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penetrated. Fortunately the ship was only four decks high, and the lift seemed to be stuck halfway down, so they didn’t have far to climb.
    “Not if I blocked the access panel from the outside,” she cal ed up, continuing the joke.
    “Good thing I went first, then.” He lay across the roof of the lift, leaned his head through the opening and reached down. “Give me your hand.” Her fingers felt cool and slim, her grip firm. His injured shoulder protested as he hauled her up.
    “Where to?” he asked.
    “Fol ow me.” Without hesitation she scrambled up a flimsy-looking ladder almost invisible against the wal of the shaft. Greyson eyed the thin space between the lift and the shaft wal and hoped the power didn’t decide to kick in. If it did, they’d end up a lot thinner.
    Decades of dust and grease coated the wal s of the shaft and the rungs of the ladder. Where in the vacuum of space had it al come from? His heavy gravity boots gripped the metal, but he could see Shyanne struggling to maintain her hold and balance with her soft-soled ship boots.
    Twenty feet above the lift they reached the end of the ladder. Standing on the top rung, she reached up to pry open the outer lift doors. Her feet slipped. One foot slammed into Greyson’s cheek. The other hit his injured shoulder. The impact knocked his hand loose and jarred his feet off the ladder. He dangled by his left arm.
    At the same time, Shyanne scrambled to regain her balance. Trying to grab the ladder, she couldn’t get a solid hold on the slick rungs. With a strangled scream, she fel . Greyson’s heart lurched as she went past. In a moment of terror, his arm flashed out and grabbed the back of her shirt. She jolted to a stop. Pain shot up his arm. He gritted his teeth and swung her toward the wal .
    “You can let go. I’ve got the ladder again,” she said. “Thanks.” Her head pressed against the side of his hip, she guided his feet back to the ladder. He unclenched his fingers from the back of her shirt, but when he tried to raise his arm to grip the ladder again, his vision started to go black. He leaned his head against the top rung and fought to remain conscious.
    “Are you al right?” Shyanne asked.
    “I think I dislocated my shoulder. You need to climb back up around me and try again to open the doors.”
    She didn’t argue. Slipping up past him, she brushed against his injured arm. He bit his lip to keep from groaning.
    Though he could only grip the ladder with his left hand, he moved up behind her so his chest pressed against her hips; maybe that would keep her more secure as she pried at the doors. Her tremors echoed his own. His heart raced at the thought of what had almost happened. The fal might not have kil ed her, but landing across the lift support beams would have broken her body.
    The doors slid open with a creak. Light flooded the shaft, and Greyson blinked against the glare. Hands reached down and pul ed Shyanne up and through the opening. Greyson could hear voices but couldn’t make out words. He struggled to remain alert.
    “Careful. His shoulder’s probably dislocated,” Shyanne was tel ing Eldin and Bear. They gripped Greyson and yanked him out of the shaft. Barely conscious, he groaned and slumped against the wal of the corridor.
    As much as Shy wanted to see to Greyson—he’d saved her life!—the safety of her ship and crew took priority. “What happened?” she asked Eldin.
    “Damn slave ship fired on us! They came out of subspace sending Spitfire’s locater ID. By the time we had visual and realized it wasn’t Damon’s ship, they’d already attacked. Caught us off guard.”
    “How much damage?” Her gaze strayed to where Greyson now sat listening.
    His cheeks were colorless and his gaze, though pain-fil ed, was clear again.
    “Minor. Knocked out a couple of thrusters, put a few dents in the hul and shorted some electrical systems—that elevator’s unfortunately among them.
    Probably used the Spitfire’s