Hovering next to the NavMap console, the image of a sixty-foot long truck rotated to face her and then to profile―an animation it had been doing for the past fifteen minutes. Text nearby gave details about the maximum load capacity, turning radius, armor thickness, and top speed of the vehicle. The only stat Kirsten cared about was the transponder value. “Damn nice of Sam to hack into Intera’s system and find the transponder code for you.” Kirsten felt an upwelling of indignant rage as she glanced at Dorian, but also sensed its abnormality. Rather than blurt at him, she settled for a giant moth in her gut. “Yeah.” “You’re sweating. You never worried this much about armor before.” “It’s not the armor.” She banked the patrol craft into a rightward descending turn. “It’s the stress. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me or how much more I can take this case. You’d think after what Mother did to me, a little stress wouldn’t change my personality so much.
