“We should know pretty soon if he made it or not,” he said. It was almost a question, and he looked up from his disassembled firearm.

“Pretty soon,” she agreed.

She went back to doing her weapon maintenance. He took in a deep breath and sighed.

“You should get some rest,” she said without looking up from the improvised table in front of her. “If he doesn’t make it–“

“I don’t want to think about that,” he said tersely.

“If he doesn’t make it,” she repeated without acknowledging the interuption, “we’ll need to abandon this post PDQ.”

“You don’t think he’ll succeed,” he said. “You’ve already–“

“What I think doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s all up to him now. But we should be ready to evacuate if we need to, which is why you should go get some rest.”

He waited for her to say more, but she continued working in silence until he got up and walked to the crew quarters, his shoulders slumped. His mind was a dull exhausted lump of despair sparring with hope.

She was right, he thought. We should be ready to flee if we have to.

Mic check, mic check. Test, one two three. Check, check.