The ship rocked on the upwelling plasma, creaking like a wooden galleon. At one point, it let forth such a titanic moan that Laura and I froze, fearing the hull was on the verge of implosion. When nothing further happened, we exchanged uneasy smiles.

“Come on,” I said. “We’ve got a few minutes. Let me get you down to the infirmary.”

She rubbed the cast protecting her bullet-injured thigh. The wound was obviously troubling her.

“No, thank you,” she said. Spidery, bruise-like blotches speckled her cheeks where capillaries had burst beneath the skin, and her left eyeball had turned a livid red, the blood vessels having ruptured due to the pressure of our recent manoeuvring.

“We should let the ship take a look at your leg.”

“No. This is the safest place on the ship, right now. I think I’ll stay here.”

“Are you sure? There’s much better equipment down in the infirmary.”

“Yes.” She tapped her fingertips against the arm of her couch. “The ship can give me all the painkillers I need, right here. No need to traipse all the way down there.”

“Suit yourself.” I shrugged. The likelihood was that we were both going to die in the next few minutes, anyway. I turned instead to the Trouble Dog’s avatar. “How are we doing?” I asked it.

“Holding steady,” the ship replied.

“How long can we remain here?”

“An hour at the most.” Her face took on the expression it used when explaining something technical. “At the moment, the hull can just about tolerate the temperature of the surrounding material, but there’s no way to vent waste heat from any of our systems. In fifty-seven minutes, we will have to emerge in order to deploy the thermo-dump panels.”

“And the Fenrir knows this?”

“She will be able to extrapolate the timeframe based on her own capabilities, and an assessment of the damage I’ve already sustained.”

“So, she could just wait in a low orbit, and ambush us when we come out?”

“That would be her best strategy, yes.”

I rubbed my forehead in exasperation. “Then how is being in here helping us at all? You’ve hidden us in a burning building.”

The Trouble Dog remained unruffled. “I told you,” she said, “we are going to kill her.”

“How?”

“By getting her to deploy her secret weapon.”

Across the room, Laura stiffened. “You can’t be serious,” she said.

The Trouble Dog turned its gaze on her. “Torpedoes are useless in this medium. If I rise from the plasma and the Fenrir targets me, all I have to do is sink beneath the surface and move position. The plasma will disrupt the torpedoes’ sensors, and they will be unable to track me through the photosphere. The Fenrir will then have no choice but to employ her primary weapon: the one she used to down the Hobo and disable the defences on the Geest van Amsterdam.”

“Then what happens?”