You’re barreling along on p. 380 of an Adrian Tchaikovsky novel and you’re feeling it, really feeling it, swept along by the dense prose and the unspace and the intense flashbacks to what happened on Berenhof, when . . .
OLLI: “Son of a bitch, I knew it!”
And Solace sends the message.
NOOOO! Airlock her now, Olli!
Self can’t even.