The alarms did not sound. Instead, far away, something else tore the quiet—a low keening, a vibration in the air like distant thunder. Chantal paused. Her skin prickled with instinct; her eyes rose to the sky where a smear of metal glinted on the horizon. A transport—no, a battlecruiser—drifted overhead, its shadow passing like a promise.
She pocketed the small, dangerous hope within the drive and thought of the next horizon. Legends called her Icarus; she preferred the quiet satisfaction of a job done. Sometimes survival looked like landing. chantal del sol icarus fallenpdf