KYLE''S P.O.V.


    "Yep,"


    That''s the last full transmission received from the EX-5.


    Conrad looks around the room at everyone. "Alright, guys, be prepared," he says. "They’re starting the jump."


    On the monitor in front of me, all the readings are where they should be: temperatures, pressures, G-forces, stress. I’m in charge of monitoring them all.


    There’s a beep, informing everyone that the jump has started. Everything goes fine for the first 30 seconds.


    Then all hell seems to break loose.


    At first, the amount of gravitational force—G-force—exerted on the spacecraft begins to steadily decrease. This is normal for this stage of the flight. However, it doesn’t slow down or stop.


    The monitor begins flashing warnings, trying to tell me this isn’t normal. Seeing this, I call Conrad over to take a look.


    He walks over and examines the screen. "I''ve never seen this before," he says, analyzing the data. "Can we still warn them about this?" he asks me.


    Looking at the monitor, I feel a sinking feeling in my gut. There’s nothing we can do to help them.


    Regretfully, I have to tell him, "We can''t. It''s too late to contact them."


    Once a spacecraft enters its jump phase, it can’t send or receive radio signals.


    Another controller across the room calls out to Conrad, “Sir! They’re trying to send a transmission!”


    “What does it say?” Conrad asks desperately.


    The controller’s excitement quickly fades. “It doesn’t say anything, sir.”


    I try not to panic. Maybe the sensors are faulty. Maybe it’s a glitch with my computer. Maybe—


    “We’ve lost contact.” Conrad addresses the room in a solemn tone.


    “No!” I yell, drawing the attention of others. “...That—it can’t be!”


    It can’t be... It can’t. Everything was fine just seconds ago.


    “Do you have them on radar?” Conrad asks another controller.


    “No,” he replies.


    Conrad begins to lose his composure. “Is there any debris?”


    “None, sir. They’ve disappeared completely.”


    “Shit,” Conrad mutters under his breath. “Until further notice, I order all of you not to speak about this publicly,” he says firmly. “You all should probably go eat lunch now. You likely won’t have time later.”


    “I’ll be in my father’s office,” Conrad says as he walks out of the room.


    Did I just watch my friends die through a computer screen? Two of my best friends—one of whom I loved dearly—are gone.


    15 or 20 minutes later, in the cafeteria


    I sit, trying to eat my sandwich with my coworkers. All I can do is take a couple of bites and stare at it.


    “Are you going to eat that?” the guy sitting across from me asks.


    “No,” I tell him without looking up.


    “Kyle, it’s going to be alright,” he says, trying to reassure me. “They’ll be found.”


    After I left the control room, it didn’t take long for people to figure out I had friends on the EX-5. I doubt they knew anything about how Michael and I felt about each other, but that didn’t stop them from trying to reassure me every two minutes.


    I refuse to believe the EX-5 vanished without a trace. That just doesn’t happen. Then, an idea—a possible explanation—strikes me.


    Looking up from the table, I ask if anyone has some notebook paper. A few people respond, and soon I’m handed some sheets.


    I grab a pencil and start frantically writing down my idea.


    From the data I saw, the EX-5 lost all its mass when it disappeared. Under normal circumstances, that’s supposed to happen. Without any mass, the EX-5 can travel faster than the speed of light. But what if, instead of losing all its mass, it gained negative mass?This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    This might have caused the EX-5 to slip through the fabric of space. It sounds insane—because it is.


    Everyone at the table seems interested in what I’m scribbling.


    “That might actually…” one of them says.


    “If you guys have any other ideas, I’m happy to hear them,” I tell them.


    “I’d say it’s worth a shot,” says another coworker.


    The six of us spend the rest of lunch refining the idea. We’re desperate for answers. For all we know, entertaining this theory could be the biggest waste of time, but we don’t care.


    1.5 hours later, in the conference room


    After lunch, most of the controllers from the control room are asked to gather in the conference room, myself included.


    In the room are Pruitt Carlin—a large fellow with brown fur and the founder and CEO of the Carlin Space Agency—and the father of Conrad and Michael. Joining him are Conrad, multiple engineers, representatives, and the controllers.


    “Alright, can you please explain to me how a state-of-the-art spacecraft, commanded by an experienced crew, vanished?” Pruitt asks impatiently.


    “Well, sir,” Conrad begins, repositioning his hands on the table, “from the time they started the jump to the time we lost contact, it was only about a minute.”


    A green-furred engineer in a plain tie lays out some papers. “We believe there could have been an in-flight breakup. It exceeded its designed operating stress before contact was lost.”


    “Is this correct?” Pruitt asks, looking at me since I was in charge of monitoring the data.


    “Well, technically, yes,” I tell him. “But I doubt there would have been a breakup—”


    I’m cut off by the engineer.


    “Well, currently, a breakup is the most feasible explanation,” the engineer remarks.


    “The only issue,” one of the controllers interjects, “is that there wasn’t any debris we could detect.”


    “Well, there might be a reason for the lack of debris—” the engineer starts, but Pruitt cuts him off.


    “Do you know what happened or not?” Pruitt demands.


    “No, sir,” the engineer concedes.


    Sensing an opening, I decide to share my theory.


    “Mr. Carlin,” I announce, “I do have my own theory.”


    I grab the attention of the entire room. “I believe the EX-5 went through the fabric of space.”


    Pruitt scoffs. “That’s a joke, right?” Catching his breath, he continues. “Look, I admire the creativity, but that’s not possible with our current technology.”


    My hopes falter, but I pull out the paper I wrote earlier.


    Conrad notices and immediately shows interest.


    “Let me see that real quick,” he says, snatching the paper.


    He examines it thoroughly, intrigued.


    Looking up, he says, “Kyle has a point.”


    The engineer frowns. “Fifteen years ago, we tried to break through the fabric of space with the Adastra. Test 27C didn’t work. We did the math—it would take more energy to punch through the fabric of space than even the EX-5 could produce.”


    “Well, the math might be wrong,” Conrad counters. “What if the Adastra simply didn’t have enough power to break through?”


    Pruitt rises from his chair. “Which one is it, then? If you can’t prove which one it is, I will go with Mr. Arelio’s theory. We will investigate the other theory, but until then, that’s what the press will hear.”


    Conrad protests, “Dad, I don’t think that’s a good ide—”


    “This meeting is dismissed,” Pruitt declares.


    Swiftly, everyone leaves.


    In the hallway a couple of minutes later, Conrad finds me again. “Seriously, I do believe your theory might be right, but there is no way to prove it,” he says, sounding defeated.


    The next couple of hours pass in various meetings and other conferences. Eventually, the media catches wind of what happened, and it becomes a nightmare.


    At around 5 PM, I''m finally allowed to leave.


    I step out into the parking lot and find my car. Well, for the record, it isn''t actually my car—Michael owns it. Since I stay over at Michael''s so much, it kind of became my car.


    I pull open the door and get into the driver''s seat. I silently shut the door and rest my head on the steering wheel. I begin to cry. I sit there pathetically in the middle of a parking lot and cry. My friends are probably dead, and my idea to save them was laughed at.


    30 Minutes Later


    I drive down a highway and turn off onto a small, narrow road. I pass a couple of fences and mailboxes before I arrive at the property I''m looking for.


    There is a large black fence that comes up to the road, with a beautiful gate in the middle.


    Behind the gates is where Michael lives. To put it simply, he lives in a mansion. The place isn''t huge, but it isn''t small either. It is three stories tall and has beautiful white pillars.


    The gate automatically opens for me, and I drive through. I go up the long driveway and open the garage door.


    I pull the car into the garage, shut it off, and close the garage door behind me.


    Opening the car door, I step out and head inside.


    I enter the house''s large kitchen. The smell of food immediately hits my nose—it smells like pasta.


    The maid, Amelia, is the only one who works in the residence. It''s a large house for just one maid to look after, but she always dismisses the idea of extra help whenever Michael or I bring it up.


    Walking past the kitchen, I make my way to the living room.


    It''s a large room with two big couches, a chair, and a sleek glass coffee table.


    I plop myself down on the couch that sits directly across from a large TV attached to the wall. I reach forward, grab the remote, and turn on the TV.


    Immediately, I''m greeted by a news reporter.


    “You better not be talking about—” I say under my breath.


    The news reporter begins speaking. “Earlier this morning, the EX-5 spacecraft, which belonged to the Carlin Space Agency, went missing.”


    Dammit.


    A picture of the crew pops onto the screen. “The six-person research team: Mission Commander Avera Willow, Pilot Lucas Burke, Flight Engineer Scott Wilkinsons, Medical Assistant Vita Langley, and Mission Specialists Garrett Vermandes and Michael Carlin, who is the son of the C.S.A. founder, Pruitt Carlin—”


    Agitated, I quickly lunge for the remote and change the channel.


    It doesn''t get much better, though. Instead of a news reporter, it''s Pruitt himself speaking at a large press meeting.


    “Yes, we do believe an in-flight breakup was involved—” he says, “We are looking into what might have caused it.”


    I swear, he better know what he''s talking about.


    Before Pruitt can continue speaking, the TV shuts off.


    “What the…” I say before realizing why.


    In front of me stands Amelia, a light black protogen with white spots, still in her maid uniform. I notice she is holding the remote for the TV.


    “I think it''s best you don''t watch that,” she says. “Dinner is ready anyway. You really do need to eat, Mr. Raymond.”


    I lazily get up. “Yeah, I guess,” I say in a tired tone.


    I head into the dining room and sit at the large table. Amelia appears from the kitchen with a large plate of spaghetti. “Here you go, Mr. Raymond,” she says, setting it down in front of me.


    “Thank you,” I tell her.


    “Of course,” she says before returning to the kitchen.


    A couple of minutes later, she comes back with another plate of spaghetti, which I''m assuming is for herself.


    I grab a fork and start eating greedily. Considering I had an early lunch and didn’t eat much, I’m starving. After such an eventful day, it feels good to get some food.


    Looking up, I notice Amelia sitting across from me at the table. It’s odd because house staff normally eat by themselves. But, then again, I’m thankful she’s eating with me.


    “Hey, thank you for not leaving me to eat alone,” I tell Amelia.


    “It’s no problem at all,” she says. “Not to offend you, but you look like you had a horrible day.”


    She’s not wrong. Seeing my reflection in my water glass, my fur is an absolute mess, and my tie is crooked.


    “I know how you feel,” she says, wiping her visor with a napkin. “I raised Michael since he was little. I’m just as hurt as you are, seeing him gone.”


    “I… just want to save him. All of them,” I say.


    Amelia raises an eyebrow at me. “Why can’t you?” she asks curiously. “You’re smart. You’d be able to figure out how.”


    “That’s the thing,” I tell her. “I think I already did.”


    “Oh?” she says, surprised.


    “I brought it up to Pruitt. He thought it was a joke,” I say.


    “So?” Amelia replies, becoming serious. “Look, I was one of the first people he hired when he started that company. Head of security for almost 20 years. Do you know how much stuff I pulled behind his back?”


    “No, not really,” I say, intrigued.


    “Exactly,” she says. “And that old fart is still paying me a lot of money to work at this house.”


    “What’s your point?” I ask.


    “Pruitt Carlin is a smart man, but he’s incredibly oblivious,” she says nonchalantly. “So, with that out of the way, what’s the plan?”


    “Well…” Over the next 10 minutes, I explain what I believe happened to Amelia. She seems to light up at the idea of saving the EX-5’s crew without Pruitt knowing. But the real question is: how am I going to do it?


    After dinner, Amelia cleans up the table, and I get up to leave the dining room.


    “I’m going to head to bed,” I tell her.


    “All right, Mr. Raymond. The bed has been made, so goodnight.”


    “Goodnight,” I reply.


    I head through the living room and up the stairs. Michael’s room is on the third floor, which is always tiring to climb to.


    Eventually, I make it to the third floor and turn down the hallway. At the end of it are two doors leading to his room.


    Stepping inside, I remove my shirt and flop backward onto the large bed. It feels odd without Michael—normally, he’d cuddle me to sleep. But tonight, I’m alone.


    Maybe, just maybe, I can save them. Amelia seems to agree, and Conrad might too.


    After a few minutes, I eventually shut my eyes and fall asleep