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their pods before heading for their own. Or else there’s no way for them to get back here, all pretense of civilization gone.
    The Major follows me in silence, though I can feel his tension. For all he knows, I could be leading him to his death. I’m sure he doesn’t want to follow me anywhere. But he doesn’t know this ship like I do. He didn’t spend his childhood in her skeleton as she was being built.
    We turn down a maze of branching corridors. I head for a door marked Authorized Personnel Only and shove it open with a slight whine of unused hinges. My shoulders still ache, but I can use my arms—maybe I’m not so shattered after all. The door opens onto an escape bay, a five-seat pod waiting with open door for its refugees.
    “Thank you for the escort, Major,” I say crisply, stepping over the lip of the entrance and turning to face him. He’s just behind me, stopping abruptly to avoid running into me. I want to burst into tears, thank him for what he did, but if I do, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop crying. And he doesn’t know what it would mean for him if we got picked up in the same pod. My father would never believe there was an innocent explanation.
    “Excuse me?”
    “There’s another pod a little ways down the corridor. It won’t take  more than five minutes to reach it.”
    The soldier lifts both eyebrows. “Miss LaRoux, there are five seats in that pod, and I mean to use one of them. We may not have five minutes. It seems like something’s pulling the ship out of hyperspace before it’s supposed to.”
    For a moment fear freezes me. As my father’s daughter, I know better  than most what happens when the fabric between dimensions is disturbed. I take a deep breath and step back so as not to have to crane my  neck. “Major, if they find you alone in a pod with me when the rescue  ships arrive—”
    “I’ll take my chances,” the Major replies through gritted teeth.
    He doesn’t want to be in this pod with me any more than I want him to be. But the ship gives another horrible lurch, sending me crashing into one of the chairs. The Major braces himself in the pod doorway. From somewhere in the distance comes a terrible metallic shrieking.
    “Fine!” I pull myself up with the straps on the chair. This is no cushy first-class pod. This is bare-bones, designed for mechanics’ crews. The floor is a grid, and as I try to stand, the heels of my Pierre Delacour pumps wedge down into the holes.
    Two thousand Galactics’ worth of shoes, destroyed in an instant, the silk stripped from the heels. I stare at the floor, trying to catch my breath. What difference do the shoes make? And yet I can’t stop my mind turning it over, can’t stop staring at the ruined shoes. My mind seizes this tiny detail and clings to it.
    The Major palms the pad by the door, sending it hissing closed behind him. Then he punches the auto-eject launch button, starting a countdown that gives us enough time to strap in. A trio of lights goes on overhead, blinding me. His boots clomp across the metal floor to a chair opposite mine, and he starts clipping himself in. With a jerk, I wrench my heels out of the grid floor and turn so I can sit in the chair.
    I take a full breath for the first time since the alarms started blaring in the middle of dessert. Safe. For now. I’m trying not to think of the fact that there’s no way the screaming crowd can all be safely inside escape pods.
    The ship’s autolaunch will send us speeding away from the Icarus , and in no more than an hour or two a rescue ship will pick us up. I just have to get through the next few hours, with only Major Merendsen for company.
    His face is blank, locked down. Why did he even bother to save my life if he hates me so much? I wish I could apologize to him for what I said on the promenade deck. Tell him that what I say and what I mean are never the same, because they can’t be. My throat feels tight, my mouth dry. I never should have given him