"Stop touching it," says Handler Mira. She doesn't look up from her data-slate. Her prosthetic arm whirs as she taps a calibration command. "The neuro-link hasn't stabilized. You sneeze in that cockpit, the IFF system flags you as hostile, and the point-defense lasers turn you into a fine red mist."

The world outside the cockpit narrows to a single strip of amber-lit runway. The catapult magnets whine, building a charge that makes Kaelen’s molars ache.

A klaxon sounds. Three short bursts. Deployment.

Let the hunt begin.