Renegade Runner Nicole Conway (christmas read aloud txt) 📖

“Hey, I’m just saying it’s a little pathetic that they lose power so quickly,” I pointed out with a shrug. With all this superior alien technology, I expected they’d have invented a more complicated, unknown power source.

“Well, yes, runner crafts do that. But only because they’re specifically designed that way. A lot of surface skimmers are, too,” he clarified. “As for the bigger ships, the ones that cross from one star-system to another or fly through deep space and pass through jump gates and all that shit—no, they don’t use solar catchers. They use raw energy mined directly from the core of the stars.”

I paused. “You can do that? Mine stars for their power?”

One corner of his mouth quirked into a taunting smirk. “What? You mean humans haven’t figured that out yet? Talk about pathetic.”

Hmm. I wondered what he’d do if I grabbed one of those sensitive ears and gave it a flick. Or a pinch. Or a violent yank. I was leaning toward the latter.

I silently celebrated the reappearance of his candid assholery as I hobbled out of the cockpit and into the back portion of the ship. We’d already discussed our next move. Sure, we could’ve clipped on through the checkpoint and progressed in the race, but that would’ve been a horrible idea for two reasons. First, we were low on power and did, in fact, need to recharge if we were going to make it another mile toward the finish line. And second, that might put us too close to catching up to some of the other runner crafts ahead of us.

Our goal was super simple: survive. So we were going to hang back, play it cool, and try to slip across the finish line well behind all the other competitors. No more flashy firefights or explosions. Certainly no neck-and-neck skirmishes for the finish line. Nope.

Just survival, plain and simple.

And in the interest of survival, we now had to execute a quick reconnaissance stroll to get a feel for our surroundings and watch for any other approaching runner crafts while the power cells recharged.

The only downside to our newly acquired runner craft was not something I’d even considered in the previous ones. There was no privacy. Like, at all. And having grown up with my mom in an all-female household, being in close quarters with an over-seven-foot-tall alien guy was … uncomfortable.

Especially when he hovered over me like a nervous, overbearing, helicopter parent and critiqued absolutely everything I did while donning the rest of my survival gear.

Phox interrogated me on every detail of our plan as he strapped on a holster that buckled around his waist and both thighs for his pair of twin, short-range plasma pistols. That paired with another string of ammunition vials a lot smaller than the previous ones, a pair of gloves with spiked, solid metal knuckles made from some super-special alien alloy, and a big canteen of water were all he carried.

He didn’t need much else, though. He still didn’t have a legitimate surface survival suit, but he’d cannibalized one of the spares and mounted the central cooling cell inside his current, basic suit. He claimed it would buy him more time on the surface before he needed to get out of the heat. Everything else he’d found fit him decently, and we’d stumbled across a couple of spare fancy, blacked-out helmets like the ones the brawlers were wearing. I could now see the appeal—literally. Everything was crystal clear and automatically adjusted the tinting on the visor depending on where you looked. Clearly, these had been designed especially for this environment, complete with an oxygen additive that would keep a person from getting lightheaded in the thinner atmosphere.

“Remember what I said?” he asked, flicking me a look as though he suspected I wasn’t paying attention.

With our trusty rifle slung over my back and a belt of ammo vials strung across my hips, I quickly tied my hair up into a messy bun, slipped on my helmet, and followed with a nod. “Stay close and don’t be stupid,” I replied, trying to mimic his obnoxious, know-it-all tone.

“And?”

I rolled my eyes, thankful he couldn’t see me pulling the most disgusted face I possibly could beneath my helmet. “And don’t talk unless it’s important.”

Ugh. Idiot. He’s the one who wouldn’t shut up.

“Can’t stress that last one enough,” he mumbled, unknowingly pressing his luck that I wouldn’t trip him as he strode past on his way to the bay door. “Brawlers like to set up near checkpoints for easy scores. We can’t afford to give away our position now that we’re on the ground.”

A hard knot of anxiety lodged in my throat like I was trying to swallow a stone. More brawlers? Great. Flashes of memory, the cold edge of the knife at my throat, and that leering green eye stung my brain. I gripped the strap on my rifle, staring up at Phox’s broad back. He hadn’t heard anything the brawlers had said while they’d been breaking into our ship. He didn’t know that they’d come there especially for me.

I didn’t know how to tell him. I didn’t want to. What if he decided to ditch me because of that? What if he just flat kicked me out of the ship and sped away? It’d make sense. I mean, if someone named Faulbender had paid them off to hunt me down, then being rid of me would make him less of a target. He might actually stand a chance.

And Faulbender … I knew I’d heard that name before. It meant something. Something important. I just didn’t know what.

“Ready?” he called back.

I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing my voice to remain steady and calm. “Ready.”

Oh god, I was so not ready.

Phox glanced back to give me a final onceover before he slid his own helmet on. “Well, at least you look like you know what you’re doing.”

“Good. I’m glad one of us does.” Did he seriously think he could