Her neurochip recognises the words, both flashing up the info on her display and automatically sending it to Blackbird’s. “Quadrant thirty-one,” she says anyway, speaking through gritted teeth.

“Roger,” says Blackbird. “I got ’em. Just sit tight. I’ll handle it for y—. Shit, I’m hit! I—”

“Eric!” Rainmaker shouts Blackbird’s real name, her voice so loud it distorts the channel. But he’s already gone. An impactor streaks past her, close enough for her to see the launch burns on its surface.

“Control, Rainmaker,” she says. “Confirm Blackbird’s position, I’ve lost contact!”

Control doesn’t reply. Why would they? They’re fighting a thousand fires at once, advising hundreds of Scorpion fighters. Forget the callsigns that command makes them use: Blackbird is a number to them, and so is she, and unless she does something right now, she’s going to join him.

She twists her ship, forcing the two chasing Colony fighters to face her head-on. They’re a bigger threat than the lone one ahead. Now, they’re coming in from her eleven and one o’clock, curving towards her, already opening fire. She guns the ship, aiming for the tiny space in the middle, racing to make the gap before their impactors close her out.

“Thread the needle,” she whispers. “Come on, thread the needle, thr—”

Everything freezes.

The battle falls silent.

And a blinking-red error box appears above one of the missiles.

“Oh. Um.” Hannah Elliott’s voice cuts through the silence. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. One second.”

The box goes away—only to reappear a split second later, like a fly buzzing back to the place it was swatted. This time, the simulation gives a muted ding, as if annoyed that Hannah can’t grasp the point.

She rips the slim goggles from her head. She’s not used to them—she forgot to put her lens in after she woke up, which meant she had to rely on the VR room’s antiquated backup system. A strand of her long red hair catches on the strap, and she has to yank it loose, looking down at the ancient console in front of her.

“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” she says again. “Won’t be a minute.”

Her worried face is reflected on the dark screen, her freckles making her look even younger than she is. She uses her finger this time, stabbing at the box’s confirm button on the small access terminal on the desk. It comes back with a friend, a second, identical error box superimposed over the first. Beyond it, an impactor sits frozen in Rainmaker’s viewport.

“Sorry.” Stop saying sorry. She tries again, still failing to bring up the main menu. “It’s my first day.”