“Don’t waste shots,” Hrask adds. “We’re not trying to win this fight.”
“I know,” I mutter. “We’re trying to survive it.”
I fire.
The recoil shudders through the ship, the defensive system kicking hard as the shot streaks past the lead interceptor, forcing it to break formation.
“Good,” the pilot says. “Again.”
“I’m not here for ‘again,’” I reply, adjusting my aim. “I’m here for ‘don’t get hit.’”
Another shot.
Closer this time.
The interceptor veers off, its path disrupted just enough to create a gap.
“Take it,” I say.
The pilot does.
The ship surges forward, engines screaming as we push harder toward the upper atmosphere.
“They’re adapting,” Hrask says, his voice tight as he tracks the display.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “So are we.”
Another impact slams into the hull, harder than the last, and the lights flicker briefly.
“That one wasn’t a warning,” I say.
“No,” the pilot agrees. “That one was a message.”
“Message received,” I mutter, firing again.
The enemy ships tighten their formation, their movements more aggressive now, less testing, more direct.
“They’re going to cut us off before we clear the upper layer,” Hrask says.
“Not if we break their line first,” I reply.
“With what?” he asks.
I glance at the power distribution panel.
Then back at the display.
Then at the engines.
“Everything,” I say.
Hrask’s gaze snaps to mine.
“Don’t,” he says immediately.
“Trust me,” I reply.
“That’s not the issue,” he counters.
