When she started to run—her steps echoing on the Victrix’s stripped plasteel floors, the ruddy glow of the emergency lighting flashing past her feet—there was a second when her body told her this is what you get for slacking: a catch in her breath, a twinge in her knee. Then the long years of a Gaean upbringing kicked in. So it hurt. So what? Twelve minutes. Kyr knew she could go faster, so she did.
