if Kane’s shuttle had crashed half a mile away, it was only a matter of time before the Daeva spotted the Banshee on his own.

Doran had to keep the man on the ground. “You can take that warm air,” he growled, “and blow it up your ass.”