Edge of the Solar System — Fenreigan Ship

  Yan Qing.

  His name echoed in the darkness—once, twice—until it seemed to dissolve into the void itself.

  Who…?

  He floated, weightless, suspended in a silence so profound it pressed against his skin. There was no up or down, no sense of body—only the endless drift, as if he’d been unmoored from the world. The darkness was thick, velvet, swallowing every sound except—

  Hey. Wake up.

  A child’s voice, soft as breath, brushed his ear. It shimmered with a strange familiarity, like the memory of laughter in a dream. Yan Qing tried to move, to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as if gravity itself had doubled. He strained to see the speaker’s face, but the world remained blurred, distant, unreachable.

  But his body would not obey. It was as if he’d been locked out of himself, a ghost haunting his own skin.

  Chen…?

  Somewhere far away, reality snapped back into focus. The sterile glare of medical lights, the sharp tang of antiseptic, the muffled rush of voices. A Fenreigan medic’s shout cut through the haze—“He’s reacting!”—and suddenly the room was alive with urgency, figures crowding around the tank where Yan Qing’s body floated.

  “Notify the King—now!”

  He was barely alive, held together by desperate intervention and the thin hope of alien technology. “Prohibition” had torn through him, two powers colliding in his veins until he hovered at the edge of death. His brain had taken the brunt of it—there had been a moment, a long, terrible moment, when even his brainwaves had vanished. The Fenreigan doctors had called it: brain-dead. For a human, there was no coming back from that.

  And yet—

  An hour ago, something changed. The monitors began to flicker with faint, uncertain signals. The hazy, wandering patterns of a dreamer lost in sleep. In the tank, Yan Qing’s body was a pale silhouette, black hair drifting in slow, hypnotic arcs through the luminous fluid. His lips were parted, his chest barely moving, his face so delicate and empty it seemed he might vanish if anyone looked away.

  But if you watched closely, you’d see it: the faintest tremor of his eyelids, a subtle flutter beneath the surface—a sign of life, fragile and defiant.

  Yan Qing.

  Halfway between worlds, he heard the voice again—familiar, strange, impossibly close. He fought to open his eyes, to claw his way back to the surface.

  Chen…?

  Hey. Can I ask you for something?

  The child’s voice was clear now, ringing with a gentle, teasing lilt. It was the sound of sunlight on water, of memories half-remembered and never quite lost.

  It’s always been you doing everything for me. If there’s anything I can do for you, of course I will.

  I want you to help “me” become the “me” you know.

  The words curled around him, soft and earnest, carrying a weight he couldn’t name. What does that even mean? he wondered, confusion furrowing his brow even as the darkness began to thin.

  Let’s build the future from the past.

  The words shimmered, bright and impossible, as the world around him began to shift—light blooming at the edges of the void, the promise of awakening just out of reach.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Without warning, the alarm erupted—a piercing, metallic shriek that ricocheted off the sterile walls, slicing through the hush of the treatment room. The lights overhead flickered, casting harsh white glares across the polished floor.

  “What’s happening?!” The panic in the medic’s voice was sharp as broken glass.

  “Massive gravity readings—look at the detector!” Another voice, breathless, urgent.

  “Where?!” The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and ozone, every breath tinged with static.

  “From the human!”

  Time seemed to freeze. Every Fenreigan in the room turned as one, eyes wide, faces ghostly in the blue glow of the monitors. In the tank, Yan Qing’s body shimmered—edges blurring, skin turning translucent, as if he were dissolving into the fluid itself. For a heartbeat, he hovered between worlds, then faded, vanishing like sea-foam under a relentless tide.

  A deep, resonant boom cracked the silence. The containment vessel convulsed, glass fracturing in a spiderweb of cracks before exploding outward. Shards and viscous fluid sprayed across the room, stinging exposed skin. A shockwave slammed into the walls, rattling trays and sending surgical tools clattering to the floor. The air filled with the acrid stench of burning circuitry as consoles sparked and monitors screeched, their screens flickering with static.

  Chris burst into the chaos, boots splashing through puddles of coolant, the sharp tang of scorched metal in his nostrils. The tank was empty. Yan Qing was gone.

  “Damn it.” The word was a guttural snarl, barely audible over the alarms. Chris’s fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms, drawing blood. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

  You really want to leave me this badly.

  Yan Qing.

  He drew a ragged breath, the taste of copper on his tongue, and spun toward the command deck. “Track the gravity trail—now! I want to know where he went!”

  “Yes, My Liege!” The aide’s voice trembled as his fingers danced over the console. A 3D projection bloomed in the air, the AI’s calculations flickering at breakneck speed, painting the room with shifting blue light.

  It took only seconds. A string of numbers pulsed red on the display.

  “My Liege…” The aide’s face drained of color, sweat beading on his brow. “The data says—the human opened a gate to a parallel universe.”

  Chris’s eyes widened, pupils contracting to pinpricks. In a blur, he crossed the deck, seized the aide by the collar, and hauled him off his feet. “What did you just say?!”

  “He—he went to our parallel universe,” the aide choked, toes scraping the floor.

  “Impossible.” Chris’s grip tightened, knuckles white. “Even if we removed Prohibition, he doesn’t know how to use the Ultimate Weapon—he was unconscious!”

  “B-but—” The aide’s voice died. The data was irrefutable.

  Before Chris could react, the ship lurched violently. Red lights strobed, bathing the bridge in a hellish glow. The AI’s voice blared overhead: [RED ALERT—Teleopean warship detected at eleven o’clock.]

  The deck pitched as explosions rocked the hull. [Port wing hit. Damage level: 20%.] The floor vibrated beneath Chris’s boots, the air thick with the scent of melting insulation.

  Chris flung the aide aside and sprinted for the bridge, barking orders as he ran. “Activate laser cannons! Return fire!”

  “Laser cannons online. Star coordinates: Ec149 degrees, Nc093 degrees. Lock confirmed. Fire!”

  The weapons officer’s voice echoed as crimson beams erupted from the Fenreigan ship, lancing across the void toward the distant, black diamond hull of the Teleopean vessel.

  The beams struck—then shattered, dissolving into ribbons of light as the Teleopean ship’s plasma shield warped the very starlight around it. For a moment, the Fenreigan crew could only stare as their weapons failed to touch their enemy.

  But the shield couldn’t last forever. It dropped, and the Teleopean ship repositioned with predatory speed. Energy flared along its hull, converging at the prow—a sphere of white brilliance, growing, pulsing.

  On the bridge, Chris leapt to his feet. “Portside down fifty-three degrees! Second engine output plus fifty percent! Full plasma shields—NOW!”

  The sphere reached critical mass. A white beam—pure annihilation—shot forward at three hundred thousand kilometers per second.

  RRRROOOOM—!

  The Fenreigan hull groaned, shields straining, metal shrieking as the beam slammed into the ship.

  The armor warped, split. Air roared into the void.

  [WARNING! Sector 72 pressure imbalance. Airlocks will close imminently.]

  “Energy down thirty percent! Your Majesty—our shields can’t take another hit!” a trembling officer called.

  Chris slammed his fist into the armrest, face twisted with fury. “Warp drive online! Starboard roll fifty-one degrees—full retreat!”

  He felt the burn of humiliation, but he knew the truth: without Yan Qing—and the Ultimate Weapon—Fenreiga was outmatched. He could not sacrifice his people for pride. This generation ship carried all that remained of his men.

  BOOM—

  The hull jolted again. Another gamma shot. This time, the Fenreigan ship barely dodged, the beam grazing past as the vessel vanished into the wormhole.

  Chris stared at the main screen, watching ion arcs spit and crackle in the aftermath. He ground his teeth, a bitter taste in his mouth.

  You can plan all you want. Fate still laughs.

  “Tch.” He slumped back into the command chair, the weight of loss settling over him.

  “…Yan Qing.”