"Flight Wince 6, go for throttle-up," crackled ground control.

Elias climbed down the ladder, wincing once—just once, a clean, honest wince—as his titanium knee hit the last rung.

It flew farther than any jet he'd ever piloted.

His left knee twitched—a ghost spasm, a reflex born of three months of failed physical therapy. The sensor registered the flinch and dutifully trimmed the starboard aileron two degrees. The Peregrine wobbled.