I expected a blow to the head. Or a cold void, spinning forever. Or plain nothing.

  Death, anyhow.

  Instead, I got a massive nosebleed, warm, coppery blood and snot dripping down my mouth.

  In front of us, the port was on fire.

  Thousands of missiles were launching into the sky. The two packs closest to the Bucket had exploded, sending gigantic pillars of flame heavenward.

  The closest blood was rolling on the ground, his hands pressed over his ears. I couldn't hear a thing.

  Once again, the wards in my stockman protected me. I loved that hat.

  The smoke was cloying, the heat wonderful. Hundreds of smoke trails going into the sky, thin candles topped by glowing embers. The cruisers were firing down into the mass of missiles, point defenses flashing, missiles exploding.

  Too little. Too close.

  The cruisers angled their warp wakes, flying together, creating a downward cone of flame, angling away from the planet.

  Good maneuver, their commander was sharp. But they were too far down, the planet's mass twisting the void, leeching power from the warpstone engines. They couldn't shift, couldn't tilt the void enough to get away.

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  The rising smoke trails met the glowing wake. Missiles exploded.

  Not enough.

  The rest of the missiles struck. First one flash, then another, another.

  And then the cruisers turned into a plate of flame, a ball, falling, burning chunks.

  Falling right for the port.

  I could only watch as flaming debris fell from the sky. Thousands of armor plates, spars, engine parts. Anything the missiles hadn't destroyed outright.

  "Down," I yelled, completely unnecessary. Everyone was already lying in the sand. Only I had remained on my knees.

  The cool sand had never been this wonderful. I rolled to the bottom of the shallow depression, crowding in with Hao, the Knife, and one of his bloods.

  The ground shook as parts of spaceship struck all around us. I had time to hope that nothing hit the Bucket, or the hauler.

  A chunk of metal the size of a quadcopter struck the sand not fifty meters away, bounced, passed over us, spun away into the dawn-lit sands. Glowing embers landed on us, making our camouflage cloaks smoke. I felt a sharp burn on my neck, slapped at it, got a sliver of hot steel stuck in my hand.

  I withdrew it with a curse, hoping that nothing bigger hit us.

  It would have been a crudmucking way to go.

  Which begged the question. Why hadn't I died?

  "Hao?" I said, getting a grunt in reply. "You alive?"

  She grunted again.

  "Knife?"

  No answer. He lay face-down next to me. I patted his back, looking for holes, wounds, blood. The only blood was the palm prints I left on his cloak.

  Nosebleed. Right. I wiped an arm across my face. It came away red and sticky.

  The Knife still didn't move.

  And I remembered the warm, moist pressure that had stabilized my threads as I was faltering.

  He'd taken the blow for me.