"Alright, system all clear. Grav path shows no anomalies. Ersex V77-B01—four thousand light-years. ETA: T-minus ten seconds. Here we go."
The space around me stretches. Stars blur into glowing threads as light bends beneath the clash of Alcubierre and Quanta drive gravities. My viewport shortens the perceived distance between my current position and the target—exactly as intended.
I checked system status one last time. Power levels: 4.5 trillion joules. Inefficient—because this tech is backwater. Still, the reactor's tuned to handle it. No issue there.
With space warped and the Quanta drive engaged, I'm fully within bubble space. The only thing left: thrust toward the destination.
A panel flashes over the viewport. Time feels like it slows as I exit bubble space.
Too late.
Five—no, ten—fighter ships surround the Grav point. Radar locks ping—multiple weapons targeting my reactor. Red lights scream across the cockpit.
Then a hail comes through.
I choke on my own spit and curse Caesar to hell.
The bastard betrayed me.
Of course—he did leave that cryptic message before cutting the comms. He sold me out. Bought and paid for.
But did he really think he'd be left alone? If he's not dead yet, he's probably being peeled open by corporate security.
Lucky for me—yeah, can't believe I'm saying that—these aren't corp enforcers. They're government military. That means rules of engagement. I've got no weapons installed.
Sweat beads on my brow as I expand the comm window. A helmeted figure stares back through a dark visor.
[George Heimdall. You are under arrest. You are to remain at your vessel and await for boarding.]
I try anyway. "Under arrest? What for?"
But they were ready for that.
[You are charged with smuggling, human trafficking, xeno trafficking, distribution of illegal substances, and grave trespass under the New London Treaty.]
Ah, fuck.
My hand drops in defeat. My brain goes blank.
With a rap sheet like that, they'll send me to some toxic mining hellhole. Little oxygen, faulty suits, radioactive dust in your lungs. Life expectancy in those places? Maybe six months—if you're lucky.
Shit, a death sentence might've been kinder.
And people say Geneva was cruel.
I watch boarding pods detach from one of the fighters. Headed for me. My only options?
Open the pod and surrender. Let them take me and slag the ship.
Or...
I mute the comms and speak quietly.
"System. Reactor output?"
[3,886, 924 Joules]
"Alright. Ready Alcubierre. We're leaving."
I grip the handles and disengage safety protocols, manually overriding the government's lockout.
[Warning: System Override not recommended. Return to—]
"Oh, shut up."
I test the engines. Still responsive. A bit scorched from the last jump, but running.
"Right. Track a destination. Ah, screw it. Skip protocol—just send me anywhere but here."
[Warning: Destination unknown. Jumping may lead to critical failure.]
"Fuck that. Manual Override. Delta Delta Niner Alpha."
[Manual Override: DD - 9A Confirmed.]
Here we go again.
Space stretches once more—but this time, it's different.
The warp isn't smooth. The expected spider-like tension of space distorts into chaos. Gravitational pulls compete. The Quanta drive can't stabilize—it's releasing radiation in every direction, confused, overcorrecting.
Fighters attempt to intercept, targeting my reactor again.
But the Alcubierre field—despite everything—acts like a natural shield, bending space around me, shrugging off their shots like pebbles on a pond.
And then, I veered off—
elsewhere.