There is a skill to storming an enemy ship. I’ve read about it. Didn’t remember a thing. Didn’t have an assault section to storm it with, either.

  But I had a foil, which was enough brute force to go a long way.

  The inner airlock door barred our way, the com readout by it blinking red. I killed the readout with my foil, then shoved it into the door.

  Thin steel, a centimeter at most.

  I ran the foil in a wide line through the middle, then nodded at Hao. She gave it a kick.

  The door fell out. The bullets came in.

  The thing about enemy ships is that they have enemies. We hadn’t exactly been subtle. I’d counted on the time it would take to organize an effective defense. I hadn’t counted on the defense being in place.

  Two assault rifles opened up, short, controlled bursts. Well-trained troops, aiming and firing.

  It saved us.

  When you fight a warded opponent, your goal isn’t to hit them. It’s to overwhelm their wards with massive amounts of force. Conserving your ammo and aiming carefully isn’t the way to do it.

  Two wards shattered in my coat, two cold stabs in my mind. I shrugged it off. I’d had a billion times worse, and would have again after I dealt with these pirates. My earlier hesitation evaporated into cold rage at the hammering cracks of rifle fire. I was an avenging crudmucker. No bullets would stop me now.

  The cut in the door was narrow, but I pushed through it, stabbing forward with my foil as I did so.

  It passed through the black chest armor of an enemy trooper. No wards. The foil slid in like the armor wasn’t there. The trooper’s gun hit the deck with a clang.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I cut sideways, but the ripstone was in too deep, and the foil’s steel stuck in the dead trooper’s armor. I shoved a thread of force into the ripstone, directing it sideways.

  A beam of force, burning flesh and melted polymer, burst from the trooper’s side, striking his friend beneath the armpit. The second trooper folded.

  I up-tuned the wards, forcing them over the ripstone, and took a breath. Less than a second had passed since Hao kicked the door down. Two men dead. An alarm blaring. Different tone than on the Raist.

  Crud.

  “Come on,” I growled, my throat dry. Hao entered gingerly, pressing herself through the still hot hole.

  My ears rang, a high-pitched, annoying keening. No hearing protection wards. I shouldn’t have put so much stock and wards into my hat.

  “Which way?” I said.

  “Engineering or bridge?” Hao said.

  “Brig,” I replied.

  “Don’t know where that is,” she said.

  “Guess,” I said. “But fast, if they know whom we’re after, they’ll kill him just to remove evidence.”

  She bit her lip, looked right, turned left and moved forward at a jog. I followed, summoning another thread of force, keeping two in my mind. One for the ripstone. One to activate the razor and flame wards in my coat or Hao’s combat jacket. They’d shred everything around us. In a narrow corridor, that would be fatal, definitely so for anyone standing in our way, and for us as well.

  If it came to that, we were already in deep trouble.

  Our boots slapped against the deck. No clangs, the deck had a no-slip polymer coating. Green walls, with small, black spots near the floor here and there.

  Blood.

  What kind of a vessel was this? There should have been doors, lots of doors, to cabins, mess, workshops. Instead, there was the corridor, and only two doors, both on our right, deeper into the ship.

  “Wait,” I called to Hao, my breath heavy and rapid, but she kept running, pounding down the corridor. I kept after her, leaving the door behind me.

  Anyone could come up behind us.

  Before us, the corridor split, branching off to the right. I felt lost. The layout didn’t match any cargo hauler I’d ever seen, nor any cruise ship. It didn’t make sense for a combat transport, either.

  “Crud,” Hao said, rounding the corner.

  I pushed my thread into the razor ward on her chest, then yanked it back before I could trigger the ward.

  Four kids stood before us, the oldest no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, the youngest about five. Bright green polymer coveralls, shiny and thin with wear. Gaunt faces.

  Chains.

  We weren’t on board a cargo hauler. We’d boarded a slaver.