What happened?

My heart pounds in my ears as I try to draw a labored breath.

How did I end up down here? Was I hit? Shot?

My hands scrape against the floor as I pull myself to my knees and try to reorient myself, the air coming slowly as I gasp through the pain. My head throbs, white flashes of light dancing across my vision, and my arms tremble as I try to steady myself.

It must have been a Swift he hit me with. Non-lethal but a world of pain. I can feel my muscles twitch in the aftermath of the electrical current coursing through my body. My arms give out beneath me, and my cheek meets the floor with a thud, the crack of a tooth loosening somewhere in the back of my mouth. I lie there for a moment, wincing in pain, trying to gather what strength I have.

I see something move in front of me, the toe of a black boot, and before I can regain any sense of control, I feel myself rising up into the air, my body being lifted by some unseen force. Blood fills my mouth as I choke for air. One of the Garda has me by the collar, I realize, hoisting me to my feet. My legs shake as I try to get my feet under me, to no avail. But it doesn’t matter. The Garda doesn’t loosen his grip.

He stares into my face, jaw clenched. His expression is full of disdain. I feel something pressing hard into my side. Probably a Swift, ready to send another shock of electricity coursing painfully, unapologetically through me. I want to close my eyes, to look away from this face that hates me so much, that wants nothing more in this moment than to hurt me, to break me, to bend me to his will.

But I’m the captain. This is my ship. And though I may be in pain, weak, unable to stand, I won’t look away. I continue to stare back into those cold, rage-filled eyes. The pain has drowned out the fear, choked the life from it, stripped away its power. And now all that remains is defiance. Undaunted, unchecked defiance.

I feel the collar twist around my neck, tightening, sinking into my skin as the muscles in my limbs twitch impulsively.

Go ahead, I think, hoping he can see it in my eyes, read the very thought in my unflinching gaze. Do your worst.

Light, brighter than before, pierces my eyes. Flashing red light. A horrible screaming sound rings in my ears, and I wait for my body to hit the floor a second time.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, I feel my collar slacken around my neck, as the hand holding me loosens its grip. I feel my feet meet the floor and scramble to plant them solidly beneath me as I grab for something to support myself.

The sound continues, unrelentingly. Wailing. Shrieking.

The Garda isn’t looking at me, anymore, I see. He’s looking around the room, his expression now one of alarm and confusion. I see his mouth move but can’t hear the words. He’s saying something to the other Garda that I can’t make out.

There’s a voice, I realize, buried in the deafening noise. A familiar voice.

“Warning,” it says.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself on the back of a chair, and try to focus on the sound of the voice.

“…critical. Immediate action…”

It’s Chrys’s voice. Focus, Jahdra, I tell myself. Listen to the sound of Chrys’s voice.

“Warning,” it comes again. I strain to listen. Ignore the pain. Just listen to Chrys’s voice.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Engine temperature critical. Immediate action required.”

I open my eyes. Red lights continue to flash across the bridge as the emergency alarm blares over every speaker in the ship.

The flashing light, the earsplitting sound—It wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t the product of a couple dozen milliamps running through me.

It’s something so much worse.

“Warning: engine temperature critical. Immediate action required,” Chrys repeats.

The Garda are already halfway out the door, leaving me behind on the bridge.

“Wait!” I yell after them. “Aren’t you going to help me?” My voice is full of panicked disbelief, but I already know the answer. They don’t care if I live or die. They don’t care if my engine overheats and my ship explodes, as long as they can get themselves to safety before it does.

I try to run after them, but my legs are unsteady, and find myself hobbling down the hallway only to watch the lift doors close from the wrong side. I grit my teeth in anger, frustration.

“Warning: engine temperature critical. Immediate action required.”

“I’m on my way, Chrys,” I shout as I wait for the lift to make its return.

They’ll be gone before I even make it down there, I think, my blood boiling with resentment. The bastards only care about saving themselves.

“Talk to me, Chrys,” I call out as I stagger into the engine room. “What’s going on down here?”

“Main filtration system offline. Engine temperature critical.”

What? That doesn’t make any sense. I checked the filtration system when I brought in the new fuel cells yesterday. I make my way to the control panel, trying to think of what went wrong. The buttons dance and tremble before me, and I can’t make sense of the words on the screen.

“Chrys, I—” I start to say, but just then, something touches my arm, and I practically jump out of my skin.

It’s Byer.

Shit. I forgot anyone else was down here.

“Eject the fuel cells,” he says.

No “Hey, how ya doing? Thanks for saving our asses.” Not that there’s time for any of that.

I look at him, surprised and incredulous.

“What?” my voice rising above the din.

“Eject the fuel cells,” he repeats evenly but assertively. “Trust me.” There’s not a trace of fear or worry on his face. Not a hint of panic in his voice.

But why should I trust him? I turn back to the control panel for a moment, my mind racing. It’s useless. It’s nothing but garbled nonsense and flickering shapes.

I have no choice, I realize. I have to trust him.

“Chrys, we’re gonna dump these cells. Can you give us a hand?” I call over the sound of the alarm still blasting over the speakers.

“Authorization required to complete this action.”

I press my fingers into my temples. It’s there, the authorization code. I can feel it on the edge of my cognition, but I can’t quite grasp it. Think, damn it. Think!

It’s no use. I shake my head and turn to Byer.

“We’re gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way. I need that panel open,” I say, pointing to a grate on the wall. I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. It’s hard to think through all the noise.

“Warning: engine temperature critical. Immediate action required.”

I get it! Shut up! I want to yell. But I’ve got to focus.

“New fuel cells,” I call across the room, “and a fresh filter. There’s some in the annex.”

Byer disappears into the annex for a moment before returning.

“They’re on the way,” he says, waiting for his next instructions. I don’t ask questions. I’m just going to have to trust that he’s holding up his end of things.

I cross to where the grate lies on floor, the manual controls now exposed, and kneel beside it.

“I need you on the control panel,” I shout to Byer, indicating the screen of buttons and lights I can’t seem to read in my present state. “You’re gonna have to hit the control at the same time that I flip the manual switch. Got it?”

“Understood, Captain.”

It’s weird—he’s so calm. So confident this is going to work. Maybe he’s done this before, or maybe knows something I don’t.

I find the fuel ejection manual control. It’s a large steel lever rather than a switch. Can’t make something like this too easy I guess. I take a deep breath. All I have to do now is pull, and hope we get the timing right.

I look over at Byer who’s already navigated the system prompts and is waiting for my signal. I should feel frantic, overwhelmed, scared. But I don’t. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not exactly cool with the prospect of my ship blowing up and consuming us all in a giant ball of flames. But somehow or other, I’ve found a sense of composure, a quiet determination that’s replaced the frenzy.

“Warning: engine temperature critical. Immediate action required.”

This is it. If it doesn’t work…well, we’re just going to have to hope it does. I take another slow, deep breath.

“On one!” I call to Byer. He nods, his stoic expression an anchor in the chaos.

“Three!” I shout, focusing on the feel of the cold steel in my palm, my heartbeat strong and steady.

“Two!

I tighten my grip, locking my thumb around the handle. Here goes nothing.

“One!”