Young Writers Society

The USS Galileo drifts aimlessly through the void of space, an inert, fragile thing adrift in the incomprehensible expanse, like a single, solitary leaf caught in an unseen current, floating effortlessly in the boundless dark. Its hull, once a proud and polished testament to human ingenuity, now bears the deep, jagged scars of innumerable micrometeorite impacts, each one a silent reminder of the unforgiving nature of space. The once-brilliant surface is pocked and dented, dulled by the passage of time and the relentless bombardment of the cosmic environment. The ship's running lights, which once bathed the corridors in steady, reassuring illumination, flicker sporadically now, casting weak, intermittent pulses of light into the abyss. A faint, almost imperceptible glow, swallowed immediately by the vastness of the dark. Inside, the corridors are deathly silent—save for the occasional creak and groan of stressed metal, strained under the weight of a failing structure, and the soft, labored hum of life support systems that struggle against their inevitable decay.

On the bridge, Captain Elena Reeves stands, her figure a solitary silhouette against the dim emergency lighting that bathes the room in a sickly pallor. The light reflects off the weathered lines of her face, the evidence of countless sleepless nights, the toll of command, and the unbearable weight of responsibility. Her eyes, tired but unyielding, fixate on the distant stars—tiny pinpricks of light in the inky expanse, offering no answers, no solace. She scans the void, desperately searching for some sign, some distant spark of hope, some indication that rescue is still a possibility.

Weeks have passed since their last distress call, and the silence from Earth has become an oppressive, suffocating void of its own. Their communications have long since ceased, a cold and brutal reminder of their isolation. Months have now stretched into an endless expanse of uncertainty, the crew once 120 strong, now reduced to a handful of survivors, huddled together in a crippled, dying ship. What was once a vibrant community, a symbol of exploration and hope, has now become little more than a ghost ship—its purpose, its mission, its humanity, all slipping quietly into oblivion, piece by broken piece.

Every decision is harder than the last. Every passing moment drags them further from the possibility of salvation. And yet, Elena Reeves remains steadfast, her posture rigid, a woman bound by duty, clinging to the smallest shred of hope in the face of a seemingly indifferent universe.

Elena's fingers, long accustomed to the worn, smooth surface of her command chair, trace the familiar contours, each curve a quiet echo of years spent seated at the helm of the Galileo. The touch is almost soothing, like the last vestige of something long lost. She recalls the day she first assumed command—a day brimming with pride, ambition, and a heady sense of purpose. Back then, the ship was a beacon of human achievement, a symbol of exploration and discovery. Her heart swelled with the weight of responsibility, and the future seemed boundless, a horizon waiting to be conquered. But now, those emotions—so vivid and consuming at the time—seem as distant as the home they left behind. Earth, once a constant presence, now feels like a faint memory, its very image growing dim in the distance as they drift further into the dark unknown.

The silence of the bridge presses in around her, broken only by the faint hum of failing systems and the distant groan of the ship’s tortured hull. She loses herself in the stillness, her mind wandering through the landscape of lost time. But then, the soft, electronic beep of the navigation console pierces the quiet like a sudden, jagged crack in the calm. Elena’s pulse quickens, a fleeting flare of hope rising in her chest, a brief, irrational belief that this sound might signal something—anything—other than the endless degradation of their situation. Perhaps a signal, a message, a sign of rescue. But as quickly as the thought rises, reality douses it in cold water. The beep is nothing more than another system failure, yet another malfunction in a ship slowly surrendering to the void that has already claimed so much of it. The Galileo is a dying thing, its parts—its very soul—giving way to the relentless pressure of space.

"Captain," a voice calls from the shadows, soft but clear, pulling Elena from her reverie. The voice is weary, edged with exhaustion, yet carrying an unspoken weight of authority—Dr. Yuki Tanaka, the ship's medical officer, one of the few remaining survivors of the crew. "We need to talk about rationing the remaining oxygen."

The words hit Elena with a brutal clarity. Oxygen—another dwindling resource, another ticking clock. The weight of Tanaka’s request settles over her like a shroud, and for a moment, Elena is frozen, her mind grinding slowly as it processes the necessity of the conversation. Rationing oxygen. The very thought is an admission of their fragility, of how close they are to the edge of survival. Each breath, once taken for granted, has become a commodity to be managed, a lifeline stretched thin. She knows what this means. They are no longer just fighting to survive; they are fighting for how they survive. And with each passing day, the odds grow longer.

Elena nods, her expression grim. They've had this conversation before, each time cutting their supplies closer to the bone. She wonders how much longer they can stretch their dwindling resources.

As if reading her thoughts, the ship groans again, a deep, unsettling sound that echoes through the empty corridors. Elena glances at the structural integrity readout, watching as another section of the starboard elevon flaked off. This deep into space, gravity worked different. The various debris floating in the endless celestial expanse behaved differently than they did closer to Earth. Planets, stars and asteroids moved through space more akin to a metal ball in jell-o than anything empty.

Elena's gaze sharpens, her eyes narrowing with calculated intensity as she leans in to study the readout with renewed focus. The loss of the starboard elevon, initially deemed a mere structural compromise, had proven to be far more consequential than anyone had anticipated. It wasn’t just a piece of the ship’s integrity that had failed—it had altered their trajectory, ever so subtly but profoundly. The shift was slight, imperceptible to the untrained eye, but to Elena, a seasoned commander who had spent countless hours charting courses through the unforgiving depths of space, it was immediately clear. The subtle deviation could mean the difference between life and death. Her pulse quickens, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her as the full weight of the realization settles in. She pulls up the navigational charts with swift, practiced movements, her fingers flying over the controls as she begins to chart their new course, her mind racing faster than the ship itself. The calm professionalism she usually exuded is now tinged with a quiet urgency—there’s something in the data, a whisper of an impending catastrophe, and every instinct tells her they’re running out of time.

"Dr. Tanaka," Elena calls, her voice unexpectedly tight with a restrained surge of emotion. She forces herself to keep it steady, though her chest is constricted with a mix of dread and cautious hope. "I need you to verify these calculations. Immediately."

The medical officer, who had been standing in the shadows of the bridge, steps forward at once, her movements quick but measured. Her eyes narrow as she scans the display, her brows furrowing with concentration. The seconds drag as Tanaka processes the data, her lips pressed together in an anxious line. Then, a sharp intake of breath.

"Captain," Tanaka’s voice trembles slightly, betraying her usual composure as she steps closer to the console, her gaze widening with disbelief. "This is... this is impossible." Her eyes dart back to Elena, the shock apparent in her features. "We’re being pulled into a gravity well. But... this shouldn’t be here. It’s not charted. There’s nothing on the scans—nothing in any of the mapping databases. There shouldn’t be anything out here at all."

A cold knot forms in Elena’s stomach as she processes the implication of Tanaka’s words. A gravity well—an anomaly, a force of nature that could tear the Galileo apart in an instant. They were headed directly toward it, and there was no record, no warning, no explanation for its presence in the depths of space where they now drifted. It was a cosmic phantom, unseen, unpredicted, and utterly deadly. Her fingers hover over the controls, but for a brief moment, her mind goes blank, paralyzed by the enormity of what they’re facing. A gravity well that had slipped through the cracks of their data, an unseen predator lurking in the emptiness, waiting to consume them.

"How is this even possible?" Elena mutters under her breath, her voice barely a whisper, a question she doesn’t expect an answer to.

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Xenobiologist Oscar Botev cracks one eye open, the faintest sliver of consciousness piercing through the fog of his fractured sleep. His body, rigid and sore from hours spent crammed into the tight confines of the crew quarters, protests every movement as he attempts to pull himself upright. A dull ache reverberates through his joints, the kind of deep, gnawing discomfort that comes from too many sleepless nights in a ship that’s slowly dying around him. He inhales deeply, but the air—thin and recycled—tastes stale and metallic, a constant reminder of the suffocating claustrophobia that has become his existence. His stomach churns, but he’s too accustomed to the nausea of space to pay it much mind.

With a grunt, he unclips his restraints, his muscles stiff and sluggish from prolonged immobility. He pushes himself off gently, allowing himself to float within the cramped zero-gravity confines of his containment pod. It’s not much, just a few feet of space, but it’s enough to stretch his limbs and begin the slow process of waking up. The sensation is disorienting, and for a moment, he feels the full weight of the isolation settle over him like a heavy shroud. The disorientation is brief, but it lingers, like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts.

Oscar’s hand reaches out for the small viewscreen mounted near his bunk, his fingers brushing the surface with mechanical precision as he taps it to life. The screen flickers briefly before it comes to life, the ship’s status flashing before his eyes in an almost mocking dance of red and yellow. Critical systems are failing—shutting down, one by one. Life support at a perilously low 18%, barely enough to sustain what little crew remains. The hull integrity is compromised in multiple sectors, the very bones of the Galileo groaning under the strain of an unforgiving environment. Oscar exhales sharply, running a hand through his unkempt, salt-and-pepper beard, his fingers tugging at the coarse, disheveled strands as though the motion might somehow relieve the weight pressing down on his chest. Another day in hell, he thinks bitterly, though there’s no real anger in the thought—just the dull resignation of a man who’s spent too long on the edge of oblivion.

Just as he’s about to shut down the display, the flicker of an incoming notification catches his eye. His pulse quickens instinctively, the weariness in his chest momentarily forgotten. New sensor data incoming. A surge of hope rushes through him, swift and sharp. Could it be? After months of drifting through the endless void, of hearing nothing but the static hum of their failing systems, had they finally found something—anything—out there? A signal, a fragment of a message, a glimpse of a distant star, anything that might offer some reprieve from the crushing silence? His heart skips a beat, a fleeting surge of hope mingling with the raw, gnawing fear that has become his constant companion.

He quickly pulls on his worn jumpsuit and pushes off towards the bridge, floating through the eerie silence of the abandoned corridors. The smell of ozone and decay lingers in the air, a constant reminder of their dire situation.

Oscar makes his way to the mess hall, the familiar weight of inevitability settling over him with every step. The once-inviting smells of freshly prepared meals now feel distant, almost alien, as he braces himself for the sterile, soulless offerings that the ship’s limited provisions provide. The Galileo’s food supply—carefully curated, rationed, and thermostabilized—has become a monotonous, tasteless routine. Today, he opts for a steak puree bar, a misnomer if there ever was one. The processed concoction inside the plastic wrapper is a sad excuse for its namesake—barely more than a slurry, with a texture so lacking in substance it might as well be synthetic paste. Oscar is certain it contains less "steak puree" than the average vegan’s refrigerator. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the package, wondering how the hell it’s possible for food to taste this unremarkable after four years of being stuck on this dying ship.

To his surprise, the mess hall is empty—eerily so. It’s rare to find it deserted, given the dwindling crew, but this feels different, a silence thick with unspoken fatigue. It strikes him as odd, because the ship’s food storage, though limited, is the one area that could still be described as well-stocked. The cold, clinical inventory of freeze-dried and reconstituted foods is a far cry from the vibrant bounty they once imagined, but it’s something—something reliable. The remaining crew have clung to this fact as a small comfort in the midst of their otherwise bleak existence. It’s the one thing they can count on. No matter how many systems fail, no matter how many lives are lost, at least there will always be something to eat.

Oscar clips himself into a table, his chair locking magnetically against the floor with a soft thud. He places his magnetic plate on the metal surface with a faint clink, the sound a small echo in the vast emptiness. As he picks up the bland, unappetizing meal, he can’t help but reflect on how much has changed in these four years—how much he has changed. When the Galileo first launched, it was a moment of pride, a symbol of humanity’s boundless ambition and hope for the future. The year was 2034, and the mission was a triumph of human ingenuity. The crowd that gathered to see them off had cheered with fervor, their faces bright with the promise of new frontiers. Oscar remembers the sensation of being part of something monumental, something that would be remembered for generations. The Galileo’s ascent was met with roaring applause, a memory sealed in his mind as the final glimpse he had of Earth. Four years later, it feels as though that world—those people—might as well be a lifetime away. There’s no sign of that future now, no gleam of optimism or cheerfulness to lift the weight of space’s crushing isolation. The ship, once vibrant and full of life, now creaks and groans, a relic of a bygone era. Of the more than 100 crew members who had boarded the Galileo, only 18 remain.

Oscar chews his tasteless meal in silence, the motion automatic, his thoughts far from the sterile bar in front of him. He’s not really tasting anything, not anymore. He’s lost in memories of Earth—of green fields, of crowded streets, of sunlight on his face. He can almost hear the hum of life back there, almost feel the warmth of a world that feels increasingly distant with each passing day. But there is no warmth here, not on this ship. Only cold metal, recycled air, and the gnawing, insidious passage of time.

A sudden crackle over the ship’s intercom cuts through the reverie, jolting him back to the stark, mechanical present. The familiar static is an unwelcome intrusion, as if the ship itself were reminding him that there is no escape from this slow, grinding march toward entropy. He looks up at the speaker above, feeling the weight of the ship’s silence press down again as he waits for the message to come through.

"All remaining crew, report to the bridge immediately," Captain Reeves' voice echoes through the empty corridors, an urgency in her tone that Oscar hasn't heard in months.

He quickly secures his tray and pushes off towards the bridge, his heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and dread. As he enters, he sees the other survivors already gathered around the main view-screen, their faces a mix of confusion and hope.

Captain Reeves stands at the center, her eyes fixed on the display. "We've detected an anomaly," she announces without preamble. "It's pulling us in."

Oscar floated closer, drawn by the sight before him, his scientific curiosity igniting with the promise of discovery. The screen displayed an anomaly—a vast, swirling mass of blackness, darker than the surrounding void, an eerie, almost oppressive absence of light. It was black on black on black—an impenetrable void within an already incomprehensible emptiness. The object seemed to absorb light itself, an unsettling presence in the cold, infinite darkness.

“How did we only just detect this?” someone asked sharply, her voice cutting through the low hum of the ship’s interior. The speaker was a tall woman, her features sharp, her red hair streaked with silver, a testament to years spent under the stresses of deep space. Her expression was severe, eyes narrowed as she studied the screen, her mind already running through the implications. "It wasn’t in our course previously," she added, a note of disbelief lacing her words.

Captain Reeves, standing resolutely at the front of the gathered crew, nodded slowly, her face grim but composed. “When one of the elevons from the starboard Delta wing detached, it changed our course. We’re no longer on the path we had plotted.”

A low murmur of disbelief rippled through the crew, voices half-lost in the oppressive silence of the room. Oscar, still drifting near the screen, absorbed the captain’s words, his mind racing to grasp the significance of the revelation. The ship’s trajectory had been altered by a single, seemingly inconsequential failure—the detachment of one of the elevons. But now, that small malfunction had led them to something far more insidious: a gravity well, a phenomenon that should not exist in this uncharted region of space. 

Gravity wells needed a mass to exist. Their sun had one. But in the emptiness before them, they saw nothing that could create a gravity well.

Captain Reeves straightened, her voice cutting through the mutterings of the crew with the clarity of command. “There is nothing we can do to alter our course as far as I can brainstorm. If any of you can come up with a viable idea, please run it by me or Dr. Tanaka. Until then, brace yourselves. We’re about to enter the gravity well. We might die… or we might go through it. We can’t tell.”

The captain’s words hung in the air like a death sentence. The ambiguity of their fate—that grim uncertainty—struck Oscar with a cold realization. A gravity well, here, in the depths of uncharted space? It defied everything they knew about this sector. Nothing on their navigational charts had indicated such an anomaly. It was as though the universe itself had slipped a phantom into the system, an impossible, invisible force lurking in the dark.

Oscar’s mind scrambled to make sense of it all. He pushed himself closer to the view-screen, his breath shallow as his eyes strained to pierce the swirling mass of darkness. It was as if the blackness itself was watching them, waiting for them to fall into its grip. The rational part of his brain—the part that had spent years studying alien life and cosmic phenomena—understood the theoretical implications. But there was no model, no theory, no precedent for something like this. They were entering the unknown, with no guarantees, no escape route.

He looked around at the faces of his crewmates, all as silent and transfixed as he was. The ship groaned beneath them, its systems failing piece by piece, and the weight of their collective isolation pressed down like a suffocating blanket. Every one of them had been here far too long, drifting further from the reach of rescue, of home, and now this—a cosmic mystery that threatened to swallow them whole.

"Captain," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse, "have we been able to get any readings on the anomaly's composition?"

Dr. Tanaka shook her head. "Our sensors are barely functioning. We're getting conflicting data - one moment it reads as a massive gravitational source, the next it's... nothing. As if it doesn't exist."

The ship groaned again, the sound more pronounced now. Oscar could feel a subtle shift in the artificial gravity, a faint pull towards the starboard side. They were getting closer.

"How long until we reach the anomaly's event horizon?" asked Elena.

Dr. Tanaka glanced at her readings. "ETA 14 hours at our current course, but that could change if any more substantial components of the ship detach." 

Captain Reeves sighed. "We can't let any more parts of the ship corrode. We won't survive another week out here if we lose more of Galileo. We need to fix her up before we reach that gravity well. Get on it."

The scientists dispersed, purpose briefly overriding the bleakness of their inevitable fate. 

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Sergeant Heather Maslin shook her head in exasperation. The scientists were frantic, their movements erratic, like a gaggle of headless chickens scrambling in every direction, utterly oblivious to the mounting pressure. Maslin couldn't quite fathom the specifics of a gravity well—it was one of those concepts she never bothered to learn, and frankly, it didn’t seem all that complex. Yet, the urgency surrounding it suggested otherwise. Leaning against the cold, unyielding metal wall of the ship, she ran her fingers through her tousled, dirt-streaked blonde hair, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. She had been plucked from the remnants of her military career, an ex-Marine with a dubious past, and brought into the Galileo expedition on short notice. Fresh from the Russian front lines, she wasn’t exactly sure what she had signed up for, but her instincts—sharpened in combat zones—had kept her alert, even in the midst of all this scientific chaos. Two scientists ran by her, chattering in their smart-ass language and tapping view-screens. Words based on a seven syllable average flowed from their mouths like water, filling the air around them until she couldn't see past them. It was all "oid's" and "sphere's" and "ide's." Foreign language indeed. She clenched her jaw. She was used to the enemy being physical, not necessarily in front of you or seen, but you knew they were there. She always had something to shoot at. And now the enemy that threatened her life was a bunch of congealed science. Space wasn't something she understood, and out here half the scientists didn't even understood it. They said it acted differently, that the further they got out the denser the space around them got. The ship was falling apart because it wasn't built to go through space this dense. It was like jell-o now. She shook her head again, a violent twisting of the skull that made her see stars and cleared her head all at once. With a low, almost inaudible groan, she stretched her long arms above her head, the tendons in her shoulders protesting the movement as she slowly pushed herself upright. The sterile, mechanical hum of the ship resonated in her bones as she made her way toward her assigned pod. She had little use in this environment of intellectuals and theorists—her expertise, after all, was grounded not in abstract equations or complex theories, but in the tangible and immediate reality of explosives, the kind that tore through metal and stone with ruthless efficiency.

Her gaze briefly flicked over the various data streams flashing on the walls, none of which she truly understood, before settling on the security logs. The ship’s systems were riddled with breaches—some minor, others more troubling—and it was her task, however reluctantly assigned, to sift through them and determine which posed the greatest threat. This wasn’t her arena, but it was something she could grasp, something practical amidst the confusion of high-level scientific jargon and theoretical problems.

Her eyes darted across the constantly shifting blueprint of the Galileo, the schematic flickering on the small screen with mechanical precision. The map, a patchwork of color-coded sections and fluctuating diagnostics, was a labyrinth of data that only a few could truly navigate. Amongst the swirling, ever-changing patterns, the glaring red dots stood out like wounds on an already battered body—symbols of critical damage, urgent threats that couldn’t be ignored. She lingered on them longer than necessary, feeling the weight of each dot as if it represented a chunk of their dwindling survival.

They hadn't anticipated micrometeorite impacts when they first set out—such risks had seemed far too remote, far too insignificant in the face of the vastness of their mission. But Maslin could still vividly remember the day the first micrometeorite hit the Galileo. It had struck with a sudden, violent force, waking her from a restless sleep, throwing her against the hard surface of her bunk. The ship had shuddered violently, the walls echoing with the sound of the impact, and in the split second that followed, the only thing she could hear were the frantic shouts and the deafening alarms. At that moment, the reality of their situation had hit her like a physical blow. That was back when they still had a full crew, when there were people on board who knew how to handle the damage, who had the training and expertise to mitigate the dangers of deep space. That was when Galileo was a fully staffed, fully capable vessel, and the unknowns of space still seemed distant, almost theoretical. But now, it was a far cry from that. Now, the crew was a fraction of what it had been, and the resources to deal with the damage were equally scarce.

Maslin sighed, her fingers moving instinctively over the screen as she tapped one of the glaring red circles, activating the report. The damage was significant, but not catastrophic—not yet. The ship wasn’t built to withstand a near-constant barrage of space debris, and the toll was becoming evident in the weakening integrity of its structure. Most notably, the wings—particularly the starboard and port Delta wings—were taking the brunt of the assault. Maslin had overheard hushed conversations in the corridors, whispers among the remaining crew, that the wings would likely be rendered completely useless within a matter of months. Some even suggested they might not last that long. The thought of the Galileo losing its wings was more than just a technical failure—it was a death sentence.

With a quiet mutter, she swiped left on the screen, routing the issue to the last remaining technical engineer. Maybe he would be able to look at it, she thought wryly, though she knew full well he had a mountain of other problems stacking up on his plate. The Galileo was a patchwork ship now—held together by half-baked repairs and the persistence of a skeleton crew. There was little time or manpower to focus on any one problem for long. They did what they could, when they could, and that was all they could hope for.

She lay back on her bed, the soft hum of the failing life support systems vibrating through the thin walls. Her eyes burned from the constant strain, the bright lights of the control panels and the harsh artificial glow of the ship’s corridors never offering the relief of darkness. She rubbed her eyes wearily, her fingers digging into the sockets, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on her bones. It was going to be a long night—analyzing reports, assessing damage, coordinating the dwindling resources they had left. There would be no respite. Not now, not until they figured out how to stop the slow-motion collapse of the ship, how to ensure they didn’t simply float into oblivion, swallowed by the void without anyone noticing.

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Xenobiologist Oscar Botev seethed with barely contained frustration, his jaw clenched as Asher Mohan, the physicist, rambled on, spouting what Oscar could only describe as the delirious musings of a man on the brink of madness. Mohan was insistent—adamant, even—that Captain Reeves should deliberately sabotage one of the Galileo's wings to shift the ship’s trajectory away from the encroaching gravity well. The very idea was preposterous, bordering on reckless. A calculated act of self-destruction, an attempt to steer the ship by damaging it further.

Captain Reeves, to her credit, had immediately shot down the proposal, her refusal sharp and unwavering. And Oscar, for once, found himself in complete alignment with her decision. There was no way they could afford to worsen the ship's condition. The Galileo was already on the verge of disintegration, its hull creaking and groaning under the strain of deep-space stresses, its systems failing one by one. The ship was falling apart before their eyes; it was a wonder it had held together this long.

Oscar’s hands, calloused from years of fieldwork back on earth, balled into fists at his sides as he turned away, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a vice. They weren’t going to destroy the Galileo—not any more than it had already been destroyed by the forces beyond their control. The captain knew it. He knew it. It was a futile hope to cling to, but there was something sickeningly poetic about trying to preserve what little of the ship remained. Unless they reached Novis before Galileo completely failed, which could only happen if they increases their speed three fold. Not impossible, but with the ship in its current condition it would almost certainly mean destruction. 

Mohan gestured sharply toward the faint, almost imperceptible blur of the gravity well visible on the external camera feed. His voice, taut with urgency and a palpable sense of impending doom, cut through the tension in the room. "If we enter that—when we enter that—we won't survive," he insisted, his gaze never leaving the ominous, swirling distortion in the depths of space. "I'm the physicist here. I understand the physics of this better than anyone. That gravity well will tear the ship apart. At first, its effects will be subtle, a gradual stretching of our bodies and the ship's structure, but by the time we approach the event horizon, the tidal forces will become so intense that we’ll be torn to shreds—literally torn in half. It will be excruciating. We have a better chance if we sacrifice part of the Galileo, a small part, in order to alter our trajectory and escape its pull."

Captain Reeves' face hardened, her posture unwavering as she absorbed his words. But when she spoke, it was with a quiet, resolute finality that carried the weight of years of command. She shook her head, slowly, her eyes steady as she met Mohan's gaze. "I’m sorry, Asher," she said, her voice calm but edged with resolve. "But we can't do that. If we start cutting into the ship now, we will die long before we even reach the event horizon. The damage would be catastrophic—faster than the gravity well itself. We’ll brace for the inevitable, yes. But we will not gamble with everyone’s lives by making a desperate move that could turn an uncertain death in the event horizon into an agonizing one in the cold, empty void of space."

Her words hung in the air, weighted with the hard truth that there were no good options left. They were already condemned to the gravitational embrace of the well, but how they met their end was a matter of grim choice. And Captain Reeves was determined that they would not hasten their doom by choosing a more brutal, senseless death.