Tarla
Finally. Captain Randall Cunningham III burst onto the navigation deck, all business despite his red face and beer-stained uniform. I whipped my head around to glance at him. “We need to engage auxiliary thrusters and reverse course now,” and I added, snidely, “sir.”
“There’s no time,” he snapped, staring at his screen as if it was the first time he’d ever seen the thing. “We go in.”
This time, I put my foot down. “We won’t be entering the darkspace channel at the correct point. We’ll miss our destination.” I had to shout to be heard over the siren. “There is still time to correct—”
“Stand down, copilot.” He sat in his chair, legs spread, looking all casual, as if we weren’t about to be sucked into the channel, guided by some unseen force.
I jabbed a finger toward the side of th
