I sit slumped against the wall, my head in my hands.

I can’t believe that worked.

I exhale deeply. I could cry if I wasn’t so numb. Exhaustion begins to wash over me as the adrenaline drains from my body. I feel an ache that starts in my bones and radiates outward. I want to lie down. To sleep. To sleep and sleep and never wake up. But there’s still so much to do. I jerk my head up.

“The new fuel cells—” I start, trying to push myself to my feet.

“C-CIL and Shae are on it,” Byer breaks in before I can finish. “The fuel cells and the filter. They’ll take care of it.” He takes me by the arm, slowly, carefully lowering me back to the ground. My head is pounding as I try to gather my thoughts. The alarm stopped, but I can still hear it. Over and over. The blaring, shrieking sound telling me we’re all about to die if I don’t do something. Fast.

I drop my head to my knees. How did this happen? How? What did I do wrong?

I might not be the most experienced person to fly a ship, and I’m kind of shit at engineering, but it doesn’t add up. Mox doesn’t actually sell shoddy fuel cells—that was something I made up to try and get the Garda off my back. I was just down here yesterday and everything was fine. How could—

“You,” I say, lifting my head and turning to Byer. “You did this.”

He looks back at me, and for the first time, I see something like doubt in his face. Something like guilt.

“It was the best I could do. I—”

“The best you could do?!” I feel the anger rising in my voice as I force myself to stand. “You could have killed us all! Do you realize that? Or do you just not care?” I’m yelling now, my face hot with rage as I pace the room.

“We had to find a way to get them off the ship,” he says, a note of defensiveness in his voice. “They weren’t going to stop until—”

“Until what? Until they killed me?” I stop and stare into Byer’s eyes. There’s a softness. A pleading. You have to understand, they say.

But I don’t. I don’t understand at all.

“This is my ship,” I say, glaring at him. “I am the captain. Everything and everyone on this vessel is my responsibility. And just because I’m willing to die for you, that does not mean I’m willing to die because of you.” I storm out of the room—a little less gracefully than I would have liked—past C-CIL and Shae, who have been standing in the doorway for what I’m sure has been an uncomfortable amount of time.

“Captain,” says C-CIL as I push past. “We have—”

“That’s great, C-CIL,” I say, cutting him off. “Keep up the good work, buddy.”

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

I stalk down the hallway, moving awkwardly on legs that don’t want to work right, stopping when I reach the door that reads “BioFilter Recycling and Reprocessing Chamber.” I go into the room, shoving a stack of geotex boxes to the side, and unscrew the panel behind it to reveal a door. I enter the lock code correctly on the first try. It looks like I’m getting back a bit of my cognitive abilities. I grab the handle at the bottom of the door and turn it, letting the door swing up into the adjoining room.

I look behind me, checking that the door to the BioFilter room is closed. Looks like no one followed me. For a second, I wonder what Byer and the others are up to. Sitting around feeling sorry for themselves maybe. But you know what—I don’t care. I jump up to grab the handle of the door and swing it closed, locking it back into place.

This is my second favorite place on the ship. It’s quiet, tucked away, and most people would never even know it’s here.

“Can I get some lights on in here, Chrys?” I ask aloud. The lights click on, illuminating the cylindrical cage in the middle of the room that extends down into the lower hull.

“And how ‘bout some music. AC/DC.” I cross to the control panel on the far side of the room as TNT starts to play over the speakers. How apropos, I think to myself with a smile.

The screen is still hard to read, but if I close one eye, I can guess pretty well at what I’m reading.

“Ok, Chrys, let’s fire things up,” I say.

“Secondary engine initiation procedure activated.”

I may have been stupid enough to let a lying, manipulative jerk onto my ship, but I’m not stupid enough to think those Garda won’t be back the second they realize the engine’s not going to explode and blow them to bits.

The room grows slowly warmer, and the central cylinder begins to let out a faint glow.

“Everything good, Chrys?” I ask.

“Secondary engine systems operating within predicted parameters.”

I nod to myself, leaning my head back against the wall and closing my eyes. I tap my foot to the music, focusing on Bon Scott’s raspy voice and letting it drown out the ringing in my ears.

…watch me explode!

I try to let my mind drift, but it keeps taking me back to the bridge of the ship. The hand at my throat. The collar winding tighter and tighter around my neck. My legs buckling uselessly beneath me. The pain engulfing me, swallowing me whole.

I try to shake the memory from my mind. To will myself somewhere better. To Meridian, maybe, where coffee grows on trees instead of spilling pre-made out of a synthesizer in a cup of hot, bitter liquid.

I think of the package of coffee lying in the canteen, the picture of a coffee tree printed on the back of the bag. I wonder what it looks like in real life—a coffee tree. I try to imagine it.

But all I can see is the Garda’s cold, rage-filled eyes, the heat emanating from his massive form as he lifts me, helpless, from the floor.

“Secondary engine functionality at 75%.” Chrys’s voice rouses me from my trance.

Coordinates, I remember. I need a new set of coordinates.

I flip through the maps on the display screen. I’ve got to find somewhere not so obvious. Somewhere they won’t think to look for me. For a moment I think about going back to Olympia Station. There’s no way they’d look for me there. But it must be swarming with Vanguard ships, and there’s no way I’m taking that risk.

And then I see it. Herminia. It’s far enough that they’ll never think to look there. After all, they think we’re just operating on standard compressed fuel cells. They have no idea this little ol’ MASSA 50 has a plasma engine tucked away just in case we run into trouble and need to split in a hurry.

“That plasma good and cooked, Chrys?” I ask aloud.

“Secondary engine functionality at 98%.”

I lock in the coordinates, double checking that the system-plotted course won’t take me near any major outposts.

“Course coordinates accepted,” says Chrys. “Secondary engine functionality at 100%.”

I’ve always wanted to see that part of the galaxy. What better time than now?

“Alright, Chrys," I say, smiling to myself. "Let’s get the hell out of here.”