Captain Hawley stands at the end of the gangway, jaw stony, nose flared. Centaurian winds whip a crumpled note from his fist.

“You dropped this, sir,” says Ensign Smoot.

He has to wait for Smoot to leave before he can let it whip away again.

“Secure grav pods,” he says shortly, striding onto the bridge. “Make ready the shields! By the Core, if she can’t see where I could take her, we’ll have to show them all!”

The crew scrambles; valves burst. Desire and denial make contact in the ship’s reactor heart, and the explosion sends them racing for the stars.