The zero-G field finally collapsed, dropping a stray aluminum spoon onto the ruined polymer floor with a sharp clatter.
Inside the hijacked lounge, the Faction went to work without a single complaint or panicked shout. Bram was already on his hands and knees, sweeping up chunks of pulverized synthetic concrete and shoving them beneath the sofa to hide the evidence from the next security patrol. Helen was carefully plucking her dried thyme off the light fixtures, muttering dark, highly specific promises about what she was going to do to Bram's next nutrient ration if he ever brought a Corpo siege engine into her kitchen again.
"I'm telling you, it was a calibration error," Bram argued from under the sofa, his voice muffled by the cushions. "The math is still structurally sound."
"Your math is going to get us liquidated, Bram," Helen shot back, flicking a piece of polymer dust off her cutting board.
