"More," he said.
"Not beyond the envelope," the chief engineer answered in his ear, dry and exact. "We escalate with time, not trophies. Two-point-oh for forty-five. Breathe on my count."
He set his feet a fraction narrower on the driver bed, tail a small gyroscope inside the sealed cockpit. The hull's tone had gone from air-song to math; the blue outside was torn thin, black edging in like a verdict.
[SYSTEM: Mobile node—baseline 2.0g. Session: in-flight.]
"Begin," she said.
Ten seconds behaved. Fifteen asked for commentary; he declined. At twenty-eight the right knee tested the memory of its earlier bright idea and found nothing to stand on. Breath boxed on two, released after ten; ribs locked when told, not before.
"Thirty-five," her voice kept time. "Forty. Cut in five—no, hold. Vector trim."
The ship nosed a hair lower on his touch to the yoke, a line so thin it was more about respect than course. Thruster hiss adjusted; the collar at the hatch stayed all doctrine and no song.
"Forty-five," she said. "Cut."
He didn't move until the field eased back to one, because movement is a kind of concession and he was making none.
[SYSTEM: Mobile node—baseline 1.0g. Advisory—recovery window nominal.]
"Planned hard-cut," the engineer continued. "We just did it. Now we verify the re-engage in thin air."
"Bring it," he said.
"One-point-two," she said. "Up." The hum returned, patient. "One-point-five." The floor spoke in working vowels again. "Two-point-oh. Hold twenty."
He held. Outside the glass the blue thinned to a blade; condensation ghosts ripped away from the nose and forgot they had ever been water. Inside, his calves hummed obedience, his spine wrote clean geometry, his breath paid what was due and not a cent more.
"Good," she judged. "Pulse phase. Two-point-two for one second. Offset left. Ready… now."
The ship bit and withdrew, clean. No creak at the frame. The collar stayed rude in all the right ways. He slid half a foot right on the return, sharing the bias across joints that had learned this language on the ground.
"Again," she said. "Now."
He took it. Gave it back. Baseline held.
[SYSTEM: In-flight pulse stable. Suggestion—2.5g × 0.5s once, then ladder.]
"Two-point-five for a half," she said, already arming it. "Consent?"
"Yes."
"Three, two—now."
The overset bite kissed bone and left without taking anything it hadn't paid for. The hull did not sing; a bolt in the starboard rail considered lying and remembered religion.
"Logged," she said. "No second trophy. Ladder next: baseline one-point-eight for ten; pulse two-point-two; baseline; pulse again. Four reps."
"Do it," he said.
The ship learned to be a gym between stars. Ten seconds at one-point-eight inside the sealed cockpit tasted like a promise made on a bad day and kept on a worse one. Pulses arrived, were boxed, were filed in a library that was getting orderly.
The clerk's voice came through low-gain, deferential and undeniably pleased. "Your Highness—pad channel is closing; the engineer has us on ship-link. Command left a… 'courtesy window.' They say they 'respect your current testing regime' and 'invite an update when convenient.'"
"Convenient for them," Vegeta said, watching black eat the last of the blue. The horizon curved like something he intended to argue with later.
"Reply?" the clerk asked.
"Tell them my schedule is gravity," he said. "If they want on it, they can carry weight."
"Yes, Prince."
"Third rep," the engineer said, unimpressed by anyone else's calendar. "Ready—now."
He met the bite. Baseline accepted him back clean. The right knee stayed a citizen. The collar stayed a doctrine. The driver bed hummed like it had learned to hear itself.
[SYSTEM: External drag minimal. Autopilot available. Suggestion—engage for sustained set.]
He didn't like autopilots. He liked teaching machines which parts of him they could own. He considered the suggestion as one considers a knife: use or carry.
"Autopilot to course-hold only," he said. "No altitude discretion. If it improvises, I cut its throat."
"Course-hold engaged," the clerk reported, careful. "No improvisation allowed."
"Fourth rep," the engineer said. "Pulse—now."
The bite arrived and left. He had half a mind to ask for a second two-point-five on top of the ladder and had the discipline not to.
"End-cap," she said—because good minds converge. "Two-point-five for a half. Consent?"
"Yes."
"—Now."
He took it. He returned it. The baseline caught him like a promise he was in the habit of keeping.
"End-cap logged," she said. "Mobile v-one remains honest under climb."
Nappa's voice hopped in from Ground like a brawler leaning over a rope. "Ground room says good morning to your spine. We're keeping it rude on our end. Yard wants to name a wrench after you."
"They can name a rule," Vegeta said. "A wrench is a thing; a rule survives."
"Copy," Nappa said, charmed by violence that made sentences.
The engineer's tone shifted one half-degree toward logistics. "We're clear of meaningful air. We can test a cutoff flicker in vacuum—one-tenth of a second—just to prove the safeties don't invent stories when there's nothing to push against."
"Do it," he said.
"Armed," she said. "Three… two… flick."
For a breath so short it was only a word, weight vanished. The ship kept its line. He didn't move. The field returned. The bones accepted the truth without drama.
[SYSTEM: Vacuum safety verified. Mobile node recovery nominal.]
"Good," she said. "No more gifts today."
He stepped off exactly far enough to check where his boots ended and the bed began; then back on, because he was done being a man who rehearsed lightness.
The clerk breathed in that way men do when saying something they shouldn't have to. "Command's 'courtesy window' is… pinging. It repeats every minute until acknowledged."
"Mute it and log it," Vegeta said. "Course: dead sector—no traffic, no lords. Hold burn for fifteen. Then we decide whether to let the ship meet three-point-oh tomorrow or make it crawl first."
"Yes, Prince."
"Dead sector queued," the clerk reported. "Course-hold steady. No improvisation."
Outside, the last shred of blue gave up the argument. The ship rode a line that was nothing but the math they'd told it to obey. Inside, the hum under his boots had stopped being a stranger.
"One-point-eight baseline for sixty," the engineer said. "We don't chase numbers while the machine learns how to travel heavy. Cadence on two, out after ten."
He didn't argue. Argument is for things that can be persuaded. Gravity is for things that can be carried.
He held the minute. At thirty-eight, a minor ripple whispered near the bracket, and the engineer's "there" sent a tech's hand to the right bolt like a prophecy made of tools. The whisper became a fact that stayed in line.
"Sixty," she called. "Cut."
He stayed still a breath longer than the cut deserved, because motion confesses. Then:
"Again," he said.
"Baseline one-point-eight for thirty," she said. "Then we try one last pulse at two-point-two; call it the day before the day you want to live."
He held the thirty. The ship did its part, which is the only compliment machines deserve.
"Pulse armed," she said. "—Now."
Bite. Box. Return.
[SYSTEM: In-flight session quality high. Advisory—alternate to ground within 6–8 hours for adaptation gains.]
He granted the suggestion a future slot with a grunt that wasn't vocal.
"Training mode stays sealed," he said, eyes on the black ahead. The lock light inside the hull answered doctrine-red. "Autopilot keeps holding. If anything invents improvisation, we invent gravity."
"Understood," the clerk said, who was beginning to enjoy being a soldier in this particular language.
The engineer's voice softened by a micron. "You did enough for a first sky. We keep what we earned or we counterfeit it tomorrow."
"We keep it," Vegeta said. He bent his knees by an invisible amount, set his ribs, found the cadence without waiting to be told.
"Ladder," he ordered, because he'd decided which kind of knife the autopilot was.
"Baseline one-point-eight," she said. "Pulse to two-point-two; hold ten; back to one-point-eight; repeat."
He breathed. The ship obeyed. The window was black and no less honest for it.
Outside the hull, traffic control and Command could ping as politely as they wanted. Inside, only one doctrine held.
"Mark," the engineer said.
"Now," he answered.
The band listened.