WAVERING LIGHTS CONSTANTLY shift into uniformed patterns across the main view screen. The dancing image calms JC. She desires meditation time to clear the memory burst she shared with Scott. Being the least technical adept member of the crew delegates her to the pilot chair in the event of a hyperspace emergency.

Flushing Scott’s passion with a shower would allow her to focus on the controls and the dangers of hyperspace travel. With a possible location of Commander Reynard, Scott halted his inquiry about her death vision. A secret she held under tight mental locks. If Scott witnessed her death, he could have encountered other facts of the crew’s futures which are necessary for her to conceal.

While hyperspace shortcuts interplanetary travel time from years to weeks, pilot duty remains no less monotonous. Many of the crew study to enhance their skills while in this chair. She could exercise her mind.

Flipping through the security system still in operation, she notes that much of the Dragon remains a scattered mess. The cargo bay, stacked full of crates, contains all available repair supplies and the remains of the shuttle—mostly scrap parts now. Damage from the crash seems to have been repaired on the bridge but not without the sacrifice of many of the rooms on the second deck.

Scott, Doug and Amye all pull power cells from the compartment Scott plans to transform into a launch bay for Mecats. Joe loads the cynical cells onto an anti-gravity sled.

Fuzz, a parrot-sized lavender dragon, darts into the training chamber and circles above Michelle as she works through her forms.

JC admires the young woman’s dedication. She’ll need it to reclaim her planet.

Fuzz zips for the door.

Klaxons blare.

The Dragon’s gravity shifts. Everything not secured floats for a second. The reestablishment of gravity causes the ship to shift. Scott, Doug and Amye all end up prone on the ground. Only Joe’s nimble skill keeps him from becoming in a disheveled pile on the carpet along with his crewmates.

Even in flight, the gravity shifts send Fuzz into a tumble.

Tools scatter. Personal possessions meet with the floor. The cargo shifts.

A sheen of perspiration glistens over JC’s skin. If her hands had been any slower to reach the joystick controllers on the armrest, the Dragon would have collided with infinity. Spacecraft aren’t designed to withstand the tidal forces of instant explosion from hyperspace.

JC holds back all her panic. Structural integrity, hold together, her mind begs. All the pilot lessons about how no ship ever survives a hyperspace accident overwhelm her thoughts.

The internal gravity being restored creates the illusion that the Dragon’s under control.

JC works the joystick to ignite thrusters. She must slow the jarring spin the Dragon was sent into when she was jolted from hyperspace. Overcorrection taxes her arm muscles.

Alarm lights flash.

JC’s hamstrings relax and revert to Jell-O. Trickles of sweat drip from her forehead. Her hands remain ghost white around the control.

All lateral thrusters kick in.

She fears releasing her grip on the joystick, unsure if she’s regained complete control of the hyperspace ejection.

The ever-changing light patterns dissipate into the black-and-white doted spacescape.

Collision warnings shriek.

The reason for the near interdimensional game of pinball becomes clear. Stabilizing thrusters fired but not the breaking thrusters. Now free of hyperspace, the laws of momentum apply. The Silver Dragon hurtles uncontrollably toward a growing red ball.

Scott reaches the bridge before any of the other crew. The red sun increases in diameter on the main view screen. Normal loss of gravity pull means the crew would have months to escape the decaying orbit, but expulsion from hyperspace was more like a cannon blast straight into a crispy death.

Preferring the pilot station, Scott forgoes demanding JC move. Her sweat-soaked face informs him she’s using all her strength to regulate the Dragon. She might have the ship under control—minus the sun’s pull—but her fear won’t allow her to surrender. He doesn’t blame her.

He slides into one of the two stations resting before the main ship helm control. Scott takes the two seconds to snap one strap of the shoulder harness into place.

“The Red Giant didn’t cause our ejection.” Scott’s finger dances across the controls. “The thruster will automatically adjust to keep us in this orbit and away from the gravimetric pull of the star.”

JC breathes as her hands go limp. All resistance from the joysticks dissipates. She flexes her fingers to resume blood flow into her white palms. “Give me an order.”

“Just breathe. You earned it. You’re a better pilot than you rated for,” he remarks, accusatory not complimentary.

“Just fear of dying. It was panic—not skill.”

She detects Scott’s reservation. His trust in her wavers since he touched her mind. He may have learned a secret she was keeping from the crew.

Amye shoves Doug back in order to enter the bridge before him.

“What kicked us out of hyperspace?”

“Fluctuation in a Red Giant’s gravity,” JC speculates.

“Doubtful,” Amye snaps as she takes a seat at weapons control.

Australia follows Doug. As a navigator she explains, “Hyper drive computers are programmed to create algorithms to deal with such unforeseen anomalies. They allow for course corrections.”

Amye magnifies a darkened spot on the main view screen. “We nearly flew through a Generation ship. It’s half the size of a moon.”

Scott activates the maneuvering thrusters. The Dragon’s gravity adjusts enough to note, but not like before.

“Hyperspace travel doesn’t allow flight through stationary objects in our reality.”

“The ship has a stationary orbit.” Australia glances at her station monitor. “This solar system has no life-forms.”

“Pirates?”

“Visible metal fatigue on the outer hull. It’s been in orbit for centuries.”

“Lifeless systems are often neglected when navigational maps are updated.”

“Athena, assess damage,” Scott orders.

Hauser steps onto the bridge.

“Recalculate the jump,” Amye countermands.

“We just missed an object large enough to kick a ship out of hyperspace. I have to check the engines—manually. No ship I know of has ever survived intact from hyperspace expulsion.”

“The navigation computer needs time to update,” Australia adds.

Hauser wants to enhance the image on the view screen, but he dares not touch a control station. The ancient ship appears functional and abandoned. “Maritime law allows us to claim an abandoned ship,” Hauser says. “The Commander owes me a ship.”

“I’ll transport you over there,” Amye snipes.

“A ship is only claimable if no native life-forms remain aboard,” Doug says.

“We’ve read the law.”

“Based on the range and power output of the distress signal transmitting, I doubt anyone still survives,” Doug reports.

“Our concern now must be to inspect for survivors,” Australia says.