His vents glow and his engines spool. His wings work themselves clear of their housings, unfold themselves as far as they can without catching the wind. They flex, feathers and spines rolling around in their joints, twitching and stretching, feeling for anything that might snag when he throws them out against the wind.

The machine keeps its feet locked in place, but lets its hands hang free, and touches its beaklike head to the streamers of dust floating past. The shell drops an automated warning across the net, and a jumble of simulations. Holographic engine-wash spills across my vision, touches our skin.

Fire’s coming. Make sure you don’t get burnt.

“All clear?” asks Salt.

The Juno and I change our grip, pull ourselves as close to the Stone’s pitted hull as we can go. We’ll catch some of the heat, but not enough to hurt us.

“Clear,” I send.

“Clear,” says Hail.

“See you outside.”

Salt kicks away and piles on the thrust. The pale shell burns so hard it rattles the Stone down to its skeleton, and tears away in a blur of steel and light. I look up in time to see it slam into the wind, spinning out as its wings lock forward and its engines bite. It curves away on the currents, out of sight and suddenly silent. For a second, I can’t hear his nets or feel his heat. The Eye is too bright.

Another second passes, and my heart counts it off in fractions.

A blue star rises into view, trailing plasma. It fixes itself against the sky, flickers and spits to match the churning froth. “Holding steady,” says Salt, somewhere behind it all.

Hail is up next, but she’s done this all before. The Spirit casts off with hands and feet, tucks them back just as she hits, hunched up like a teardrop. The currents send her into a spin, but she kicks out a leg and catches the wind on a wingtip, steadies out faster than the turbulence can haul her back. A few bursts of thrust and she’s hovering alongside, fins twitching as they correct.

“Your turn,” she whispers. “Deep breaths.”

We change our grip, hold ourselves up on toes and fingertips. We’re smaller than the heavy NorCol shells, but we need to work twice as hard to burn as bright. We’re going to have to fight for altitude, but we’ve got a little more space to stretch. Maybe half—no, a third of a second longer to get ourselves up to speed.

We shift a little closer the edge and tuck our wings in tight, just like Hail did. Our reactor swells, beats deep inside our chest.

We jump, and the shear finds us immediately. Pressure shock runs through every part of our body, matching the roar of our engines and the creak of armour under load.