Miro smelled freedom on the wind as it rushed by his ears. Running like a fugitive wasn't normally his style—he usually preferred to sneak around his enemy and confront them directly when he was ready—but this time, it was necessary. For the first time in months, he'd been caught off guard. He counted himself lucky for walking straight into Viresa's next plot by being on Nebez at exactly the right time, but it also meant the Cardassians knew he hadn't been expecting them—and soon would Viresa. He hadn't stayed one step ahead, and now here he was, running through Nebez's markets with only his determination to save the amber to guide him.
Odo and Eeris might wonder why he even cared, after all the fuss he made. The fact was, he wasn't doing this for Odo. Why would he? He was protecting the amber because now he suspected it was just a piece in a much larger puzzle. The only reason he could think of for the Cardassians to show up was to block his movements—Nebez was, after all, the closest thing Miro had to a planetary home. It was his turf, even if it didn't technically belong to him—or anyone, for that matter. It was the place every Dax always returned to—the central hub of the symbiont's life. And it was no secret to Miro's enemies that he hung around here. He didn't care how many dangerous characters followed him around; he wasn't going to let them stop him from living his life the way he wanted to.
Either the Cardassians had orders to start restricting Miro's movements, or they were desperate enough for that amber that they had tracked it all the way to chaotic Nebez. The former made more sense, but Miro wasn't taking any chances on the latter. If Odo was right about the little stone and the Cardassians wanted it, that meant that they had technology—and motivations—that no one had had for nine hundred years.
Miro glanced over his shoulder without breaking his stride. He couldn't see anyone chasing him, but that didn't necessarily mean anything in this thick crowd. The pavement rushed by beneath his feet, shocked alien faces only barely registering in his brain. Miro grinned and almost laughed out loud. This was perfect. Who cared that he was running away from the danger? He could stare it in the face soon enough, as soon as he shook his pursuers, and he'd be ready when he did. And when Miro faced down his enemies, it made even the Cardassians tremble with fear. He didn't take his duty to this galaxy lightly.
Miro clenched his fingers more tightly around the amber. He'd protect it. It wasn't about Odo anymore—this was part of something larger. Something huge, something exciting. Something that was just his sort of adventure.
He glanced over his shoulder again. Still no one. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut as he remembered his reputation for escaping danger. Would the Cardassians have even bothered to chase him?
"Oh, fate," he said out loud. "I'm an idiot."
He slowed his pace and turned around, that uneasy feeling deepening and spreading. Had he really been so caught up in his desire to run, to escape, to ride the next wave that he'd forgotten to think about what he was doing? It wasn't just him now! There were consequences for disappearing! Being alone and leaving friends behind had never bothered him, but that wasn't the point. Odo and Eeris were still back at the flea market. Hopefully.
He strode back toward the flea market, his arms swinging comfortably at his sides. He peered ahead, watching for the telltale stiff uniforms and gray faces, but the Cardassians were nowhere to be seen. That wasn't a good sign, either. They had a way of standing out, especially in the complete disarray that was the perpetual state of Nebez.
On instinct, he picked up his pace. He would be lucky now if everything went well. And Miro wasn't often lucky. He shoved his way between startled civilians and annoyed merchants. Normally, he'd pause and try to bargain a good price out of these loners—they were usually so desperate for just a slip or two that he could bargain them down to nothing—but now he didn't have the time. He could see the flea market now, just a ways ahead. He'd come here for supplies countless times before, often during his other hosts' lives, so it was a familiar sight. It was one of the few constants in his life. These rogue trading posts came and went, but somehow, Nebez and this flea market always stayed the same, year after year. The clerk changed, and Miro lost track of the faces, but someone was always there and that was what mattered. People no longer left much of an impact on Miro. It was places that he remembered most often.
He began to wonder if that was changing. Was Eeris someone he would remember? But then, was Naral? Or Iz'ork, the one who had held a metaphorical noose around Sizran's neck for so long?
No, none of those people were permanent, Miro decided. Sizran's tormentor—the man would have liked to think himself in a relationship with her, sick as it was—couldn't haunt him anymore. Naral had been a passing phase, and Miro hardly regretted leaving her on Lityzne, even though she had helped him escape Trill. And Eeris…who was to say Eeris would be any different? She would learn her way around the galaxy, she would figure out Miro wasn't the sort who kept his friends, and she would decide Odo's devotion was more trustworthy. Soon enough she would choose that infuriating traitor over him, and Miro would be alone again.
He wondered vaguely why the thought caused a cold weight to settle in his stomach.
What of Odo, then? Was he more likely to leave a lasting impact? Miro had been forced to admit the moment he'd seen Odo in the flesh that he'd been harboring anger toward that traitor for some time, which was…not exactly pleasing. He'd thought he'd long since gotten over what Odo had put him through. Okay, so maybe the galaxy was falling apart at the hinges, and maybe Viresa was too much trouble for one vagabond explorer with a passion for peace to bring down, but still—the past was in the past. There was no reason to still be upset over it. It was Ezri, he decided. She was responsible for his anger toward Odo, just as Jadzia was (annoyingly enough) responsible for Miro not hating the man. And every host since then was just telling him to get over it already.
He couldn't get over it already. As long as he was Dax, he carried Ezri with him, and the memories were still too fresh. Even after nine hundred years.
Miro had run pretty far, but he was nearing the flea market now. He scanned the aisles as far as he could see, but there was still no sign of the Cardassians—or of Eeris and Odo. Miro swallowed as fear lodged as a solid weight in his gut. It looked like luck was going to evade him again this time. Something had happened to them.
Miro sighed and made his way over to where he'd left the basket, and sure enough, they were gone. There were signs of a struggle—scuff marks on the ground, disturbed market displays—but Odo was the investigator, not him, so Miro didn't bother to track them. Besides, he was useless on foot, and the Cardassians wouldn't stay on Nebez. Chances were they'd head for Romulan space, if Viresa really was the one demanding Changelings. And that was a fight Miro could win.
He swept his basket off the ground and made his way over to the pay counter. He had items to buy before he went anywhere, and maybe the clerk had seen something that would prove useful. Miro's easy stride came to him from years of practice. Years of stubbornly refusing to let the universe see the burden that crushed him, that had always crushed Dax. It had been so long that it came naturally now, as if he wasn't engaged in a daily battle against the memories of his former selves.
The pay counter was nothing but a worn table that might as well have been for sale itself, judging by its ragged condition. A makeshift currency drawer was laid out on its surface. Behind it sat a rather heavyset man with bleary eyes and a desperate squint. This clerk, Miro was surprised to find, was the same one who had been here when he'd come as Sizran a few years back. He'd aged since Dax had last seen him; his graying hair was now white and falling out in places. He looked human, which was possible this far out given the Federation's current spiral of misfortune, but there were enough human-like humanoid species that there was no real way to tell. The man leaned forward as Miro approached, struggling for traction on his makeshift metal seat, and squinted.
"You a regular?" he asked. "You look familiar, but I can't place you."
"Haven't been by in a while," Miro said as he set the basket of items on the table. He didn't mention that it had been a while since Sizran had been here, and the clerk had last seen Miro just that day. "I don't blame you."
The man riffled through his selection and then, without turning from the merchandise, squinted at Miro out of the corner of his eye. "You got enough latinum for this?"
"Come on, mister, when I saw these price tags I couldn't believe it," Miro said. "You're not really gonna charge me fifty strips for an inodine capacitor, are you?"
"And what the heck do you need this stuff for?" The man pushed the basket aside and looked up at Miro with interest.
"Hey, you're not a bartender." Miro was proud of himself for not letting his voice quaver at the thought of Quark—even after nine hundred years, it was hard to let go of the unnatural death of a friend. "You're just a flea market clerk and I'm a customer. I'll give you fifty strips for it all. That cut it?"
"I'd ask for at least a hundred for it all," the man said.
Miro shook his head. "It's fifty strips or nothing. You want the latinum or not?"
The man squinted at him. "Seventy-five."
Miro grinned. "Deal. Now you got any provisions?"
The man reached under the counter. "What species?"
"How about Bajoran?"
The man frowned. "That's obscure, mister. I don't carry any."
Miro dug into his pocket and laid out the latinum. "Here you go. Thanks anyway."
The man scooped the latinum to his side of the counter and pushed the basket forward. "It's all yours, mister."
"The basket, too?"
"Eh, I got plenty others."
"See ya 'round, then," Miro told him with a smile. He grabbed the basket off the counter. "Hey, one more thing…"
The man squinted up. "What?"
"You happen to see a couple of aliens around here?" Miro asked. "One's tall, flattish face. The other's a girl, maybe fifteen, missing an arm."
"Yeah, they were with a bunch of Cardassians."
"Did you see them leave?"
"Cardassians took 'em off. The girl lost her other arm, too, but I didn't see how."
Miro set his free hand on his hip, his gaze intensifying. "And you didn't do anything?"
"Not my place, mister. I didn't wanna mess with the Cardies."
Miro shook his head. "Coward."
"Hey, I hold my own."
Miro sighed. "Well, thanks anyway. I gotta go."
He didn't stay to hear the clerk's reply. The sooner he sold his items, got some latinum in his hands, and got back to the Challenger, the better. It didn't even matter if he wanted to save Eeris and Odo for his own personal reasons—which he sort of did. They had gotten themselves in a larger, more important, more ground-shaking plot, and Miro was a fool if he was going to step aside and let the future take its course. He wouldn't stand aside and do nothing, not where the Romulans were concerned. And besides, Eeris wasn't safe. And it was his fault—all his fault—that she was on her way into the galaxy's very heart of deception.
He had to protect the amber. And he had to make sure he didn't lose Odo to the Romulans—to whatever they had planned. He wouldn't necessarily rescue the man. It would be safer for everyone involved if Odo ended up in the Gamma Quadrant, permanently this time. But this wasn't just a matter of seeing Odo off where he belonged—he was part of a Romulan plot, and Miro didn't intend to let it succeed.
Instead of heading for the Challenger, he headed off in a different direction. He wasn't going to be diverted from what he'd come here for. Cardassians throwing a wrench in his plans didn't stop him from needing supplies, Eeris from needing Bajoran food, and the Challenger from needing fuel. And there was a good shop for the kind of random stuff he needed just across the way. He stayed casual now, not a difficult feat for him, gently shouldering his way through the crowd. Once or twice, he thought he heard someone call his name—thought he heard that rough, hissing voice of Iz'ork—but he told himself the part of him that was Sizran was just a bit skittish. She hadn't expected to run into the man who had exploited and eventually killed her, and Miro didn't take it upon himself to soothe his hosts' nightmares. He had enough of his own to ignore.
The shop of his choice was a small, brick-enclosed building with a large front window spanning the entire façade. There was a space across the top of the façade for the shop's name, but it had fallen off decades ago and had never been replaced. The door was made of worn wood and swung on hinges, an odd sight under organized governments. It was considered fancy here on Nebez, where the "government" was only a merchants' association with no agenda for improving the public infrastructure. Miro turned the handle and pulled the door open. Inside was a long glass counter that doubled as a display case and ended a few feet before the wall, where a door led to the main room. Behind the counter sat a thin, scrawny alien with green skin and bulging eyes. Pausing in the doorway, Miro slipped Odo's romance book from the basket and stashed it in his rucksack—he'd return to Federation space to sell it, and he'd make a killing. He approached the counter and leaned his free elbow on it, a casual pose designed to target shopkeepers' good will. Just a little sweet-talking, and they'd buy anything.
"You buy, right?" Miro asked.
The alien looked at him. "That depends on what you offer."
He had the flat, toneless voice typical of some species when they tried to learn Standard rather than pay for the implant surgery that came with a universal translator. Miro grinned and hefted the basket onto the counter. "Then lemme know what you'll take."
The alien ran a scanning device over the contents of the basket. "All quite valuable. How will you be paid?"
"Latinum," Miro said. "Ought to be worth a couple hundred strips, wouldn't you say?"
"I will give you two hundred," the alien said.
"Deal," Miro grinned. Now, that was good. That was a hundred-twenty-five strip gain for him. He wasn't half bad at this. "Now where's my money?"
The alien dumped a handful of strips onto the counter. "Will you require our other services?"
"Yeah, I wanna buy some food," Miro said. "And you got any fuel in stock?"
"Of course. You will find what you need in back." The alien gestured with one three-fingered hand.
"Gotcha," Miro said. "I'll be right out." Scooping the latinum—a hefty weight this time—into his rucksack, he left the basket in the alien's capable hands and headed around the counter, through the door.
The vast array of stock sold at these alien convenience stores had ceased to shock Miro about eight lifetimes ago. Nothing was organized for species; there were far too many for that. Shops like this barely touched on what the many forms of alien life had to offer. Miro headed down the food aisle, looking for something Bajoran. He realized belatedly that he had no concept of what Bajoran food even looked like, except for what little he'd had time to buy for Eeris back on Deep Space Nine. But Jadzia probably remembered. He silenced the voice in his head that warned him against listening to her and let her voice be heard.
Hasperat, maybe? she asked. Is that still around in the 33rd century?
I wouldn't know, Jadzia, he thought back. I don't know Bajorans.
She quieted, studying the food selections with the tenacity of a xenobiologist. For the first time in years, Miro was glad to have had her as a host, though he wouldn't let himself get complacent. He ran his hand across the packets of dried fruit, making the plastic snap together. Jadzia turned her eyes to the top of the shelf and skimmed them along as Miro walked down the aisle. She mused as she went, taking her opportunity to look inside his head and dissect the thoughts he never let her see. She found Eeris in his memory and seemed almost to smile to herself. She would have liked to meet the little Bajoran girl herself. So much potential…
Miro dug his fingers hard into his palm. Snap out of it, Miro.
His hand landed on an air-sealed packet of strip-shaped, processed-looking food.
That's it, Jadzia said.
Miro held up several packets. These are processed. I'd like to actually give her a real meal one of these days.
We won't find anything fresh, Jadzia admonished. Bajor is isolated from all trade.
Miro sighed. Right. Fine. Now get out of my head before I lose my sanity.
And Jadzia was gone, as if she'd never been there. Miro breathed a sigh of relief. His control was getting better. The last time he'd let Jadzia speak, she'd wrought havoc, undermining every foundation he'd built his life upon. Isolation. Complete independence. Refusal to settle. She'd knocked them away as effortlessly as if they were mere feathers waving in the breeze.
He'd weathered that trial. He'd called Ezri forth from her perpetual silence, and she had quite vocally sent Jadzia into retreat. But it was always risky to let Ezri speak. Her memories were strong and her voice was laden with fear. But not just fear—sadness, loss, despair, disappointment. Self-loathing. Even anger, for she had never fully faced her feelings following the event. For all that she was a counselor, she couldn't counsel herself. Miro really didn't want to use her voice again. She was the strongest opposition to Jadzia that he had, but she was also just as dangerous—if not more so. But Jadzia was perceptive and determined, and if she wanted to crack someone's walls, especially someone whose mind she had complete access to, she usually could. Miro had no reason to believe he'd defeated her forever.
It didn't matter. He could deal with her when he had to.
Miro forcibly shut his doubts in a box and continued on. He knew where the fuel was; he didn't need any past host for that. He breezed past the back corner of the shop, tucked a few fuel canisters under his arm, and then breezed back to the front counter. As he laid his purchases out on the glass countertop, he felt a slight tremor in his left hand. He bit back a gasp and pressed it to the edge of the countertop, hoping the alien hadn't noticed. This wasn't a good sign. This was never a good sign.
It was okay. Hadn't he survived much more than this? Was the idea of a past host trying to crawl her way into his mind really that scary?
At the last moment, he remembered to bargain, but his heart wasn't in it. "What's the least you'll take for that?"
"Fifty strips."
"Oh, come on," Miro groaned, more to himself than to the alien. He should have opened the deal at something more like ten strips, but it was too late now. He deposited the correct amount on the counter and drummed his fingers on its surface while he waited for his payment to go through.
Do me a favor, Jadzia, he thought, and leave me alone.
And if I did, then where would Odo be?
Safe. You know I won't let the Romulans win.
I'm not talking about the Romulans, Miro.
Miro almost groaned out loud again, muffling it before it could slip past his lips. Fate, no. This was just unfair. Granted, Miro had lived through nine hundred years of unfairness and actually learned to enjoy it, but this crossed the line. Couldn't Jadzia see she was unwanted? She was intelligent enough. But no, she always had to meddle where she didn't belong. Just typical.
On top of Jadzia, Ezri was clamoring to be heard. Miro silenced her at once. She always tried to defend herself when Jadzia spoke up, but he didn't want to hear her argument now. He couldn't go there, it was too dangerous. He didn't want to remember. Not when he was essentially fighting on Odo's side. Not when all the wrong battles were going on, and the Romulans were making the one wrong move that of course they had to make, and he was about to be dragged into a plot that he couldn't possibly—
"Good day, sir."
None too soon, Miro snapped out of his thoughts. What was he thinking? Dax may have been more of a curse than a blessing most of the time, but he was still a Dax, and no Dax ever balked in the face of danger. Especially Miro, daring adventurer and galactic peacemaker. The peacemaker who blew up ships and decked his enemies to ensure the best future. Oh, well, it was still the pursuit of peace, it just depended on how one looked at it…
Miro scooped his purchases into his rucksack and spun on his heel without looking back. His next stop was the Challenger, where he'd refuel, store Eeris's food, and finally—finally—take off in search of her and Odo.
He shouldered his way through the crowd more urgently this time, his gaze locked resolutely on his destination. He'd always thought the Challenger was quite a beauty. Dark and sleek, the devil in the skies, she was a time-worn cockpit with engine nacelles that arched to either side of her rear like wings. Her hull had the shine of a ship almost never subjected to the elements of an atmosphere. She was an old ship—she would never pass a Federation inspection—but Miro didn't consider himself part of the Federation anymore, and she suited his needs. There was not a cargo she couldn't hold, not a battle she couldn't handle. She'd been in tough scrapes before and there had been times when Miro was sure she wouldn't make it, but she always came out all right. It occurred to him that they had developed a symbiotic relationship over the two years since he'd left Trill. She needed him because she couldn't repair herself after a close call, but he most definitely needed her. More than Naral ever had.
The Challenger's 33rd-century autolock feature had drawn the gangplank back up in his absence. Miro punched his code into the panel near the landing gear and waited as the once-silver ramp descended. It gave him time enough to consider what he was about to do. This wasn't going to be a typical mission. Not only because he was helping Odo out of necessity rather than desire, but because he had an emotional stake in the outcome this time. Eeris.
Kira Eeris. The one person he should never let himself care for. And her fascination with her ancestor, Kira Nerys, was a recipe for disaster. Much as it pained him, Miro had to admit she was better off with Odo. They had that fascination in common. And it would be less painful for him if she left him, than if he was forced to push her away one day. He couldn't keep her around. He wanted to, but he was being foolish. He didn't want Odo to have her, but things would be better that way. Of course they would.
The gangplank settled against the ground and he ascended to the cockpit, where he settled into the pilot's seat and tossed his rucksack somewhere near his feet. He took a long look at the array of controls before him. Miro knew every one of them like the back of his hand. And yet, he could remember specific times when every one of them had burnt out on him or failed him in some way. The Challenger wasn't a rescue ship, she was built to explore. She had half a million grievances ready to blow and twice as many bugs in her system waiting for a moment to buzz. And she had limited firepower, weak shields, and only a couple of backup systems in case the main ones failed. In short, the chances against her success were high.
"Come on, girl," Miro said, patting her control panel. "Don't let me down now."
The Challenger didn't answer him. Miro sighed, unscrewed her fuel cap, and poured one of the canisters into her compartment. Then he swept one hand over her controls, waking her up, and felt her rumble around him as the cockpit's lights brightened. He engaged her thrusters, lifted her off the ground, retracted her landing gear, and then swooped up into the sky to begin the steep climb out of the atmosphere. Muscle memory drove his hands across the dashboard, checking and engaging systems as they readied themselves. As the atmosphere thinned, the stars came out one by one and slowly, gradually, he was in space again.
Now to find that Cardassian ship, the one that had surely taken Eeris and Odo. The Challenger registered only one ship nearby—or at least, only one that was visible. With the Cardassians still using the cloaking technology of their Romulan allies, one could never be sure. The ship had just taken off and was at the same altitude as the Challenger. Miro peered at his scanners and blew out a small puff of air. Good. There was one Changeling and one Bajoran on board.
The Cardassian ship sped to impulse. Miro adjusted his course to stay behind them. He wouldn't bother attacking. This ship wasn't the mastermind, it was just a minion. Cardassian ships rarely were in control of the game. They had engaged him in his crusade against chaos long enough to know his tactics—they wouldn't turn around and fire on him because they'd know he had no intention of stopping them. He intended to follow them. Right on behind the scenes.
The Cardassian ship increased its speed to impulse 2 as it put more distance between itself and the planet. Miro revved up the Challenger's engines and followed close behind it.
Out of nowhere, a phaser struck his port nacelle, sending him spiraling toward Nebez. Fingers flying reflexively over the controls, Miro managed to smooth her out and swooped back on course, barely grazing Nebez's gravitational field. No sooner had he straightened her than another phaser struck, this time on his starboard nacelle. Miro dodged to port—and then a volley struck brutally across his stern. Sparks flew from his primary systems. Cursing, Miro sped to impulse 3 and rocketed away from the planet. It was too dangerous to fight so close to Nebez—if he was disabled, he'd plunge right through the atmosphere and never live to see the next day. He checked his scanners, but there was nothing.
"Cloaked, are you?" he muttered. "Too cowardly to look me in the face?"
As if in reply, another volley of phasers struck and knocked him sideways. Something inside the Challenger blew out in a cloud of smoke. The overhead warning light blared and the dashboard flashed red. Miro's hands scrambled over the controls as he fought to stabilize his flight. Smoke spread through the cockpit, filling his nose with an acrid smell. In the corner of the dashboard, numbers flashed—the shields were falling. 80%. 50%. Gone.
They were locking torpedoes now. Miro locked his hand around the joystick and pressed it forward with all his might. Maybe if he was out of immediate range—
Too late. The first hit knocked the Challenger sideways, nearly throwing Miro out of his chair. He held tight, his free hand sweeping over the controls, as the torpedoes jostled him one by one. More sparks flew from the engines. Smoke billowed out, obscuring his vision. His weapons weren't responding. He cursed himself, cursed the Cardassians for taking his friends, hurting his ship, and messing with his life. He punched furiously at the dashboard, his eyes scanning it frantically for any message he had missed, any sign that there was still a way out, but there was no response. Nothing. The Challenger was gone. She was dead, burnt out, on a steady plunge toward the atmosphere below. Miro took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
He was going to die.
Dax normally wasn't a fan of giving up, but Miro had lived long enough to know when he'd met his match. He'd always known this day would come. It was why he lived every day to the fullest—because after all the trouble he'd caused, after all the havoc he'd stirred, just to try and engineer the right outcome for the galaxy, he had too many enemies to ever live out this life. This was Miro Dax, signing off. If the galaxy was a lost cause, after all, he had nothing left to live for.
Suddenly, the only sound was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Eeris.
She still had a chance.
He needed to get her that chance.
He needed to get out of this scrape, if only to keep his promise. If he could keep harm from befalling her, he'd consider it his gift to the galaxy.
His eyes darted over his systems. Everything was burnt out and sparking and the Challenger was bleeping at him in frightened purpose. The dashboard was gone, destroyed, a hopeless mess of flashing lights and alarms. Well, he wasn't about to put her out of her misery now. It was time to turn this around. But how?
Nebez loomed large out his viewscreen. He'd been knocked close to the atmosphere. Too close. Any closer, and atmospheric drag would be his undoing—he'd fall slave to gravity within seconds. He'd be doomed.
Something else was approaching.
He leaned forward, broken shards of glass clinking under his fingers, trying to make out the glowing something that was growing bigger in the dark space beyond Nebez. It was bright, round, something he'd never seen before. It looked as if it was burning, almost like a fire. That was not good. He was already damaged as it was. This wasn't just a torpedo—for all he knew, it was something worse, something even more dangerous, something that would knock him across that last span of distance and into Nebez's gravitational pull.
Unless…
It must have been Jadzia who voiced the thought, because Miro was no astrophysicist. He had just enough power to execute one last trick. For a split second, it was all clear in his mind—the trajectory he'd need, the impulse that would carry him, the impact the weapon would deliver. Everything made sense, even the gentle friction of the atmosphere. Gravity was a mere nuisance, and in this case his savior. And victory was his.
There wasn't a second to waste. Miro was just a pilot, so he let Jadzia take the reins. It would take too long to calculate it all himself. His hands flew over the controls, driven mental impulses he didn't control, inputting flight sequences he didn't need to understand. His eyes flicked over the numbers, taking it all in, letting Jadzia read and understand. And in the moment before the weapon hit, he knew he was ready. This would work. The Challenger was his trusty steed, and she would always stand by him. And fate was on his side.
The weapon hit.
It made a low roar as it impacted. Then the crunching of metal, and Miro winced because he knew that was a scratch on her hull that couldn't be easily fixed. Then a louder explosion, a series of booms, and finally, finally, he slipped almost imperceptibly into the atmosphere below. A sinking sensation, like slipping into quicksand, as Nebez's gravity claimed him.
And then a sudden burst of power, a sudden increase in speed as the engines engaged, and he was flying.
