There is nowhere to flee. We thought to pass just under the guns of the Scepter Armada when we had Lysander. But now we’ll have to run the gauntlet.
Our pilot is calm as metal.
She said the paradigm must change.
What can I do? Think. Think.
“We will open communications to one of the ships,” Augustus says. “Bribe them into sheltering us. Every man has a price.”
“We’re jammed. Can’t even broadcast,” Mustang reminds him.
We’re going to die. We all know it. Augustus doesn’t panic or surrender resolve. I don’t know how I thought he’d handle death. Maybe I hoped he would wail about and turn pale. But for all his faults, he is stalwart. After a moment, he sets a bony hand on Mustang’s shoulder. She flinches, surprised.
“Whether missile or boarding craft come, die like Golds,” Augustus says solemnly to us. Not because he wishes us to think him strong in his last moments, but because he believes in what he is—a superior being, a master of his human frailties. For him, death is merely the ultimate frailty. Humans whimper when they die. They claw for life even if there is no hope. He will not. Death is not grander than his pride.
Golds, in many ways, are so like Reds. Helldivers go to their deaths for their families, for the pride of their clan. They do not whimper when the mines collapse around them or when the pitvipers come from the shadows. They fall and their friends weep and sweep their bodies aside. But we have the Vale to look forward to; what have the Golds? When they perish, their flesh withers and their name and deeds linger till time sweeps them away. And that is all. If anyone should claw for life now, it should be the Aureate.
I claw because I carry the torch of something that must not die, must not go out. That is why I grab Sevro on the shoulder and, with a horrible, eerie laugh, tell the pilot to take us closer to the deadliest ship in orbit, one which now has angled itself to intercept us.
“Take us near the Vanguard,” I repeat to the Blue.
“That would cause our chances of survival to decrease by—”
“Never tell me the odds, just do it,” I command.
Everyone turns and looks at me. Not because I’ve said something strange but because they’ve been waiting to turn and look at me. They’ve all been silently praying I would marshal a plan. Even Augustus.
Eo said people would always look to me. She believed I had some quality, some essence that gave hope. I rarely feel it in myself. There is none in me now. Just dread. Inside I feel such a boy—angry, petulant, selfish, guilty, sad, alone—and yet they look to me. I almost break underneath their gaze, almost wither away and ask someone else to take the reins. I can’t do it. I’m small. I’m just a liar in a carved body. But that dream must not be extinguished.
So I act and they watch.
“You gone space mad?” Victra asks. “When they realize we don’t have the boy …”
“Draw an angle toward the Vanguard’s bridge,” Mustang tells the Blue.
Augustus gives me a curt nod, guessing what I plan. “Hic sunt leones.”
“Hic sunt leones,” I echo, saving my last look for Mustang, not the man who hanged my wife. She doesn’t notice. I leave the bridge with Sevro at a dead sprint. Something hits our ship. Her hull shudders. They know we don’t have Lysander.
“Howlers! Get up!” I shout.
Harpy throws up her hands. “I thought you said—”
“UP!” I roar.
Red secondary lights bathe the launch bay in bloody hues as Sevro and I load ourselves into the cold starShells. It takes three Howlers each to help the two of us slip into the robotic carapaces. I lie in the armor as Harpy buckles my feet into the stirrups and closes the armored legs over my meat and bones. The Howlers are fast in their movements even as the ship lurches with another near missile strike. A siren howls, reporting a hull breach. I try to slow my breath as Victra fits my head into the starShell’s helmet.
“Good luck.” She leans her face close. Before I can stop her, she presses her lips to mine. I do not recoil, not this close to death. I let her lips part and cling warm and comforting around mine. Then the human moment is over, and she’s gone, lowering the massive visor of my helmet. My Howlers howl and hoot at the sight. I can’t help but wish it was Mustang who sealed me in this tin can, and kissed me goodbye; but then the digital display owns my vision and I disappear from my friends into the metal launch tube. I’m alone. And scared.
Focus.
I’m cocooned, belly-down, in the spitTube. This is where most would piss themselves, separated from friends, from the warmth of life. There’s no gravity in the tube. It isn’t pressurized. I hate the weightlessness of it.
I can’t look up or my neck will break when they launch me. I can’t move side to side. My starShell is latched into a thousand toothlike magnetic hooks. They click into place like tiny insects, chattering.
In moments they’ll shoot me into space. My breath rasps. My heart rattles against my sternum. I drink in my body’s terror and smile. They said this was suicide at the Academy when I wanted to launch myself. Maybe they were right.
But this is why I was made. To dive into hell.
I’m a beetle of man in a carapace of metal, weapons, and engines that costs more than most ships. I’ve got a pulseCannon on my right arm. When I need it, it will bloom like a haemanthus blossom.
I think of the time Eo laid a haemanthus before my front door, the time I plucked one from the wall on the night that I was supposed to win the Laurel. How far away those warm days seem from this cold place, where petals are metal instead of soft like silk.
“We’re getting pinned in. Boarding parties imminent,” Mustang’s voice comes over the com. “Priming your launch.” The ship moans as another missile almost claims us. Our shields are shot. Just the rickety hull holding us together.
“Aim true,” I say.
“Always. Darrow …” Her silence says a thousand things.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“Good luck.”
“This is not fun,” Sevro groans.
The ship’s hydraulic system hisses and the metal teeth jerk me forward in the tube, loading me into the chamber. Inches before my head, the magnetic stream of the railgun hums dreadfully, daring me to glance its way.
They say that many Golds can’t take this, that even Peerless can panic and scream and cry in the spitTube. I believe it. Pixies would have heart attacks right now. Some cannot even ride in a spaceship for fear of small places and the vastness of space. Soft-bellied fools. I was born in a home smaller than the cargo bay of this ship. I made my life at the end of a clawDrill that makes this tube look like a child’s toy, all while sweating and pissing my soul away in a frysuit cobbled together from scrap.