Chương 38: 17.Skybound Overdrive 17-2

Hard to describe. If straight G-load is a hand pushing you into the chair, axis change is that hand halfway through deciding to shove a screaming compass into your inner ear. My stomach cramped. The image in front of me went skewed-up; the whole world felt like someone had a grip on one corner and had just given it a good hard snap. The only reason my brain didn't come out through my nose was Federal engineering.

"Four-point-eight," J. J. said lightly.

"Not high. Still within civilized range."

"Your definition of civilized…" I sucked in air.

"Is a bit off from normal society's…"

"Is it?"

"It is."

"Excellent. Means you still have judgment." I very much wanted to hit him. Unfortunately, I was currently very politely bolted to the chair, so all I could do was project pure hatred through the HUD. Second question dropped.

"Hostile's faster, higher, and has thicker guns," J. J. said.

"By the book, you're halfway dead. Now. Walk me through winning without dignity." The sim flipped. The debris became a band of scattered wreckage, and up-right came the slow arc of a supply ship track. The spin continued. Sweat gathered in my palms. My shoulders and inner ear were in the middle of an ugly domestic fight. I stared at the scene, caught a breath.

"First, let him think he's winning."

"He already is."

"Then make him more sure," I said, eyes on the supply ship's path.

"I press into the wreck belt. No angle grabs, no counter, just pure I want out." J. J. made an encouraging sound. The map in my head was getting sharper.

"If he's an aggressive pusher, he follows into the belt. He thinks I'm cornered."

"I don't fight him inside it," I went on.

"I use the wreckage to break lock for half a second, then slip under the supply ship's plume shadow, and from there—" I drew an ugly, bent line.

"—drag him into the auto-avoidance adjustment zone." J. J. made an interested noise.

"Oh?"

"When a big ship kicks collision-avoidance, local thrusters fire off-pattern and sensor returns go dirty for a bit," I said.

"If he's too fixated on the chase, his correction lags." I grabbed another breath, then twisted the knife.

"Half a beat of lag might not be enough for me to kill him. But it's enough for him to hit wreckage himself—or get tagged as a threat by the supply ship's defensive grid." This time J. J. didn't answer right away. Two seconds. Then, slowly:"Hoshino."

"What."

"Answers like that are deeply unlikable."

"Good," I said.

"I don't intend to be liked by the enemy." The laughter on the other end lost any remaining brakes. And while he was still laughing, the centrifuge kicked up another notch. This time I genuinely almost ejected my soul. Not an exaggeration. There was a very clear moment where my body was still strapped to the chair, but my consciousness had started packing its bags, preparing to politely exit through the back of my skull. Six-point-two. My chest felt like someone had bolted battleship armor to it.

Fingers going numb. Vision graying at the edges. Worst of all, my inner ear had absolutely no intention of acting like a mature organ—it was determined to transcribe the world is currently flipping into every nerve ending, using the most violent handwriting possible. I clenched my teeth. Bile rose in my throat. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. No. Not puking here. At least not the first time. … Fine, but if it happens, it's going to be dignified. J.

J.' s voice came in closer—he'd boosted the comm gain.

"Breathe, Hoshino. Don't try to out-muscle the Gs; you won't win. Short in, long out. Steal your air like you're picking pockets."

"You're making breathing sound… like a criminal technique…"

"Most techniques are basically the same at the core," he said.

"Point isn't looking good. Point is not getting caught." I genuinely wanted to laugh. Laughing right now would have been suicide. I did what he said, cutting my breathing short. Small inhale. Longer exhale. Don't brace the whole chest. Don't fight the force pushing me back—work around it. It helped. Only a little. But right now, a little was functionally divine intervention. J. J. must have heard my rhythm stabilize.

The teasing in his voice didn't disappear, but something else slipped in behind it—something I hadn't caught before. Not warmth. Focus.

"Good. Third question," he said.

"Last one. One hostile dead ahead, one at your right rear. Low fuel, primary weapons overheated, friendly capital ship firing on your left." The display flipped to the worst possible scenario. Frontal pressure. Rear pursuit. Side-gun arc expanding. And one route that technically wasn't a dead end.

"One choice keeps you alive," J. J. said.

"Tell me." I didn't answer immediately. Not because I couldn't see it. Because my brain and body were having a loud argument and neither was willing to yield. G-load still crushing down. The thing in my stomach getting less civilized by the second. The enemy brackets in my vision looked nailed to my retinas—bright enough to make me want to flip the table. I stared at the firing arc. A bad, ugly, completely functional answer surfaced on its own.

"…I don't dodge the one in front." J. J.'s voice went quiet.

"Continue." I forced it out, voice rough:"I charge at him. Not to hit—to force an early correction."

"The moment the front one corrects, the one behind will instinctively push the chase."

"Then I take this line—" I jabbed at the display, dragging the trajectory hard into the edge of the side-gun arc.

"—and skim the main battery's firing line."

"Too early, I die first."

"Too late, the rear one breaks off."

"So I hit the exact moment he thinks he's one more second from locking me." Complete silence on the comm. I was breathing hard, forehead soaked, even my eyelashes wet—but the route in my head was burning clear.

"I'm not trying to win," I said quietly.

"I'm trying to make the one behind me too greedy to stop."

"If he's greedy, he gives me that half-second himself." Ping. System chime. The centrifuge began to decelerate. Deceleration was infinitely worse than acceleration. If acceleration was someone pressing you into the chair, deceleration was that person finally letting go—and every organ in your body suddenly remembering it had freedom and deciding to relocate without asking permission. My vision blacked for a second. My throat clenched hard.

I came extremely close to surrendering my breakfast and what remained of my dignity.

"Bag's on your right," J. J. said, professionally cheerful.

"You don't have to be brave about it. I won't return you for puking."

"I'm… still… holding…"

"Barely." …Motherfucker. I closed my eyes and shoved the uprising back down by force. Shoulders shaking. Hands shaking. I felt like someone had pulled me out of an industrial washing machine and immediately made me sit a tactical exam. The hatch opened slowly. When the cold air hit, I experienced—for the first time in my life—genuine appreciation for the existence of air. Someone should write poetry about it. J. J. stood outside, hands in his pockets, looking down with that punchable, luminous grin.

"Congratulations, Hoshino Shimo," he said.

"Soul intact. Stomach intact. Better than I expected today." I sat there and spent two full seconds locating my ability to speak.

"Your definition of better than expected… is very individualistic…" J. J. laughed and reached in to unbuckle my harness.

"You know what your biggest problem is?" I peeled my eyelids open weakly.

"Right now? I could make a very long list."

"No." He leaned in slightly, eyes bright like he'd spotted something entertaining.

"You're not a pilot." I went quiet for a second. From anyone else, that would have sounded like a verdict. From J. J., it sounded like a setup. Sure enough:"You're the kind of bastard who uses the entire airspace as a trap." He was grinning.

"That's a pain in the ass. Also valuable." I looked at him. Half my brain was still in orbital decay, but the other half understood perfectly. This wasn't praise for my flying. It was recognition that I had no intention of fighting fair. I let two seconds pass, then answered honestly:"Sir, that assessment sounds like a lot of people are going to hate me." J. J. blinked once.

"Good," he said, patting the pod wall like giving a machine its last pep talk.

"The ones who actually make it back are usually not very popular." I levered myself upright slowly. The moment my feet hit the floor, the world still had orbital drift—like gravity and my inner ear were in a cold war. But I stayed standing. J. J. stepped back and looked me over, corner of his mouth climbing higher.

"Not bad," he said.

"No crying, no blackout, no full-coverage vomit. And you stole three decent answers." I frowned.

"Stole?"

"Yeah." He said it like it was obvious.

"You're not a straight-on fighter. You look for the seam, find momentum to borrow, figure out where you can con half a second. That's not textbook ace flying." He tilted his head, smile going sharp.

"That's turning a Type-0 into a criminal instrument." …Thanks. I never imagined receiving military training feedback this specific and this completely unsuitable for any official record. I gripped the hatch edge and caught my breath, then finally let out a quiet laugh.

"The Federal system really does know how to pick its instructors."

"Obviously." J. J. grinned.

"Otherwise how would I have made the list." He raised a hand and pointed at the multi-axis rig still humming behind him.

"Five-minute break."

"Then we find out whether you still remember how to throw someone into a gun barrel when you're feeling even worse." I looked up at him for two seconds. Then asked, very calmly:"Is it too late to request a transfer to trench-digging?" J. J. exploded laughing—bright, fast, the sound ricocheting around the bay like a high-velocity comet taking everyone's eardrums as souvenirs.

"Too late, little fish." He was still laughing.

"I've already seen you." I stood at the pod edge, legs still soft, stomach still negotiating terms, and something about those words sent a chill up my spine. Not because he was unhinged. I'd known that yesterday. Because I understood very clearly— What J. J. had seen wasn't just whether I could handle G-load, whether I'd puke, whether I could fly a Type-0. He'd seen something worse. He'd seen that when everything was turning upside down, my first instinct wasn't to survive cleanly.

It was to figure out how to drag someone else somewhere worse. And the worst part: He looked like he enjoyed that very much.