“Allegedly,” I say. It’s too slow. “What’s our trajectory? We’re under fire and we need out now.”
—cal…ibrat—ing… within acceptable… para—meters?—
“Define acceptable.”
—surviv—al prob…ability… twen—ty… percent?—
“Twenty percent?” Dana says. “That’s not acceptable parameters under any safety regulations.”
—no viable alter—native?—
“Reroute systems to shields. Calculate fastest orbital trajectory exit to a designated evacuation planet,” I tell the AI.
—complying—
—warning—pressure malfunction?—
“Critical to life?”
—negative—
A pipe overhead drips. Something pink and viscous splatters on my thigh. I glance up, then over at Maya, who’s already glaring at it.
“If the coolant gets into your bloodstream,” Maya says, “it’ll scramble your synapses. Just FYI.”
“Great,” I reply. “At least we know where the pressure problem is.” I swipe at it with my multi-tool, sealing it fast.
Dana barks a laugh. Across from me, Lila’s shaking hard. Dr. Patel, still spotless, peels a med patch and slaps it on Lila’s wrist. She murmurs something too quiet to catch, but it works. Lila’s eyes start to unfocus in a way that says the worst of the panic is receding.
It’s wild. Everything’s gone sideways, and Dr. Patel still looks like she could walk into a boardroom and shame a bureaucrat into compliance. Her braid hasn’t slipped. There is not a stain on her jumpsuit. I’m relieved, and not just because I need her.
We’re all here because we were trained for this. Not likethis, maybe. But this.I was meant to be on an evac shuttle—just not one leaking its way through near-orbit.
Behind me, Tessa has covered her face with her hands. At first, I think she’s praying. Then she looks up with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I want to go home,” she rasps. Her voice is shredded. “I had a cat. She’s still there.”
Tessa’s cat is not there. Nothing is there. But I don’t tell Tessa that.
Quinn, composed as ever with her signaturedon’t-look-at-my-panicice queen energy, doesn’t even flinch. She just tilts her head back against the bulkhead and says, “The best we can hope for is to preserve what we know of New Terra, and make a new home somewhere else. If we can find other escaped New Terrans on an unclaimed world, we can rebuild our society. The way we were taught.”
No one talks about the mathematical odds of that. To us, it’s a hundred percent. It’s happening. It has to, or New Terra died for nothing.
“Announce computer navigation,” I say, trying to wake the AI.
There’s no answer.
Sloane is curled next to me, probably running the same odds we're not talking about. I reach past her and brace on the wall. "How's the nav?" I ask. She's in place to check it manually. I've got to let her do her job.
Sloane blinks hard. “I… I loaded the exodus protocols, but there are so many warnings flashing, and the real pilot’s dead, so…”
So, it’s on me to patch it up before we hit the planetary defenses.
I slide along the wall and pop the relay panel with my multi-tool.
A spark arcs off the power regulator, kissing my wrist with a blue-white snap. I jerk back. The sharp stink of scorched hair hits my nose. So much for staying whole.
The inside of the panel is a full-on oven. That might be my fault for rerouting power to the shields. I bite my lip, grab a strip of thermal insulation, and jam the fried relay back into place. The nav screen above me flickers, then holds steady.
