Chapter 8: THE SHIP THAT FELL FROM NOWHERE
The pre-dawn streets were empty.
I found a position on a rooftop overlooking the market square—far enough from the public hangar to avoid connection, close enough to see results. The plan was simple: test the limits of active selection. See what happened.
You're about to try stealing a ship with your mind. This is insane.
Probably. But insane had become my baseline.
I closed my eyes and visualized Kess's freighter. I'd studied it during surveillance—a Corellian-style light hauler, maybe thirty meters long, registry numbers I'd memorized, rust patches on the port stabilizer.
Focus. The ship. Visualize it.
I held the image in my mind. Concentrated on the feeling of ownership, the certainty that this vessel belonged to me now.
Nothing happened.
Thirty seconds. A minute. My concentration wavered.
Maybe it doesn't work on—
The air tore open.
The sound was indescribable—a thunderclap mixed with tearing metal mixed with something that might have been reality protesting a violation of its rules.
The ship materialized three blocks away, directly above the market square.
It fell.
The impact shattered two empty stalls and cracked the ferrocrete plaza. Glass exploded outward from nearby buildings. Screaming started—early vendors, street cleaners, the night-shift workers just heading home.
I gripped the rooftop edge, heart hammering.
The ship was in the hangar. Across town. And now it's—
Chaos erupted below. People running. Emergency sirens spooling up. The freighter sat in a crater of its own making, smoke rising from stressed hull plating, landing gear twisted at angles that would need serious repair.
But it was here. Miles from where it had been moments ago.
Active selection ignored distance.
What else doesn't it care about?
I circled the crash site for hours, watching from different positions as authorities tried to make sense of the impossible.
"It just appeared!"
"That's not possible."
"I'm telling you what I saw! One second empty air, next second—ship!"
The local constabulary had no protocols for teleporting spacecraft. They cordoned the area, interviewed witnesses, examined the ship for explosive residue or evidence of malfunction. Found nothing, because there was nothing to find.
No one died. The market stalls had been empty—luck, or my subconscious aiming for the safest landing zone. I'd never know which.
By late afternoon, the ship had been impounded in a security lot at the edge of town. Two guards, minimal attention. They didn't know what they had or who might want it.
I waited until dark.
The guards were bored, poorly trained, easily distracted by a thrown rock on the far side of the lot. I slipped through the fence gap and approached the damaged freighter.
Kess's ship. My ship now.
The boarding ramp responded to my touch—recognition codes must have transferred with ownership. The interior was cramped but functional: cockpit, cargo hold, small quarters, maintenance access.
I sealed the hatch and powered up the engines.
"Attention, unauthorized vessel. You are operating in restricted—"
I launched before they finished the transmission.
Flying was harder than expected.
The controls were labeled in Aurebesh—a script I'd been slowly learning but couldn't read under stress. The throttle was where I expected, but the yoke operated on different principles than helicopter cyclic. I nearly crashed into a canyon before figuring out how altitude hold worked.
Different galaxy. Different physics. Stop assuming Earth rules apply.
Thirty terrifying minutes later, I reached low orbit.
Nevarro rotated below, volcanic plains and settlement lights painting patterns I was learning to recognize. The ship—I needed a name; calling it "the ship" felt wrong—the ship hummed around me with sounds I didn't understand.
I tried the active selection again.
Nothing.
I tried for an hour. Focused on random objects in the cargo hold. Visualized them appearing in my hand. Concentrated until my head ached.
Nothing happened.
Cooldown.
The ability had a recovery period. Made sense—nothing that powerful came without cost. But how long? An hour? A day? A week?
I'd need to test systematically.
The pilot's chair creaked as I settled into it, watching stars wheel past the viewport.
I had a ship. I had a blaster. I had abilities I didn't understand and enemies who didn't know I existed.
Small victories.
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