98,000.

A blur.

97,000.

The numbers ticked by quietly on my visual feed and I steeled myself for the inevitable.

My colleagues find it strange that I prefer to parse numerical data visually rather than via direct semantic interface. I call them inhuman sons-of-bitches and we all have a good laugh.

Nobody’s laughing now.

Nothing but the rapidly approaching thermonuclear missile to keep me company.

Countermeasures were making a good fireworks show in the visible spectrum, but all my optics had shattered during the last attack.

34,000.

No choice. Missile was gon’na rip me a new one.

<<<

There’s really no good way of describing a hyperspace transition. I’ve heard advertising and poetry on the subject ranging in descriptions from “orgasmic” to “nauseating” to “jelly-bean-esque, with a hint of existential crisis.”

(In case you happen to be particularly provincial, it’s the advertisers that were talking about jelly-beans.)

4,000. Shat the budget there.

You thought I was talking about range, didn’t you?