Piya paused at the airlock.

Spacewards: the starfield, blotched by speeding clumps of debris. Below: the Ship. The star Ship. Their limping orbit had brought them directly over the yawning crack in its shell.

All she had to do was step out, and trigger her jets.

Behind her: a wounded enemy. She had his armor, and he had a broken leg. She had his parole. He had her–half-crippled–skiff. They had exactly the same amount of air and power left.

The metal void was dark, motionless.

She was wasting oxygen.

Piya stepped off the platform, and triggered her jets.