Fairbairn’s breath caught—just briefly, she circled the ship at a respectable distance, eyes tracing the curves of the hull, the faint geometric patterns etched into its surface that appeared and vanished depending on the angle of the light. She had flown and repaired air and spacecraft her entire adult life. She knew aircraft and spacecraft the way some people know prayer. And this was unlike anything she had ever seen.
Fairbairn’s fingers twitched, itching to touch the hull, to feel the truth under her palm. She imagined the ship under thrust, imagined how it would move, how it would respond, how it would simply listen to its pilot rather than simply obey.
“She’s... elegant,” Fairbairn said quietly. The word supplied her as it left her mouth, but she didn't take it back. It was the highest praise she knew.