Doran must have felt the same way, because his lips barely moved when he asked, “Who’s after us? And what’ll they do if they catch up?”
Before Renny had a chance to answer, the ship lost speed, and inertia flung them to the galley floor. Solara cracked her elbow on the way down, sending a jolt of white-hot pain along her nerve endings. She cried out and pressed a hand over the joint while peering around the room for smoke or flickering lights—any indication that they’d been hit. All she detected was a hint of static in the air, but she didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.
The captain’s voice crackled over the intercom. “I pushed the accelerator too hard and something blew,” he said. “Lara, give me a status report from the engine room.”
She scrambled to her knees and told Doran to meet her there with her tool kit. But before she made it out of the galley, Renny stopped her and slipped a cord over her head.
“Just in case,” he said.
If I can’t fix the accelerator, she thought, we’ll all die.
Her heart pounded and her palms turned to ice. She removed the necklace and gave it back to him, then turned and darted down the stairs when he tried to object.
Now failure wasn’t an option.
Doran stumbled twice while dashing to the engine room, but the tool kit was wedged under his arm as snugly as any football he’d carried into the end zone. If there was a way to get this clunker of a ship moving again, he’d bust ass to make it happen. He had no intention of eating cyanide today.
He skidded to a halt outside the open doorway and locked eyes with Solara. The damage had to be bad because she stood there motionless, clutching a hunk of metal at the end of one limp arm while her gaze shone with tears. The whir of moving parts in the adjoining room drowned out the sound of her breathing, but her chest rose and fell fast enough that Doran could tell she would faint if she didn’t snap out of it.
“What’s the problem?” he asked as gently as he could. He wanted to scream at her—to tell her to quit standing the hell around and do something, but she was obviously under enough pressure. If he pushed her any harder, she might shut down completely.
She didn’t move, just dropped her gaze to the engine part in her hand. “One of the rods snapped off.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yeah.” She nodded and a tear spilled free. “If I had six hours.”
“Jury-rig it,” he said. “The repair doesn’t have to last forever, just long enough to get us out of here.”
She held up the greasy part for show. “Without that rod, there’s nothing keeping the accelerator attached to the engine. I can’t fix that with duct tape.”
“Can you hold it in place?”
“Not once the engine starts turning. Right now it’s powered down.”
The captain’s voice called over the speaker. “Any progress?”
“We’re working on it,” Doran told him, exactly as Solara said, “No.”
“No pressure,” Rossi told them. “But we’re about to have some very unpleasant company.”
“Give us a minute,” Doran shouted, and then took hold of Solara’s upper arms. She was undeniably smart and resourceful. All she needed right now was more confidence. For the briefest of moments, it occurred to him that this might not be an issue if he hadn’t spent so many years tearing her down, but he shoved that thought aside and gave Solara a fortifying shake. “Listen to me,” he said. “I watched you work on the grav drive. You’re a natural. You’ll figure this out, too.”
“That was different. It wasn’t broken.”
“The only difference this time is the stress. If you weren’t so panicked, you’d have it figured out already. I want you to take a breath, hold it, and count to ten, and then you’re going to try again.” He tightened his grip. “Okay?”
Nodding, she puffed out her cheeks and held her breath while he counted down from ten to one. He knew the Daeva were closing in on them, but he forced away his fear and focused on their only chance of survival: getting Solara back in the game.
“Ready?” he asked when he got to one.
She released a lungful of air. “I think so.”
“You can do this,” he reminded her. “What are the challenges?”
After a moment of consideration, she retrieved a pair of pliers from her tool kit and pointed them at the engine. “First I have to remove the rod that broke off inside the accelerator cradle.”
That sounded easy. “I’ll do that. You tackle the next obstacle.”
He took the pliers and knelt on the floor to retrieve the broken rod. Removing it was much like pulling out a splinter—a very greasy, slippery splinter the size of his thumb. By the time he slipped the rod free, Solara had puzzled out a makeshift replacement.
“It’s not quite wide enough,” she said while hammering a wrench handle through the broken end of the accelerator. “But it might hold for a few hours.”
The intercom blared, “Status report!”