Then the hangar doors began to close.
"Captain, I register twelve hostiles converging on your six o’clock. Probability of survival if you engage: 17%."
Inside the hangar, it was silent. And there it was: a dusty, forgotten crate marked MK-VII. She grabbed it with the salvage claw, heart pounding.
"Kira, this is Control. We show you powering weapons. That sector is for salvage, not combat," the handler’s voice crackled.
The next sixty seconds were pure instinct. She flew through the broken hull of a frigate, scraping paint off the wings, then kicked afterburners straight into the carrier’s open bay. An explosion rocked her from behind—two mines detonated against a bulkhead instead of her hull. She had threaded the needle.