He turns toward the crowd, squaring his shoulders.

"Wait!" I stagger forward and grab his arm. "Not that way."

He sucks in an irritated breath, but he stops. "We have to get to an escape pod. Much more of this shaking and she'll tear herself apart."

I'm still struggling to breathe, and it takes me a moment to get enough air to reply. "I know this ship," I gasp. "There are pods for the crew nearby."

He stares at me a moment, and though I know he must be debating, struggling, none of it is written on his face. "Then let's go."

The service corridor is empty, only the emergency lighting strips along the walls to tell of any problem. The crew must be at their stations, a.s.sisting the pa.s.sengers into their pods before heading for their own. Or else there's no way for them to get back here, all pretense of civilization gone.

The major follows me in silence, though I can feel his tension. For all he knows, I could be leading him to his death. I'm sure he doesn't want to follow me anywhere. But he doesn't know this ship like I do. He didn't spend his childhood in her skeleton as she was being built.

We turn down a maze of branching corridors. I head for a door marked Authorized Personnel Only and shove it open with a slight whine of unused hinges. My shoulders still ache, but I can use my arms-maybe I'm not so shattered after all. The door opens onto an escape bay, a five-seat pod waiting with open door for its refugees.

"Thank you for the escort, Major," I say crisply, stepping over the lip of the entrance and turning to face him. He's just behind me, stopping abruptly to avoid running into me. I want to burst into tears, thank him for what he did, but if I do, I'm not sure I'll ever stop crying. And he doesn't know what it would mean for him if we got picked up in the same pod. My father would never believe there was an innocent explanation.

"Excuse me?"

"There's another pod a little ways down the corridor. It won't take more than five minutes to reach it."

The soldier lifts both eyebrows. "Miss LaRoux, there are five seats in that pod, and I mean to use one of them. We may not have five minutes. It seems like something's pulling the ship out of hypers.p.a.ce before it's supposed to."

For a moment fear freezes me. As my father's daughter, I know better than most what happens when the fabric between dimensions is disturbed. I take a deep breath and step back so as not to have to crane my neck. "Major, if they find you alone in a pod with me when the rescue ships arrive-"

"I'll take my chances," the major replies through gritted teeth.

He doesn't want to be in this pod with me any more than I want him to be. But the ship gives another horrible lurch, sending me crashing into one of the chairs. The major braces himself in the pod doorway. From somewhere in the distance comes a terrible metallic shrieking.

"Fine!" I pull myself up with the straps on the chair. This is no cushy first-cla.s.s pod. This is bare-bones, designed for mechanics' crews. The floor is a grid, and as I try to stand, the heels of my Pierre Delacour pumps wedge down into the holes.

Two thousand Galactics' worth of shoes, destroyed in an instant, the silk stripped from the heels. I stare at the floor, trying to catch my breath. What difference do the shoes make? And yet I can't stop my mind turning it over, can't stop staring at the ruined shoes. My mind seizes this tiny detail and clings to it.

The major palms the pad by the door, sending it hissing closed behind him. Then he punches the auto-eject launch b.u.t.ton, starting a countdown that gives us enough time to strap in. A trio of lights goes on overhead, blinding me. His boots clomp across the metal floor to a chair opposite mine, and he starts clipping himself in. With a jerk, I wrench my heels out of the grid floor and turn so I can sit in the chair.

I take a full breath for the first time since the alarms started blaring. Safe. For now. I'm trying not to think of the fact that there's no way the screaming crowd can all be safely inside escape pods.

The ship's autolaunch will send us speeding away from the Icarus, and in no more than an hour or two a rescue ship will pick us up. I just have to get through the next few hours, with only Major Merendsen for company.

His face is blank, locked down. Why did he even bother to save my life if he hates me so much? I wish I could apologize to him for what I said on the promenade deck. Tell him that what I say and what I mean are never the same, because they can't be. My throat feels tight, my mouth dry. I never should have given him another glance in the salon.

"How much would we have to pay you to not spread this story around once they pick us up?" I fumble with the harness. It's not the elegant and comfortable lap belts of the pa.s.senger pod-this is a five-point harness that chafes at my bare shoulders.

The major snorts, turning his head toward the tiny viewport, which shows only a scattering of stars that blur and lurch as the ship does. "Why do you a.s.sume I'd ever want to tell anyone about this?"

I decide to bury the major in icy silence until this is over, for both our sakes. If we don't speak, he'll have nothing to report.

The countdown to ejection continues, blood roaring in my ears out of annoyance with the major. Forty-five seconds. Forty. Thirty-five. I watch the numbers over the door click down one by one, trying to make my stomach settle. A LaRoux doesn't show weakness.

Without warning, we're slammed down into our seats as the entire pod jerks. A ripple of white-hot energy shoots through its metal frame. I taste copper, and then the universe goes black with a sound like a thunderclap in my ears. All the lights, the countdown, even the emergency lighting...gone. We're left in utter blackness but for the stars outside the viewport.

Stars that are no longer stretched thin. The Icarus has been torn out of hypers.p.a.ce.

For a few moments there's no sound. Even the background hum of the engines and life support are gone, leaving us in the depths of the most crushing silence either of us has known since we came aboard.

The major starts cursing, and I can hear him fumbling with his straps. I understand his haste. Without power, we're going to run out of oxygen before anyone out there even realizes the Icarus has had a problem. But that's not our most immediate problem.

"Don't!" I manage, the words tearing out of a throat gone dry and hoa.r.s.e. "There could be another surge."

"Surge?" I can hear the confusion in his voice.

"There are huge amounts of energy involved in interdimensional travel, Major. If there was another surge and you were standing on the metal floor, it could kill you."

That makes him pause. "How do you know-"

"It doesn't matter." I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on breathing. And then, the emergency lighting comes back online. It's not much, but it's enough to see by. And it means the emergency life support has engaged.

The major's face is drawn, tense. He looks back at me, and for a moment neither of us speaks.

And then a scream of metal tears through the ship, making the pod shudder; it's still attached to the Icarus. We both look up at the countdown clock-still blank. We're stuck. I look across at the major, then down at the metal grid floor. If there's another surge while I'm standing on it, I'll die-but if there's another surge while we're attached to the ship, it could destroy the pod anyway.

Just do it. Don't think.

I jerk my straps open and drop to the floor. The major protests but I ignore him and make for the control panel by the door. I don't know what's happening to the Icarus, but I know that the last thing we want is to be attached to the ship if another surge goes through it like the last one. I just have to get the separation and ignition sequence going using the emergency power, buckle myself back in, and we'll be safe until the rescue ships show up.

You can do this. Just imagine Simon, and his tools, and everything he showed you before.... I take a deep breath, and open up the panel.

So much for not giving him a story to take back to the tabloids. They'd go crazy for a month with just one picture of me up to my elbows in circuits. No man, woman, or child of my cla.s.s would own up to something like this.

But none of them would know what they were doing. Not like I do.

I reach in for the bundle of rainbow-colored wires behind the panel, pulling them out and inspecting them. No doubt they're coded in some way, but lacking knowledge of this particular system, I have to trace them out manually, deciphering amid the tangle which are the two I want.

"Need any help?" The question is tense but civil, revealing nothing.

I jump, jolted out of my concentration. "Not unless you were an electrician out there on the frontier, and given I've heard they don't even have lightbulbs, I doubt it."

A faint noise behind me, a m.u.f.fled exhalation. Is he laughing at me?

I glance over my shoulder, and he's quick to avert his eyes toward the ceiling. No wire cutters, so I use my fingernails. One advantage Simon never had-he couldn't strip wires bare-handed. And he never would've dared use his teeth on live circuits.

The major is silent behind me, and when I sneak a second peek over my shoulder, his eyes are still on the ceiling. A little of my annoyance fades. He did save my life, with no guarantee he'd have time afterward to make it to an escape pod.

I shouldn't say anything to him. I should make sure there's nothing for either of us to tell when we return. I should make sure he continues thinking I'm the worst person he's ever met. But for some reason, when I've got a section of the green and white wires stripped, I find conversation fighting its way out of me. I mean to be conciliatory, but despite my best intentions, it comes out as acidic as ever.

"On the frontier, isn't this how they hot-wire a hover-"

I brush the two wires together, and instantly the rockets ignite, catapulting the pod away from the ship. I have only the briefest glimpse of the wall in front of me careening at my face before the universe goes utterly black.

"What did you think was happening at that point?"

"I didn't know. There was no communication equipment in the pod."

"You didn't try to guess?"

"We're trained to work with solid information."

"But you had none?"

"No."

"What was your plan?"

"Sit tight and hope. There was nothing to do except wait."

"And see what happened next?"

"And see what happened next."

FIVE.

TARVER.

THE POD'S STILL WOBBLING AND STABILIZING as it shoots away from the ship, but we're not spinning, so I risk unclipping my harness. The gravity's fading out to half strength already and I know it will go completely soon, so I hook a foot under one of the grab straps on the floor as I kneel beside Miss LaRoux. She's on the ground, stirring and groaning, already complaining before she's fully conscious. Somehow, not surprising.

There's a tempting view down the front of her dress, but I can practically hear her snapping at me like she did before. So I jam a hand under each of her arms and rise to my feet, lifting her and setting her down in one of the five molded chairs. She lolls against me, murmuring something indecipherable as I shove her arms through the straps, yanking them tight around her.

Resisting the urge to yank them tighter still should earn me another d.a.m.n medal. I check the chest strap, then lean down to grab her ankles, pushing them into the padded plastene clip waiting for them. Closer than I should be to Miss Lilac LaRoux's legs. And how the h.e.l.l does she even walk with those things on her feet?

The pod lurches again, and I swallow hard as I stretch over to dump my grab bag in one of the storage alcoves, slamming the lid shut on top of it. Then I thump down into my own seat opposite her, pulling on the harness and strapping in, pushing my ankles back into the clips. In my hurry, I bang my legs into place too hard-the left clip breaks with a snap, the right one holds. The last of the gravity fades out, and I have to strain the leg that's not secured to stop it lifting up.

I study her bowed head. Where did you learn how to do that? I've never met a rich kid in my life who even knew how wiring worked-much less how to hot-wire a state-of-the-art escape pod. She must keep this side of her buried so deep that even the relentless paparazzi don't find it.

She moans again as the stabilizer rockets fire, throwing us both sharply against our restraints. The pod vibrates, and the constellations visible through the viewport behind Miss LaRoux's head become fixed points. I can see the ship silhouetted against the static stars. And she's rolling.

"What did you do?" My sleeping beauty is awake, glaring at me with the eye that's not swelling shut. She's going to have a shiner, black and blue in a few hours.

"I fastened your safety straps, Miss LaRoux," I say. Her scowl deepens, bordering on outrage, and I can feel my own temper bubbling up to match. "Don't worry, I kept my hands where they belong." I've mostly managed bland so far, but I can hear the subtext in my tone as well as she can. And you couldn't pay me to try anything else.

Her gaze hardens, but she offers no retort except cold silence. Over her shoulder I still see the Icarus rolling, and in my mind's eye I see the stopping and blurring of the stars through the viewing deck window, and the books in the first-cla.s.s salon falling out of their shelves as the room tips and the tables and chairs topple.

The Icarus is spinning when nothing should be able to cause her to do so, and I can't see any other detached escape pods in the fragment of deep s.p.a.ce beyond the viewport. Are the others out of sight? I catch a glimpse of something impossibly huge-the same thing I saw before-reflective and bright. Where is the light coming from? The next instant the pod spins and all I can see is starry darkness.

I study the metal grid on the floor, then the circuit boards overhead that the builders didn't bother to cover, the metal plates riveted into place. Not like the rest of the escape pods, I'm sure. They'll be cushy and expensive. I'd rather be in this st.u.r.dy, utilitarian pod than one of the others, somehow. Our pod jerks again, when it should be using sensors and thrusters to keep us floating gently in s.p.a.ce. Something's causing it to ignore its programming.

I look across at Miss LaRoux, and for a moment our gazes meet. She's some combination of tired, p.i.s.sed off, and just as sure as I am that something's not right. Neither of us breaks the silence, though, or names the things it might be.

Her hair's coming loose from the fancy loops and curls she had it up in, and in zero gravity, it's fanning out around her face as though she's underwater. Even with a black eye on the way, she's beautiful.

Then a violent shudder tears through the pod, shattering that moment of peace. The metal begins to hum as the vibrations increase, shaking me through the soles of my boots. I look up to see a glow outside the viewport, and then an automatic shield slides across it, prompted by some reading from outside.

That glow. I know now what was casting that light. I know what's shaking the pod, causing it to twist and turn and ignore its instructions to laze about in deep s.p.a.ce waiting for the cavalry.

It's a planet. That glow is some planet's atmosphere reflecting a star's light, and its gravity is dragging the pod down, interfering with its guidance systems. We're landing, and that's if we make it down in one piece. We're landing if we're lucky.

Miss LaRoux's mouth moves, but I can't hear her-the humming's too loud, lifting to a rumble and then a roar as the air inside the pod heats up. I have to shout to make myself heard.

"Press your tongue against the roof of your mouth." I'm bellowing instructions, and she's frowning at me like I'm speaking Old Chinese. "Relax your jaw. You don't want to break your teeth or bite your tongue. We're crashing." She understands now, and she's smart enough to nod, instead of trying to shout back. I close my eyes and try, try to relax.

The gravity inside the pod falters, then slams back again, so my harness cuts into my chest and my breath is pushed out of my lungs with a hoa.r.s.e shout I can't hear.

The air outside the pod must be white-hot as we rip through the atmosphere. We're within the pull of the planet's gravity now, but suspended as we're pulled up against our straps by our acceleration toward the ground below. For an instant Miss LaRoux meets my eyes-we're both too shocked, too shaken to communicate.

I have only that instant in which to register that she's silent, not screaming her head off like I would've expected. Then there's an impact that jolts my head back against the pad behind it so hard my teeth clash together. It turns out I'm holding my chest strap, because I nearly dislocate my thumb.

The parachute's deployed. We're floating.

We're both tense as the sudden silence draws out, waiting for the pod to connect with the ground, wondering if the parachute will reduce the impact enough that we won't end up smeared across the planet.

There's a deafening crash, and something scrabbling across the outside of the pod, and then we're turning over, upside down. The storage locker bangs open, sending my grab bag flying. I pray to whatever might be listening that it doesn't connect with us.

The pod jerks again, ricocheting wildly, tumbling end over end. I'm stuck in a world where I'm jerked against my straps over and over, thrown back and forth, until finally we settle. It takes me several quick breaths to realize we've stopped moving. Though I can barely tell which way is up, I realize I'm not hanging from my straps, so we must be upright. I feel like I've been trampled in a stampede, and I swim back toward reason, trying to understand what's happened. Somehow, unimaginably, we've landed. Right now I couldn't give a d.a.m.n where. I'm alive.

Or else I'm dead, and I've ended up in h.e.l.l after all, and it's an escape pod with Lilac LaRoux.

Neither of us speaks at first, though the pod's far from silent. I hear my own breathing, harsh and hoa.r.s.e. Hers comes in little fits and gasps-I think maybe she's trying not to cry. The pod pings audibly as it cools, the sound slowing and softening.

I'm hurting all over, but I flex my fingers and curl my toes, shifting and stretching within the confines of the straps. No serious damage. Though Miss LaRoux's head is down, her face hidden by a sheet of red hair, I can tell she's alive and conscious from her breathing. Her hand moves, feeling around for the release on her straps.

"Don't," I say, and she freezes. I hear how it sounds-like an order. I try for something a little softer. There's no point bullying her. For a start, she won't listen to me if I do. "No point in both of us going flying if it rolls again, Miss LaRoux. Stay where you are for now." I release my own straps and ease them away, rolling my shoulders as I push carefully to my feet.

She looks up at me, and for a moment I forget what she's done, and I'm sorry for her. It's the same white, pinched, blank face I've seen in the field.

Two years ago, I was a brand-new recruit myself. A year ago, I was. .h.i.tting the field for the first time. That was me, freezing up until my sergeant grabbed my arm and hauled me down behind half a brick wall. A laser burned a hole right where my head had been a moment before.

Thing is, though some of the kids who react this way get blown to bits, some of us come out the other side and make good soldiers.

There's blood on her neck where the backs of her earrings have punched through the skin, and her face is so pale that I know what's coming before she speaks.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she says in a choked whisper, and then she's pressing her lips together again. I reach up to hold on to the hanging straps and stand with my feet apart, shifting my weight. I can't rock the pod, which means it's probably wedged in firmly.