Still online.
“Reflector,” I bark. “Scan it.”
“Power systems stable. Ejection thrusters at 84%. Life support online. Navigation…” a pause, a static pop. “Limited, but functional.”
Good enough.
It’s all I need.
I cross the bay in three strides, my bootsteps loud on scorched plating. Every second feels like a countdown hammering between my ears.
“Garokk,” Isolde pants behind me, “what?—”
I’m already at the console.
The panel sputters, flickering to life. I punch in the code sequence—overriding lockdown, pre-arming launch thrusters, setting auto-course for safe Alliance space.
“Stop!” she yells, voice sharp. “What are you doing?!”
I don’t answer.
Because I know if I talk—I’ll stop.
And I can’t afford to stop.
This ship is dying. The reactor’s screaming in my bones, the heat rising like we’re already in a sun’s throat. The ceiling trembles overhead, ready to collapse.
“I’m not leaving without you!” she shouts.
I set the timer: 45 seconds.
“Override that shit right now, Garokk! Do you hear me?!”
She rushes at me.
I catch her.
Lift her.
She struggles hard. Arms flailing, voice cracking with fury and panic. “No! You are not pulling this noble-sacrifice bullshit on me!I swear to the stars, if you even think?—”
I grip her tighter, jaw clenched so hard it might break.
“You’ve got to survive,” I whisper. “For him.”
Her eyes flare. “What the hell are you talking abou?—”
And then I throw her.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Ihurlher into the pod like the universe itself depends on it.
She screams.
The impact knocks her flat on the padded seat. The straps coil around her, triggered by the movement. She’s locked in before she can recover.
The door begins to close.
