"Uhh, what the fuck did I just do?"
The ship had gone haywire.
The fighters couldn't catch up—they didn't have Alcubierre drives—but that was no longer the problem.
The problem was me.
The Alcubierre had gone into overload. Energy consumption spiked way beyond the reactor's output. Now that's causing the reactor to overload too.
Which is bad.
Really bad.
A reactor meltdown? That never ends well.
No shaking. No vibrations. But my vision was darting from one corner of the cockpit to the next, trying to figure out how to mitigate the damage I'd just caused.
I shouldn't have bought this damn ship.
The viewport glitched like mad, displaying numbers that made no sense—some beyond any known system limits. Only the life support stats were clear... and plummeting.
The heat was rising fast.
And with a ship this small, a reactor meltdown means cooking alive in the cockpit.
"You could've bought a corvette with that money, George." I muttered to myself. "Even without an Alcubierre, it'd do the job just fine."
I cursed myself internally.
Stupid.
The wiring peeled from the cockpit walls, snapping like metal snakes. Every panel and UI window was screaming system critical failure.
Maybe that's why I can't exit bubble space, I thought bitterly. Maybe that's why I can't stop the damn thing at all.
At this rate, the Quanta will give up entirely and implode the ship.
That motherfucking traitor. If I survive this, first thing I'll do is prep for revenge. If that bastard Caesar's still alive, I'll burn the planet he lives on.
…
Fuck. I shouldn't be thinking about that right now.
I snapped back to the viewport interface—looking for any clue about what was happening.
There.
I caught a glimpse of my future.
Yeah. Literally
[Distance from previous Grav point: 4,882,118 ly]
And it's still rising—at an unconceivable speed.
I'm way beyond known space. Hell, I don't even think I'm in the galaxy anymore.
The Alcubierre can't handle this. Not this far.
I pressed the Drive's trigger, praying I could collapse the bubble and exit.
No luck.
So I did what any sane man would do.
I punched the fucking button.
Hard.
Then I grabbed a nearby metal bar and smashed it—ripped out wiring, broke panels, destroyed everything around it like a rabid animal.
I was going to go berserk anyway. Might as well take the ship with me.
And then—just as suddenly—the glitching viewport blinked out.
Replaced by a still, quiet view of space.
Stable space.
I cried.
Tears poured freely down my face as I slumped back, breathing hard.
I fucking survived. I actually made it out of that hell.
I didn't even hear the alarms at first, but they were there.
[Critical Warning: Life support disabled.]
[Critical Warning: Reactor At 30 %]
[Critical Warning: Alcubierre Drive deemed inoperable]
[Critical Warning: Quanta Drive deemed inoperable]
My vision was blurry, but I understood.
Life support: disabled. Oxygen level: 32%. Below critical. No way to refill it.
Reactor: 30%. A partial meltdown. Not enough power for full systems—especially not with how inefficient this rig is.
Alcubierre Drive: destroyed.
Quanta Drive: destroyed.
Both gone.
And then I saw it.
[6,003,472 ly]
Six million.
Six. Fucking. Million.
Not even Jorgen—the first bastard to leave the galaxy—traveled that far.
I should've been hopeless. Should've resigned to death. A distress beacon wouldn't do shit. Not a single stellar beacon was showing up on the nav panel.
This region of space hasn't even been mapped.
I'd probably be dead a few thousand years before anyone even thought about rescuing me.
Worse still, since I manually overrode the system, the ship now responds only to manual control.
No AI assistance.
And oh God, flying unsupported is a nightmare.
The ship spun wildly—rolling, yawing, like it had a mind of its own.
I tried to steady it, but the damn thing kept veering off, drifting into self-rotation like it was trying to escape its own existence.
"System, check AI-supported control status."
[Ship Assistance: Disabled]
"Enable it?"
[Critical Error: No connection found]
Ah.
Okay.
Guess I'll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Try not to spin. Find a planetary body. Stabilize orbit.
Maybe even make landfall. Set up camp.
At six million light-years from home, I highly doubt anyone's claimed this system.
"System, check stellar formations and planetary bodies."
[Checking...]
The viewport displayed countless screenshots of what seems to be star alignment and planetary figures using magnified lenses.
[Stellar System: Class S star, seven planets. Documenting stellar system. Input name:_____]
"Uh... 'Heimdall'?"
[Heimdall System Confirmed. Storing to Cartographic Local Database.]
"Uh... okay, what's our nearest planet?"
[Nearest body: Heimdall - 03]