“Swords don’t breach hulls!”
“A gun kills at a hundred yards,” I argue.
“Name a shuttle that long.”
I feel stupid.
She runs a mutineer through.
At the airlock we suit up. She cycles the hatches.
The sword looks cartoonish in her glove.
Red lights flash and we’re out.
“Take my hand!” yells Veronica. I grab blindly and slice my glove open. I spin, venting gasses.
She clamps two hands on my wrist, stopping the purge.
“Your sword,” I say. It floats away.
“Your hand,” she replies. It’s frozen. Dead.
Maybe if we’re saved in time, both will be replaced.