Gemma
The cockpit of the Vane jet is a tomb of flashing red lights and synthetic warnings. The digital voice of the aircraft—calm, female, and utterly indifferent to our impending deaths—reminds us every five seconds that the terrain is rising to meet us.
"Cassian, the stick is dead!" I shout, pulling back on the yoke with both hands. It feels like trying to stir concrete.
"The wipe triggered the hard-lock," Cassian grunts. He’s hunched over the avionics panel, his fingers blurring as he rips out wiring. His face is pale, a thin trail of blood trickling from his nose—a side effect of the epinephrine hit. "The Vane Group didn't just want the data; they wanted a 'scorched earth' failsafe. If the biometrics don't match, the plane flies itself into the nearest mountain."
"We're over the Al
