The colony ship Meridian had been drifting for six days when Commander Yael pressed the smooth obsidian chip against her palm. Her crew laughed at her for carrying it — a talisman her grandmother had given her before launch, carved from a meteorite that had survived a thousand years in open space.
"Superstition won't fix a broken drive," said Engineer Korvath, pulling himself along the corridor with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent years in low gravity.
Yael ignored him. She braced herself against the wall, the chip pressing into her fingers, and studied the damage. A microwave burst had struck the stern, enough to sunder the secondary engine housing clean from the hull. Half their propulsion was simply gone.
"We need to displace our trajectory by eleven degrees," she said, calculating quickly. "Use the emergency thrusters on the port side. It'll work."
"On what evidence?" Korvath crossed his arms.
Yael pulled up the navigation data, projecting it into the air between them. She walked him through every number, every variable, her finger tracing the new flight path along the hologram. A deep gash from the burst had torn through her thigh during the initial chaos, but she barely registered the pain. There was no room for it.
Korvath studied the projection in silence. Finally, he exhaled.
"All right," he said quietly. "My verdict — your math is sound. We try it your way."
Yael closed her fingers around the obsidian chip and pushed off toward the bridge.
Maybe it was mathematics. Maybe it was something older. Either way, the Meridian began to move.