He grabbed the wounded man's arm and tried to lift, but his own injured shoulder screamed in protest. The younger man seemed to understand the gesture if not the words. He moved to his companion's other side, sliding his arms beneath his friend's body, and together they hauled him upright.

  The wounded man's head lolled against his chest. Another groan escaped him, weaker than the first. They half-carried, half-dragged him to the lift platform. Evan's shoulder burned with every step, his left arm nearly useless, but he forced himself to keep moving. The contacts on the sensor grid were growing more persistent. More defined. Whatever window they had was closing fast.

  The lift descended. The wounded man's breathing had grown shallow, his face gray beneath a tan, his body limp between them. The younger stranger kept talking to him, low urgent words that sounded like encouragement.

  The doors parted on deck two. Evan led the way down the corridor to the medical bay, where the four circular healing pods awaited them.

  "We need to put him in there," Evan said, motioning to the nearest pod. The younger man nodded, a look of hope lighting in his eyes. Maybe the leader hadn't cared about them, but this man cared a lot about the man who was obviously his friend.

  They maneuvered the wounded man into the pod, lowering him onto the shallow couch inside. Evan touched the surface, and the familiar orange grid activated, cascading across the pod's transparent top, symbols appearing in the air between the padding and the overhead array.

  The younger stranger stepped back, his eyes wide as colored lights began strobing across his companion's injuries.

  Evan lightly tapped his injured shoulder. "I'm going to heal this." He held up the blaster he'd taken from the younger man. "Don't even think about trying to betray me. I want to trust you, but I'm not quite ready to go there yet. Don't disappoint me." The younger man looked at him, then nodded as if he understood the gist from the gesture.

  Evan moved to the adjacent pod and climbed in without hesitation. He'd experienced this before, knew what to expect. The burning pain as the alien technology went to work. The strange sensation of tissue knitting itself back together. The complete restoration that would follow.

  The orange grid flared to life above him. Pain lanced through his shoulder, sharper than the original wound, as if someone had pressed a hot iron against the burnt flesh. Evan gritted his teeth and rode it out. Even as his vision narrowed to a tunnel of colored light. He kept the gun pointed in the younger man's general direction. The kid could probably see he was distracted. If he was waiting for a chance to make a move, this was the time.

  The pain began to fade. The burning subsided to warmth, then to nothing, the process faster than he remembered. Or maybe time just moved differently when you were waiting for enemy troops to storm your position.

  Evan experimentally lifted his left arm, rotating his shoulder and flexing his fingers. The wound was gone. Not healed in the conventional sense, but erased entirely, the skin smooth and unmarked as if the bolt had never struck him. He glanced over at the younger man. The kid hadn't left his companion's side, showing no interest in restarting the fight for the ship.

  Evan started to sit up, just as he heard footsteps pound toward the medical bay. The woman he'd left unconscious on deck two appeared in the doorway, her dark hair wild where it had pulled loose from its binding. Her face twisted in fury. She held the Maker rifle she'd pulled from the armory, wasting no time before pointing it at Evan's chest.

  She shouted something in Oridian. A demand, or maybe just a declaration of intent. Evan raised his blaster, aiming back. His arms spread wide, the younger man threw himself between them. His voice rose to match hers, rapid syllables tumbling over each other as he tried to explain what had happened. He gestured toward the pod where his companion lay, toward Evan, toward the corridor leading deeper into the ship. His tone shifted from desperate to pleading to something that might have been logic, arguing a case Evan couldn't follow.

  The woman's aim didn't waver. Her jaw remained set, her eyes burning with rage. Evan didn't blame her. He'd killed her leader, left her unconscious, and she probably also thought he was the one who shot her companion. If their positions were reversed, he wouldn't be feeling particularly charitable either. Even so, he kept his gun pointed in her general direction.

  The younger man kept talking. His hands moved through gestures that seemed to convey a story—pointing at the sensor grid's direction, making shapes that might have represented ships, touching his own chest in what looked like an oath. The woman's expression shifted by degrees, fury giving way to confusion, then to something more uncertain.

  Finally, she lowered the rifle. Relieved, Evan did the same.

  The wounded man in the adjacent pod groaned again, stronger this time. The orange lights above him had stopped their strobing, settling into a steady glow that suggested the healing cycle was nearing completion. The younger man moved to his side, relief evident in his posture.

  Evan climbed out of his own pod, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. The woman tracked him with suspicious eyes, the rifle held low but ready.

  The man in the healing pod looked around with the dazed expression of someone waking from a deep sleep, his hand moving to his chest where the wound should have been. His fingers found smooth cloth over unmarked skin, and his expression registered his shocked confusion.

  The younger man helped him sit up, words flowing between them so fast Evan wouldn't have been able to track even if he understood the language. The older man's eyes moved around the medical bay, taking in the alien technology, the pod he'd sat in, the woman standing guard with the rifle. When his gaze finally settled on Evan, something complicated passed across his face. Not gratitude, exactly. But not hostility either.

  He rose from the pod, stepping out of it on unsteady legs, the younger man supporting his elbow. Then he inclined his head slightly in Evan's direction. A nod of acknowledgment. Maybe thanks. Maybe just recognition that they'd moved past the killing-each-other phase of their relationship.

  Evan returned the gesture.

  "Bridge," he said, pointing upward. "We need to see what's happening."

  The four of them made their way back to the lift—Evan leading, the two men following, the woman bringing up the rear with her weapon in hand, but not threatening.

  "Shit," Evan cursed the moment he stepped out onto the bridge. The sensor grid painted an ugly picture.

  The contact markers had multiplied again. Twenty-three distinct signatures now. Ground troops, judging by the size of the markers, arranged in a tightening perimeter around the hollow tower and moving with the coordinated precision of a military operation. They'd established positions at regular intervals, closing off avenues of escape, preparing for what could only be an assault.

  But that wasn't the worst of it.

  A new contact had appeared at the top of the display. Large. Stationary. Positioned directly above the tower's ragged opening, blocking the only exit to the sky.

  Another ship, deployed to seal the trap from above. Even if Evan could get the Ascendant airborne, even if he could navigate the tight confines of the hollow tower's interior, he'd emerge directly beneath that contact's guns.

  The younger man made a sound that didn't require translation. Despair, tinged with resignation. The woman's face had gone pale beneath her olive complexion. The older man simply stared at the display, his expression unreadable.

  Evan stood in the center of the bridge, surrounded by strangers who'd tried to kill him and enemies who definitely would, his ship trapped in a dead city on a dead world with no clear path of escape.

  Now what?

  38

  Evan stared at the tactical display, his mind cycling through options that kept coming up empty. Twenty-three ground contacts so far. A ship overhead. The tower's walls pressing in around them like the throat of a trap designed specifically for this moment.

  The scavengers were the reason the Umbrals had found him. The reason his perfect hiding place had so quickly turned into an untenable position. His jaw clenched, mind struggling to stay away from the source of his trouble and focus on the problem at hand.

  The older scavenger said something in Oridian, his tone resigned. The woman responded with words that carried the weight of defeat.

  No. Evan shook his head. He wasn't about to give up. Not yet.

  The thought crystallized in Evan's mind before it reached his lips. He hadn't fought this hard, hadn't survived this long, to surrender now. The Null Guard was coming. Brennik had said an hour or two. Maybe less if they were close. Maybe more if they were cautious. But they were coming, and if Evan could hold out long enough, the equation might shift in his favor.

  "We're not done yet." He spoke the words aloud even though none of them could understand him, the sound of his own voice steadying something that had threatened to shake loose. He pointed at the sensor grid, then held up his hand in a stopping gesture. "Help is on the way. We just need to hold these bastards off."

  The scavengers exchanged glances. The younger man looked confused, but something in Evan's tone or posture must have translated. He straightened slightly, the defeated slump leaving his shoulders.

  The young man stepped forward, his attention moving from Evan to the tactical station at the edge of the bridge. He gestured toward it, then made a motion with his hands that clearly suggested shooting. His voice rose with something that sounded like a question, the words accompanied by another gesture toward the contact markers surrounding their position.

  The ship's weapons. He was suggesting they use the Ascendant's guns to clear a path.

  The older man cut him off sharply. His response, a rebuke perhaps, came rapid and harsh, accompanied by gestures toward the walls visible through the viewport. He traced the outline of the hollow tower's interior, then made a collapsing motion with both hands, his fingers folding inward like a building falling in on itself.

  Evan understood immediately. The Ascendant's guns were devastating against enemy vessels, but they operated by destabilizing matter at a structural level. Inside this confined space, surrounded by ancient stone that was never meant to withstand that kind of assault, the weapons could bring the entire tower down on top of them. They'd be buried under thousands of tons of rubble.

  The same logic applied to the ship hovering above the tower's opening. Even if Evan could get a firing solution from inside the structure, destroying that vessel would send wreckage cascading down on top of them. Best case, the debris would hammer the Ascendant's hull with unpredictable damage. Worst case, it would collapse the tower's upper section entirely, sealing them in.

  Heavy weapons weren't the answer. Not here. Not like this.

  But they had other options.

  Evan touched his own chest, then pointed toward the corridor leading to the forward section of the ship. "Follow me."

  He didn't wait to see if they understood. He moved toward the lift, trusting that curiosity or desperation or simple lack of alternatives would bring them along. The soft sound of footsteps behind him confirmed his guess.

  The lift carried them down to deck three. As they descended, Evan turned to face the three scavengers who had, through violence and circumstance, become something approaching allies.

  "Evan," he said, touching his chest again. "My name is Evan."

  The older man studied him for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "Orven." He gestured to the younger man. "Faelen." Then to the woman. "Myris."

  Evan repeated each name, committing them to memory. Orven, Faelen, Myris. Scavengers who had tried to steal his ship and might now be his only chance at defending it.

  The lift settled onto deck three, and Evan led them through the cargo bay toward the forward corridor. The sealed door that had blocked his previous explorations now stood open, its threshold crossed by Faelen and Myris during their earlier search. Evan stepped through and found himself in the room he hadn't been able to access before.

  The armory stretched before him, larger than he'd expected. Racks lined every wall, their surfaces holding weapons and equipment that gleamed with the distinctive sheen of Maker technology. Rifles similar to the one Myris carried. Pistols in several configurations. Equipment whose purpose Evan couldn't begin to guess, their forms suggesting functions beyond his current understanding.

  But it was the armor that drew his attention.

  Full suits hung from mounting brackets along the far wall, their surfaces a deep gunmetal gray traced with lines of burnt orange that pulsed with faint internal light. The design was sleek, form-fitting, each suit a single integrated piece. Helmets rested on shelves above each suit, their faceplates dark and smooth, the same color scheme carrying through to every component.

  Enough gear to outfit a crew. Everything they needed to mount a proper defense.

  Faelen let out a low whistle, the sound universal enough to need no translation. He moved toward the nearest rack of rifles, his hands hovering over the weapons without quite touching them. Myris followed, her earlier hostility forgotten as she thoroughly took in the scope of what now surrounded them.

  Even Orven's weathered face showed something approaching wonder. He stood in the center of the armory, turning slowly, his eyes moving across racks and shelves and mounting brackets with the expression of a man who had spent his life hunting for scraps and suddenly found himself standing in a vault of treasures.

  Evan didn't have time to appreciate their reactions. He moved to the nearest armor suit, studying how it attached to its mounting bracket, his fingers searching for a release mechanism. He found a recessed panel near the collar, pressed it, and a hidden front seam parted with a soft hiss, the armor opening like a shell waiting to receive its occupant.

  The armor was lighter than it looked when he lifted it from its bracket. Much lighter. He'd expected the weight of tactical gear, something comparable to the body armor he'd worn during his Marine days. Instead, the suit felt almost insubstantial, as if the advanced materials that comprised it had mass without burden.

  He stepped into the opening, sliding his legs into the lower section, his arms finding the sleeves with surprising ease. The moment he settled his shoulders into position, the front seam sealed itself with another soft hiss, the material conforming to his body as if it had been custom-fitted. The sensation was strange, a gentle pressure everywhere at once that quickly faded to nothing, the armor feeling as if it had become an extension of his own skin.

  When he lifted the helmet from its shelf, it felt warm in his hands. The interior surface pulsed once with soft orange light, then went dark as he lowered it over his head. The faceplate sealed against the collar with a quiet snap, and suddenly Evan was looking at the armory through a display that overlaid tactical information across his field of view.

  His own vital signs appeared in one corner. A directional indicator appeared to show his orientation relative to the Ascendant—a circle since he was inside. The armor knew where its ship was, maintaining that connection like a compass pointing toward home. The environment around him registered in subtle ways, highlighting heat sources and motion with faint outlines that his eyes alone would have missed.

  But there was more. As he focused on the display, additional layers of information resolved into clarity. The suit didn't just serve as protection. Contact markers appeared at the edges of his vision, small icons that seemed to hover in space beyond the armory walls. The same ground troop contacts he'd seen on the bridge's tactical display. The Ascendant's sensors were feeding directly into his helmet, the armor serving as an extension of the ship's awareness. The suit connected him to the Ascendant in ways he was only beginning to understand.

  It also fit as if designed specifically for him, responsive to his movements. When he flexed his hands, the gauntlets moved without resistance. When he shifted his weight, it tracked perfectly with him.

  He caught his reflection in a polished surface and paused. The man who looked back at him bore little resemblance to the broken veteran who had been drifting through life in a Montana motel six weeks ago. The armor transformed him into something else entirely. A soldier equipped with technology beyond anything Earth had ever produced. A warrior dressed in the armor of an ancient civilization that had once commanded the stars.

  It felt pretty badass.

  Orven had already removed his breathing apparatus, pulling a small cylinder from his brown environmental suit to flatten the hump below the back of his neck. He placed the cylinder and connected tube on a counter and moved to a suit of the Maker armor, his fingers automatically releasing the mechanism without hesitation. The scavengers clearly had experience with Maker technology. They'd known how to open the cargo ramp, how to bypass the armory door. This was their trade, picking through the bones of dead civilizations for treasures they could sell. Faelen and Myris followed his lead, each removing their breathing gear before stepping into armor that sealed around them with the same seamless efficiency. Within minutes, Evan and all three scavengers stood armored and ready, their helmets sealed, rifles in hand.

  Faelen approached Evan, his faceplate inches away. He spoke, his lips moving behind the transparent visor, but no sound reached Evan's ears. Then Faelen made a gesture with his hand—fingers pressed together near his chest, then spreading outward as they moved away from his body. A pushing motion. Projecting something.

  He spoke again.

  This time his voice came through clear as a phone call, the Oridian words incomprehensible but the transmission unmistakable.

  Comms. The helmets had integrated communications. But they weren't activated by any external control.

  Evan tried speaking. "Testing."

  Nothing. His voice stayed inside his own helmet, flat and contained.

  Faelen repeated the gesture. The outward push. Then he tapped his own temple and made the motion again, more emphatically this time. Not a physical action. A mental one.

  Evan focused on the words he wanted to say, imagined pushing them outward, projecting them beyond the confines of his helmet toward the others.