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       The flash of light was blinding. The blast from the laser cannon had just missed our Jetta starcruiser by millimeters.
       “Arm neutron torpedos!” I barked at Spud, my nickname for my co-star. Spud’s spindly fingers were frantically keyboarding over the controls of the Jetta’s weapons console.
         “Fire!” I ordered.
         A large explosion to my right threw me and my partner against the communications panel, painfully smashing my left elbow on the hard edge of the metal.
       Fueled by
adrenaline, I cried, “We’re surrounded! 360 torpedo dispersion!”
           “Aye, aye, Tara,” Spud responded in a terse British clip, his eyes glued to the blue screens of our vessel’s navigational computers. “Engaging.”
          As our spacecraft pitched forward, I reached over and slammed my fist into the weapons board, setting off a shower of fireworks just beyond my windscreen.
Moments later, a massive jolt shook our cruiser and it yawed violently side to side.
          We gripped our control panels and looked at each other in alarm.
         Spud nodded. “It is our only chance!”
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