Chapter 66: Son of the Flesh Gospel, or: Are You My Father?
There it was—descending from the heavens like a modest god's rental car.
The first proper spaceship I'd seen in this galaxy—no tentacles, no biogrowths, no pulsating nerve-tissue hull. Just cold, hard, artificial steel. The thing looked like a white triangle mated with a torpedo, roughly twenty-five meters long, with two red-glowing thrusters beneath its belly for delicate landings, and five more strapped across the rear like an afterburner bouquet.
The central thruster glowed a sickly violet, like someone had shoved a pocket dimension inside and dared it to misbehave. FTL drive, probably. I'd grill the pilot later if they didn't vaporize into dust at the sight of Crystal.
As it closed the last twenty meters between sky and soil, the ship's landing gear emerged—three mechanical legs unfolding with a slick, pneumatic grace. They kissed the ground and released the most erotically satisfying hiss I had ever heard.
