Vance's Downfall

The stench of ozone and desperation still clung to the Ironmule’s hull, a phantom reminder of the maelstrom they had weathered at Nexus Point. Inside, the hum of the engines was a lullaby, a stark contrast to the cacophony of laser fire and screaming metal that had once filled their comms. Hampton, his gaze fixed on the swirling nebulae outside the viewport, felt a weariness settle deep into his bones, a familiar companion from his days in the Fleet, but this time, it was tinged with something new: a hard-won peace.

“Report, Briggs,” Hampton’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of its usual edge.

Briggs, his knuckles still smudged with grease from their frantic repairs, grunted from his station. “She’s holding, Cap. Took a beating, but she’ll fly. We patched the primary conduit, rerouted power from the auxiliary life support. Should be good for another few thousand klicks, maybe more, if we don’t push her too hard.” He spat a piece of stray wire onto the deck. “Still can’t believe we pulled it off. Vance’s boys were ready to turn us into space dust.”