A quiet hiss chased through the underbelly of the ship. The FTL engines were locked until the pilot gave verbal confirmation that the jump could be made safely. Once they jumped systems, the Salvager 6 would be far out of range of MSC mission control and they would need to function autonomously. Contact was possible, but beyond that, Salvager 6 was at the mercy of Walters and Rosalyn.

Most pilots and crew members preferred the independence of deeper space, but not her. There was something comforting in knowing mission control could still pick them up if anything went unexpectedly wrong.

“You may engage FTL systems when ready, Salvager 6. Return in good health.”

It was the usual line, and it never failed to sound a bit hollow coming from an AI unit.

“Next stop . . .” Walters said, selecting the FTL engines on his monitor, “three days out from Proxima Centauri b.”

The ship shook again, this time more subtly. Rosalyn fancied she could feel the air charging with the energy it took to pull the craft through space with such unbelievable speed. This was the part she hated most. She might never conquer the feeling that humankind in outer space was unnatural, but outrunning light itself? If it was possible, then it obeyed the laws of nature, she conceded, but it still seemed like the result of terrible hubris.

She clamped down on the seat handles and held her breath—this was the truly gut-churning part, whatever Walters thought. A sensation of weightlessness came first, then full-body pressure, as if the atmosphere itself were trying to put a hand on your forehead and hold you back. When the FTL jump stopped, they would be rocked again, slammed back to normal speeds with an almost painful jarring.

The engines flared, and she could feel the sudden jolt as the FTL drive kicked in fully, rumbling power surging through the ship, making the soles of her feet buzz. Everything blurred, the stars, the outline of the windscreen; the instruments and everything surrounding her took on that same nauseating formlessness. The blur of her vision resolved into a single, huge spot of light in the distance. Rosalyn blinked through it, eyes nearly closed, her stomach and throat constricting as if they were in free fall.

It lasted longer than their quick shot away from the campus. She had been through this many times before, but never grew accustomed to it. It was more bearable on huge passenger ships, and the sheer size of those transports dispersed the shock of the phenomenon. The first time, in training, in a ship the same size as Salvager 6, she had vomited inside her helmet the instant they dropped out of FTL speeds.

Ever since, she forced herself to close in, to go numb and contained, squeezing every muscle in her body and gritting her teeth until impact came and the urge to vomit passed.