"Mark," the engineer said."Now," he answered.
The band listened. One-point-eight held like a good habit. Two-point-two snapped and left like a professional. Baseline accepted him back without sulk.
[SYSTEM: In-flight ladder—rep 1/4.]
Autopilot kept the nose on the white line he'd allowed it, no more. The black outside the glass ate remaining blue in small, satisfied bites. Inside the sealed cockpit, the driver bed's hum felt like a road under thick tires at night: steady because someone competent kept it that way.
"Rep two," the chief engineer said. "Pulse—now."
He boxed ribs on the rise, saved breath for after, let the cut find clean edges, returned to one-point-eight with joints aligned and tail a quiet gyroscope. The collar at the hatch stayed doctrine-red and uninterested in conversation.
A tiny yaw twitch kissed the ship—course-hold's correction, too neat by half. The engineer's voice stayed level. "Side-load incoming—trim left thruster two percent."
Vegeta gave the yoke what it needed: a breath of pressure, not a lecture. The twitch dissolved. He didn't move off the bed.
"Good," she said. "You keep baseline through that. We don't reward machines for small talk."
[SYSTEM: Advisory—micro side-load within tolerance. Baseline stable.]
"Rep three," she said. "Pulse—now."
He met it. He returned. At baseline he slid half a foot left to share bias, then centered again, letting the ship learn he would not negotiate with habit.
The clerk's voice rode the link unobtrusively. "Course-hold steady. Dead sector ahead in seven minutes. No traffic plotted."
"Good," Vegeta said. "We'll give it something to plot."
"Rep four," the engineer said. "Pulse—now."
The bite came and left. The right knee didn't even clear its throat.
[SYSTEM: In-flight ladder complete.]
"Extending," she said. "Two-point-oh baseline for forty-five. If anything sings, I cut; you don't argue."
"Bring it."
[SYSTEM: Mobile node—baseline 2.0g.]
The weight stepped up and brought its chair. He sat without sitting: knees honest, hips set, ribs boxed on the two-beat, exhale after ten. The hull's tone stayed a solved equation. At twenty, a cable somewhere tested its religion and remembered it. At thirty-two, autopilot offered a polite pitch nibble; he denied it with a touch, as one corrects a dog that wants to herd its own shadow.
"Thirty-five," she counted. "Forty. Cut at forty-five."
He didn't blink. The bed hummed friendly, like steel learning to be trustworthy at speed. The collar stayed rude.
"Forty-five," she said. "Cut."
Weight eased to one-point-two, not charity, accounting. He didn't give the field the satisfaction of catching him off-balance.
"Paired end-cap," she continued. "Two-point-five for half a second; ten seconds at two-point-oh; then a second two-point-five. Consent?"
"Yes."
"First pulse armed," she said. "—Now."
The ship bit; he met it; cut clean; baseline at two returned like an answer. Ten seconds arranged themselves into a stack he carried. Her hand hovered over the switch.
"Second pulse," she said. "—Now."
Another clean stamp. The ship had learned to hold its bones.
[SYSTEM: In-flight pair stable.]
"Good," she said. "We stop chasing trophies. Back to one-point-eight for thirty, then we verify one flicker under lateral thrust."
"Do it."
The weight softened a fraction. He let the relief be physical without being mental.
"Clerk," he said. "Pick a heading five degrees off the line. Give autopilot a reason to be careful."
"Five degrees right," the clerk confirmed, fingers careful on a panel. "Course-hold adjusting… now."
The ship rolled a whisper, then corrected. Nothing in the deck sulked. The bed stayed a rule, not a favor.
"Flicker armed," the engineer said. "One-tenth second cut, then back to one-point-eight. Three… two… flick."
Weight vanished, returned, wrote nothing sharp into his joints. The ship kept its line as ordered.
[SYSTEM: Vacuum flicker under side-load—verified.]
"Good," she said. "That's your safety. We don't use it to be dramatic."
A soft ping ticked the cockpit. Not the polite metronome of Command. A different animal—radar whisper, object ahead small and fast.
The clerk read the screen like a conscience. "Debris—tiny, ahead, starboard. Vector suggests a paint-scrape if we do nothing."
"Let it miss us because we told it to," Vegeta said. "Thruster—half-percent starboard down, two seconds."
He kept both feet on the driver bed. The ship slid a breath. The ping slid the other way and stopped being a future. No song from the hatch. No sulk from the bed.
"You stayed on baseline through that," the engineer said, not impressed, pleased. "Good."
[SYSTEM: Avoidance complete. Baseline stable.]
"Again," he said, meaning the work.
"Baseline two-point-oh for thirty," she said. "Then we're done pretending this is hard."
He took the thirty. The ship kept one hand on math and another on obedience. Nappa's voice jumped in from dirt with grease still on it. "Ground room sends a complaint: nobody's bleeding, and the bolts are bored."
"Tell the bolts to write a book," Vegeta said. "We'll read it if it becomes steel."
The clerk coughed a laugh into his elbow and sounded like a man who had learned not to die of respect.
"Thirty," the engineer said. "Cut."
He stayed still a heartbeat longer than the cut deserved; the heartbeat learned its lesson.
The sensor pinged again—different this time. Not debris. A long, thin, patient touch from far out—transponder on a diet.
The clerk's voice narrowed. "Contact. Low-power transponder, drifting or pretending to. Range… distant. Bearing continues through the dead sector, no scheduled traffic filed."
"Civilian?" the engineer asked, not taking her eyes off his numbers.
"Code's shy," the clerk said. "It answers, but it doesn't speak up."
Vegeta did not step off the bed. He did not break the seal on training mode. He looked at the black where far things kept their names.
"Hold baseline at one-point-eight," he said. "Course-hold—do not close. Keep it in a clean corner of the screen. If it decides to be loud, it'll earn a conversation."
"Yes, Prince."
[SYSTEM: Session continues—baseline 1.8g. External contact tracked (low-power).]
"Pulse two-point-two," the engineer said calmly. "Because we do not let strangers write our cadence."
"Now," he said.
The bite arrived, left. The baseline held. The contact crept one pixel across a field of nothing.
"Again," the engineer said.
He met that, too.
Outside, the dead sector remembered why it was named—empty by habit, not law. Inside, the bed hummed like a rule.
The clerk found a voice he trusted. "It's just there," he said softly. "Like someone set it where boredom lives."
"Everything in space is either a lie or pressure," Vegeta said. "We answer both the same way."
He rolled his shoulders under the weight. The ship listened. The contact remained polite at a distance.
"Next," he said.