CHAPTER SEVEN

The passageway was black and still. It was the stillness that unnerved Richard. The last thirty minutes of his life had been filled with the crash of falling debris and the monstrous roar of fire.

The desperate cries of cruel death.

Here there was nothing. Not the music of disaster, not the white noise of fresh air rushing through the ventilation ducting, not the hum of electricity, not even the rumble and clatter of distant machinery. Nothing.

Richard felt like he was trespassing on the dominion of the dead.

The four of them had made it out of the hatch below the mezzanine, leaving them huddled in the right-angle corner of a dark passageway. One branch of the cockeyed corridor ran along the ship’s hull, the other rose over their heads, heading into the direction that was now up.

“Do we have atmosphere?” Cote asked. His deep, powerful voice seemed weaker than before. Muted.

Corinne shone her flashlight on the sideways haze gray slab of plate steel behind her.

Richard watched the circle of light follow along the black, rubber gasket that sealed the door. “The spacetight hatch seems to be holding up,” she said.

“For now,” Richard added darkly. “All that ordnance.” He shook his head. “If it is subjected to a big enough jar, say from falling debris—”

“We need to get clear,” agreed Cote. “Options?”

Corinne knelt down and pulled the hardcopy ship map out of the body bag, studying it intently.

Richard crouched down by MechWarrior Tomas. He sat on the deck, propped up against the bulkhead, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Richard placed a pair of fingers against Tomas’s neck, searching for a pulse, reassuring himself that the man was still alive.

The pulse was there, weak and thready, but it was there.

“Hanging on,” whispered Tomas. “I am. Hanging on.”

“I know you are,” said Richard gently. “You have the heart of a warrior, Tomas. I know you will prevail.”

The man did not open his eyes, did not speak further, but Richard thought he saw the young warrior give him the barest of nods.

In the end, he and Corinne had managed to rescue only two of their comrades. Only four of the fifteen warriors had survived the fiery cataclysm that had swept through the cargo deck. Four!

Richard felt numb.

Corinne put down the map and looked up. “Either passage should get us to the Den’s access hatch.”

Cote raised an eyebrow. “Either one? Are you certain?”

Richard knew what the Star Colonel was asking. It would be a difficult climb through the vertical passage.

But there was no point in taking the easy path if it did not lead to safety.

Corinne shrugged. “I cannot say for certain, Star Colonel. There may be new obstacles. But there was a path through there—” she nodded at the horizontal passageway “—an hour ago.”

Cote looked haggard, but he nodded. “Very well. Getting to the WarShip seems like our best chance.” He met Richard’s gaze. “Star Commander, you are the strongest of us. Can you help Tomas? I think I can walk on my own.”

Richard looked over at Tomas, who even now was struggling for his life. Only four. Suddenly he was angry, furious. This was wrong! For warriors to be struck down by disaster— Neg!

“Neg.” Richard had spoken the word almost before he had realized it.

“What did you say?” Cote snapped, his voice freighted with barely restrained fury. François Cote might be half dead, but he was still a Star Colonel. It was always dangerous to countermand Cote’s orders.

But to do so in the middle of a crisis might very well be a lethal mistake.

Richard slowly rose to his feet and met his commander’s smoldering gaze. “I am sorry, Star Colonel,” he said, “but I cannot go with you.”