The corridor bucks as I round the corner and almost collide with her. She’s calm, precise, a science officer’s uniform untouched by smoke or panic.
“This vessel is compromised,” she says evenly. “Escape pods are three sections aft.”
“Pods won’t clear the blockade,” I reply as we start running. “We need a shuttle.”
“That is illogical,” she says. “Enemy models predict all standard piloting outcomes.”
Another impact rattles the deck. I glance toward the sealed shuttle bay sign and smile.
She notices. Slows by half a step. Turns her head, she raises an accusing eyebrow.
“Really?”