[Notice to all M-5 Elementary School students. Please gather on the observation deck.]
A soft ping chimed at the edge of Lazarus' vision the moment she woke. A notice board unfolded before her eyes, crisp and unavoidable.
She didn't need to read it twice.
So we're here already.
The interstellar gate.
By the time Lazarus reached the observation deck, the chatter of students had dropped into a hushed murmur. Beyond the transparent wall stretched a structure so vast it made the cruise ship feel like a child's toy drifting through space.
That was the gate.
It dominated her vision—an immense, rectangular frame suspended in the void, easily dwarfing the vessel carrying them. Lazarus had seen pictures and videos before, streamed through classroom terminals and idle browsing sessions, but none of them had prepared her for the real thing.
Up close, the gate felt less like a machine and more like a prison built for stars.
It spanned nearly three kilometers in length and a full kilometer across, its angular silhouette stark against the distant pinpricks of light. Beneath it stretched a colossal platform—the birthplace of the quantum tunnel, where the Einstein Bridge would emerge.
Invisible gravimetric fields formed an unseen scaffold above the platform, ready to seize the ship and hold it in place, suspending it in space like an offering awaiting judgment.
Thick beams of reinforced titanium alloy framed the structure, crisscrossed with maintenance rails and venting systems. Now and then, faint clouds of vapor hissed outward, instantly dispersing into nothingness. From afar, it looked like a doorway to nowhere at all.
Then the transfer field flickered to life.
Light rippled across the empty frame, shimmering like glass disturbed by unseen fingers. The stars behind it warped and bent, stretched thin and folded back on themselves. Despite its sheer size, the gate radiated a strange, oppressive stillness—as if the universe itself paused whenever something dared to pass through.
Once all the students had gathered, lined neatly in their uniforms, their teacher cleared his throat.
"Students," he said, his voice steady but edged with awe, "some of you may have already guessed. That structure ahead of us is the interstellar gate."
He raised his hand and pointed toward the vast frame beyond the glass.
"Mistral, please share the interstellar gate diagram."
A familiar ping answered. The AI's response overlaid reality itself—labels and wireframe schematics blooming across Lazarus' vision. The platform, the wormhole generator, the signal probes—each component snapped neatly into place atop the impossible structure outside.
Lazarus barely heard the rest of the explanation.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the gate, on the shimmering distortion at its heart.
She wasn't sure why, but a quiet unease settled in her chest.
As if once they crossed, there would be no turning back.
"Teacher," Shingo said, raising his hand, "I want to ask about the safety of the gate. Traveling through hyperspace is like entering another dimension, right? How can you be sure we'll arrive at the correct destination—and not somewhere else entirely?"
A few students shifted uneasily at that.
The teacher smiled, clearly expecting the question.
"There's no danger," he said calmly. "An interstellar gate doesn't open a full passage immediately. Before anything large can pass through, it creates an extremely narrow tunnel—think of it as a straw. Only five meters wide."
He gestured toward the gate as he spoke.
"Through that narrow channel, the gate sends a signal probe to the destination coordinates—x, y, z, and t. We call this the signal handshake."
A translucent diagram bloomed into view beside him, showing a thin thread of light extending from the gate into darkness.
"The gate will not widen the tunnel enough for a ship until the destination confirms the coordinates from the other side. The same protocol applies to smaller gates as well. Anything larger than one centimeter is prohibited from passing through until the connection is verified."
He paused, letting the numbers sink in.
"If the link isn't perfectly stable, the gate simply refuses to open further. It's a hard safety lock—designed to prevent catastrophic misjumps."
Shingo frowned slightly. "So… it never ignores that rule?"
"Almost never," the teacher replied. "The only exception is when we send an unmanned probe."
"An unmanned probe?" another student echoed.
"Yes. On rare occasions, research facilities deploy probes into uncharted hyperspace." He waved the question aside with a small chuckle. "But that's a lesson for another day."
His expression sharpened. "The gate is about to activate. Please pay close attention to the activation sequence."
He pointed toward one of the massive pillars encircling their starcruiser. The gate responded.
Its frame shimmered, then a sharp crackle tore through the silence as arcs of pale, cosmic lightning danced along its edges. Light surged through the structure—not blinding, but unmistakably alive. Space itself seemed to ripple, bending inward as if pulled by invisible hands.
Lazarus spotted it first: a faint distortion, barely visible, twisting the stars behind it.
At the center of the gate, the signal probe ignited—a thin lance of light piercing the void, racing toward coordinates four light-years away.
Toward Alpha Centauri.
It felt impossibly delicate. Like threading a needle across the universe.
Then a red light swept across the observation deck, bathing the walls—and every face—in a harsh crimson glow. A shrill alarm screamed to life, sharp and repetitive, slicing through the students' low chatter like a blade.
Mistral's voice followed instantly, calm but edged with urgency.
[Attention to all passengers. An emergency has been declared by the captain. Please evacuate to the lifepods until further notice.]
For a heartbeat, the observation deck fell silent.
Then confused whispers rippled through the crowd. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else cursed under their breath. As the words sank in, dread seeped into the air, heavy and suffocating.
The teacher froze, his gaze locked straight ahead—no doubt reading a private notice sent only to him.
"Students," he said at last, his voice tight, "there appears to have been an emergency. Please remain calm and follow me to the lifepod hangar."
Gasps erupted around them.
Lazarus felt her chest constrict. Beyond the glass, the gate still shimmered, its distorted light pulsing steadily—but the wonder it once inspired was gone. Red alert lights flickered across the transparent walls, twisting the gate's glow into something ominous and wrong.
"What's happening?" Lexus blurted. His voice trembled as he turned in frantic circles. "This can't be real! A starcruiser couldn't possibly have an accident!"
"Good." Laurel didn't hesitate. "We stick together. Head for the hangar—now."
Lazarus, Shingo, and Anna nodded, instinctively falling in around her. Laurel moved first, and the others followed.
They passed a stewardess ushering passengers forward with sharp gestures. Beyond the hangar doors, crew members stood in position, already directing the flow of evacuees. Their voices were clear, practiced—but their eyes flicked constantly, tension barely contained beneath their professionalism.
This wasn't a drill.
"Lifepods one through ten are assigned to M-5 Elementary School," a crew officer announced, his voice amplified over the rising noise. "All other passengers, follow me. You may close your lifepod doors, but do not engage manual release until instructed."
Teachers shouted over the din.
"Students! Line up! Lifepod four—Laurel's group! Lifepod five—Jenny's group! Lifepod six is for—"
The orderly trip had vanished. In its place was motion, noise, and fear—barely held back by discipline.
The hangar buzzed with overlapping voices and the constant hiss of pressurized systems as lifepods primed for launch. Harsh white lights flickered overhead, replacing the red emergency glow. The curved metallic walls gleamed, stretching shadows long and warped as passengers—and children—were hurried toward their assigned pods.
The lifepod waiting for Laurel's group was a compact metallic hemisphere, barely four meters in diameter. Its hull was seamless, broken only by circular airlocks at the top and bottom. The upper hatch swung inward, and the children scrambled inside.
The interior was tight but orderly. Padded seats lined the curved walls in a ring, enough for ten passengers, facing a small central control panel. Laurel's group—seven children—settled into place, pale-faced but obedient. Each seat was fitted with a harness, and on the right armrest sat a red button.
The manual eject control.
"Stay here," the teacher said quickly. "I'll be with the other group. Do not engage the manual release until you're ordered to."
"Oi! What happened?!" Lexus shouted, his voice cracking as he lurched forward. "My dad says this starcruiser is brand new! There's no way it can have an accident!"
The teacher leaned in close, lowering his voice. The tension in his eyes said more than his words ever could. "Some separatist group—or terrorists—attacked the ship. That's what I heard from the crew," he said. "Just stay here. All right?"
Before anyone could respond, he reached for the hatch handle and pushed.
The door groaned. A sharp hiss filled the pod as pressure seals engaged, followed by the heavy clunk of locking bolts retracting. With a final twist, the hatch swung inward, and the children went into their seats.
"You'll be safe inside," the teacher said through the intercom, forcing a reassuring smile as he sealed the hatch from the outside.
The door closed with a solid, final thud.
A deep groan echoed through the pod as unseen gears engaged beyond the hull. The lifepod jolted, then slowly descended as its cradle released, lowering it into the launch bay beneath the deck. Overhead, a reinforced sliding door rumbled shut, cutting them off from the hangar—and the rest of the ship.
Silence fell.
The alarms were gone. The flashing lights vanished. Beyond the small viewport, there was only black space.
The lifepod had reached its launch position.
Now, all that remained was to wait—for the captain's command…
Or for someone inside to push the manual release button.
"Don't worry," Shingo said, forcing a smile as he settled into his seat. "We're inside a lifepod now. The accident thirty years ago only happened because the pod couldn't be locked manually—and the procedures were too complicated. This is a new-generation model. The design is intuitive. We're ready to launch at any time."
As he spoke, he tagged his seat with his smartbox, the system chimed softly in confirmation. His voice was steady—reassuring in a way that made the others breathe a little easier.
Shingo leaned forward and activated the control panel. With a flick of his fingers, the interface came alive. A holographic diagram of the lifepod bloomed into view, layers of structure and system readouts hovering in the air. He scanned the status indicators, fascination momentarily overtaking fear.
"All systems look normal," he said.
"Yes," Laurel agreed, nodding. "This is different from what happened thirty years ago." She raised her chin slightly. "Mistral, are all passengers safe?"
[Evacuation at ninety percent complete. Only crew members on the bridge and engine rooms remain.]
"They didn't evacuate?" Lazarus blurted out, her voice rising. "Why? Shouldn't they be the first to get out?"
"Good grief!" Lexus scoffed, some of his bravado returning. "What do those bandits even want? Just take the money and leave already. Where's the army when you need them?"
"They're not bandits," Laurel said quietly. "They're terrorists."
That wiped the grin off Lexus' face.
"That's worse," Shingo said, nodding grimly.
"Bandits want ransom. Terrorists…" He hesitated. "We don't know what they want. Their goal might be to kill us. We couldn't negotiate with them."
"Don't worry," Laurel said, though the words sounded more like a hope than a promise. "The USF Space Navy will arrive soon."
She clasped her hands together, silently praying.
The lifepod shuddered.
A thunderous boom tore through the hull of the ship, reverberating like a hammer strike. The pod lurched violently.
Shingo yelped as his head slammed into the curved metal wall. Laurel, Bob, and Lazarus clutched their armrests as weight vanished from their bodies, their stomachs rising as they floated. Anna was thrown from her seat, hitting the floor hard, while Lexus was crushed back into his harness with a breathless grunt.
"Everyone—hold on!" Laurel shouted.
Amid the chaos—amid the screams, the shaking, the scrambling hands—
A palm slammed down on the manual launch control.
Because of the accident thirty years ago, the lifepod launch mechanism had been redesigned to be simpler.
Too simple.
Engineers had removed most safeguards, convinced that even an accidental launch wouldn't be serious. A stranded lifepod could always be retrieved—an hour of inconvenience at most. No one bothered adding even a protective cap to the launch control.
No one had imagined an accident inside the gate.
A brief burst from the lifepod's small thruster was all it took for it to detach from the starcruiser.
With a dull jolt, Lifepod Four detached from the starcruiser. The artificial gravity holding them down weakened, then began to fade entirely.
"Look—we're drifting!" Laurel said sharply. "Everyone, fasten your seatbelts!"
Shingo, Lexus, and Anna pushed off instinctively, swimming through the air toward their seats. Fingers fumbled for harnesses as they pulled themselves in and locked the belts tight.
Outside the side viewport, the massive starcruiser slid away, its hull slowly rotating. Pinpricks of light flared along its surface—brief, violent flashes from ion thrusters firing in emergency bursts.
Lexus pressed his face to the glass and pointed. "Whoa… those were missiles, right? I've seen that in Space Ace."
Shingo swallowed. "So it really was an attack. Just like the accident thirty years ago."
"At least we're in a lifepod now," Laurel said. Her voice was calm—but her hands trembled against the armrest. "We'll survive. We have to."
As Lifepod Four drifted farther from the ship, Lazarus' unease deepened. "Wait… why is our lifepod the only one detaching?"
The question lingered in the cramped cabin. No one answered. Only the soft hiss of internal systems filled the silence, accompanied by the distant, endless hum of space.
Then the stars outside bent.
A wash of bluish light surged across the void, rippling like liquid glass. The darkness twisted, folding inward.
"Wait—!" Shingo shot upright, panic cracking through his voice. "That's the wormhole! The Einstein Bridge! Lifepods aren't supposed to go through that!"
The pod lurched violently.
Blue light flooded the windows, painting the interior in an eerie glow. The shimmering distortion stretched, pulling at the lifepod like a current.
And then—Lifepod Four was swallowed whole.
"Mistral!" Laurel shouted, turning toward the control panel. "What happened? Why are we inside a hyperspace tunnel?"
No response.
"Mistral?" Laurel called again, her voice tighter now. She tapped her neurogear, fear flickering across her face as she forced open the manual interface.
The system responded instantly. Relief bloomed—then died. The server list was empty.
Mistral wasn't there.
I wonder how I'll survive in this world. I have no special talents. My grades are bad, and my physique is even worse than Lazarus', who only just transferred to the Mars Colony… Hah… if only I could get some cheat power like in the novels.~ Anna