As Fortuna punches through the atmosphere, I realize a rough landing was an ambitious goal. Judging by the flashing emergency lights bathing the bridge neon green, it’s too late to hope for anything better than a graceful crash. As the whole ship rattles and shakes around me, I grip the control wheel with both hands, fighting to prevent a nosedive. The craft groans and whines with the effort, audible even through the panicky wail of the alarm. We’re still locked on the landing zone, as far as I can tell, but it’s up to me to ensure we don’t arrive as a flaming ball of bent steel and crushed limbs.

Not that there’s much to do at this point. I’ve pressed all the buttons, pulled all the levers, and activated all the fail-safes. I’ve sprayed my mouth-guard with compressed air, the chill hardening it enough to prevent my teeth from shattering on impact. Now, I do the last things left to do: hold on tight and watch the surface of Gaia come closer, and closer, and closer.

The ship slows by the time she hits, but not enough for the crash to be anywhere close to graceful. I slam back against my seat as Fortuna bumps and skids and slides across the planet’s surface, metal screeching and scraping against rock. The vessel collides with something big, spins sideways, and grinds to a stop. The world leans left.

My chest strains against the safety straps. My knuckles are white around the wheel. I stay still, wrestling with my churning stomach. By the time I’ve subdued the urge to vomit, the alarms have quieted, and the lights have faded to a dim yellow. Nothing in the bridge is emitting flames or sparks or any other signs of impending danger. And, given the fact we haven’t been blown to pieces by Gaian air control, it seems we made it into the landing zone. A sliver of the sandy stretch of ground is visible through the viewing panel, along with one rusty old ship that must have been abandoned here when the borders closed. That’s probably what we hit earlier.

One hand peels off the wheel, then the second. I rub my mouth-guard until the warmth softens it into rubbery goo again and spit it into my palm. With my heart still thumping in my chest, I let out a breathless laugh.

The ship’s banged up and the cockpit reeks of alcohol, but we’re still in one piece. As far as I’m concerned, that makes this a great success. The world is spinning, my systems are fried, and Momma’s surely going to chew me out for this, but we survived. I grin as I pocket the mouth-guard, unclip myself from the safety belts, and let my forehead fall to rest on the wheel.

“You did it, baby,” I say, rubbing the control panel. “You got us here.”