Fenrir would almost certainly be loitering in the shadow of one of the Objects. She knew I was coming, and knew my objective; all she had to do was lie in wait. The instant I appeared, she’d light me up with her targeting lasers and let fly with her torpedoes. I’d have maybe ten or fifteen seconds to deploy the shuttle, depending on her range at the point of engagement, and then I’d need to devote all my attention to the defensive cannons.

So far, the fabricators in the automated spaces of my engineering section had produced four torpedoes, each armed with a fifteen-megaton fission warhead, and enough ammo to run the cannons continuously for up to three hours. In order to find the material to do this, they’d torn out every non-essential piece of equipment and recycled two of my six shuttles. If I made it back to Camrose, I’d need a complete refit and overhaul. In the meantime, four torpedoes were the best I could do with the material at hand, and in the time available. In contrast, assuming she’d rearmed after her attack on the Geest van Amsterdam, Fenrir would be carrying up to sixteen torpedoes—four of which would be tipped with antimatter.

I took note of a worrying fluctuation in one of my engines. In order to get here, I’d pushed them harder than they were supposed to be pushed. Although the chances of a catastrophic failure were relatively small, any hard manoeuvring would heighten the risk of damage and degrade performance.

Slowly, I began to dip in and out of the higher dimensions, moving like a small boat cresting a series of waves, each crest greater than the last. Finally, when my largest oscillation took me almost completely out of the universe, I fired the jump engines. Like a flick of a dolphin’s tail, they broke the surface tension between the realms and hurled me up and into the tearing squalls that lay beyond.

* * *

Contrary to what many humans believe, there are no monsters in the higher dimensions. At least, none I’ve ever seen. However, there are ghosts, of a sort. You can hear their voices in the roar of the stars; in the emission shells of long-dead civilisations; in the cries of ships in the far-flung reaches of the galactic swirl; in the chirps of closer craft; and, behind it all, in the ever-present fourteen-billion-year-old grumble of the Big Bang, which still echoes around the hyperspatial vaults, borne on the impossible breeze.