The ship vibrated with a low hum as Gonzo's autopilot handled the safety route through Barnard's Loop. Gonzo's alarms wailed as Webster jerked the ship to avoid another radiation flare. "Christ on a comet," I muttered, gripping the console. One wrong move, and we'd be charbroiled before breakfast.

As I reviewed the navigational logs, I realized how delicate this dance really was. Webster had us weaving through narrow, radiation-free channels set up by the D.A.A. to keep out unwanted guests. The boosters fired in quick bursts, making precise adjustments like a choreographed waltz. Outside, magnetic forces created a light show that poured through the windows, ceiling display, and portholes, painting the walls in vivid reds, violets, blues, and greens.

"What a beautiful sight," Ollie said, staring out the window, his face bathed in the swirling light. "Traveling space is..."

"Not so poetic when you're doing this manually," I said, cutting him off. "One wrong move in these channels, and I'd be glowing like a Christmas tree. You'd be fine, but me? I'd be stuck eating low-microbial food and getting hypo T-cell infusions for a month. Fuck that noise!"

Ollie turned to me, a brow raised. "I have no idea what any of that means."

"It means I'd fry myself and Gonzo with enough radiation to give me cancer in places I didn't even know existed."

Ollie stroked his chin. "And you'd die?"

I paused, realizing he didn't know. Right. Ollie's from a time when cancer was the Big C, a death sentence whispered about in somber tones. "Not exactly. Cancer's like an appendix these days, annoying but fixable. Progress, I guess. Unless you're the kind of schmuck who misses the drama of the old days." i say with a shrug and chuckle "You've got the luxury of ignorance, vampire boy."

Ollie's eyes widened. "Medical science is at a place where one of history's deadliest diseases is just an inconvenience?"

I exhaled a smoke ring and flicked ash into the tray. "Yeah, in the 20th century, you'd be writing obituaries. Now it's a spa vacation for your cells."

That's not even a problem for Starchildren, the freshly evolved successors to humanity. Cosmic radiation? They shrug it off like sunscreen on a sunny day. Me, though? I have to trust Webster not to have one of his odd navigational errors.

"I'm so fuckin' relieved Webster's doing this for me," I said, watching Gonzo's careful maneuvers. "Trying to thread a celestial needle with thrusters and the 'gas pedal' of Gonzo's macro-fusion engine? No thanks."

Ollie smirked. "I thought you said this tin can ran on surf n' turf or something?"

"Surf Drive," I corrected, rolling my eyes. "And no, that's for Surf lanes, not in-system hops like this. Surf Drives are for hauling ass between star systems, while Macro Fusion engines are more like city bikes for the Local star system efficient but no thrill ride."

"Surf lanes?" Ollie arched a brow, clearly fishing for more.

I leaned back in my chair, puffing on the stogie. "Modern ships use Surf lanes, cosmic highways governments keep clear so morons like me don't smear themselves across rogue asteroids."

"So," he said, leaning back, "outer space mega-highways? Big American-style interstates on a planetary scale?"

"Huh. Never thought of it like that, but yeah, basically." I stretched, lighting another stogie. Through Gonzo's ceiling display, we watched a distant ship activate its Surf Drive. Its containment shields flared a bright blue before it streaked into the void, leaving a faint afterimage of light.

I glanced at Ollie. He was picturing it, barreling down the lanes, witnessing the galaxy's majesty firsthand. I'd seen that same look before, back in flight school on Europa, on the faces of young cadets staring wide-eyed at the simulator screens. Pure wonder, untainted by reality.

A holomatrix warning popped up, floating mid-air. It read:

"iNNoTec Nova Research Facility Employees and Contractors must check in via Subspace prior to end of field crossing. Start now if you haven't."

The animation featured iNNoTec's trademark mascot: a cartoon lightbulb with an atomic swirl orbiting it, panicking over a holopad. It was trying to fill out a form before exploding into pixels, it was ridiculous but effective.

Ollie recoiled, pointing. "iNNoTec?! So they're still around? Let me guess: they've moved on from boomboxes, cellphones, and flipping the bird at governments."

I snorted. "Oh, a lot more. They're the reason we're a multi-star-system species. But yeah, back in your day, they were just starting to flex. The 1964 World's Fair? That's when they unveiled the first car phone."

Now, cosmic cats, if you're a 20-something in 2098, you're probably wondering: What the hell's a phone? That little symbol on your optics menu, an old handset, is a relic of when people communicated through wires. Actual, physical wires running across cities like spaghetti. Primitive, huh? That's what people had to deal with. iNNoTec's cellphone was revolutionary, a then boxy, clunky brick that connected your car wirelessly to a network of cell towers that link to the same mess of wire spaghetti. so you could talk while on the go.

Ollie laughed, his eyes distant with memory. "I remember their adverts for the fair. They promised rides and gadgets from the future. I begged my parents to take me, only for my dad to say, 'Bolt ya rocket before I whip some sense into ye!'"

I couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, well, the '64 Fair was their big moment. Hell, those early cell towers were basically prototypes for the subspace buoys we use today."

Ollie frowned, mulling this over. "Subspace... that's the internet replacement?"

"Exactly. The old internet, the one you'd remember, is Earth-bound now. Subspace is its yolked-out grandchild she told you not to worry about. It covers known space and parts of the Autonomous Frontier. Without iNNoTec, humanity might've still been grounded on Earth."

The iNNoTec Nova Research Facility loomed into view, its double-headed bolt design cutting a stark silhouette against the void. Even from this distance, the station was massive, a labyrinthine construction of steel and light surrounded by a swarm of satellites and sensors, all humming with activity as they monitored the Loop's magnetic fields.

Another holomatrix warning appeared, floating mid-air:

"Manual-route pilots: disable Surf Drive if your ship is pre-model year 2089!"

The lightbulb mascot appeared again, slamming into the station's sensor swarm in a comical BOOM!. The explosion was clearly for comedic effect, but the warning was dead serious.

"Why's it called a Surf Drive?" Ollie asked. "Why not 'Warp Speed' or 'Lightspeed'?"

"People still call it those," I said, "but 'Surf Drive' stuck because it explains how it works. The ship's shields phases us slightly into the space between dimensions, creating negative mass. Then it contracts the space in front and expands it behind, launching us forward. Think surfing on space waves."

Ollie frowned. "Couldn't you have just said, 'It lets us surf space waves,' from the start?"

"For a guy who's spent a century out of the loop, you sure love critiquing explanations," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Fair," he said, smirking as he picked a joint from the ashtray.

As Ollie picked up the joint, I couldn't help but watch carefully. Could a vampire even get baked? Or was this some kind of coping mechanism from his human days, clawing its way back after finally making contact with someone he didn't have to immediately devour? My curiosity got the better of me, so I handed him my lighter.

He took it with a grin, raising the joint in mock cheers before placing it between his lips and taking a deep inhale. Puffing out a perfectly-formed smoke ring, he sighed with satisfaction. "Smooth~," he said, leaning back. "Last time I cracked a bit of puff, I was working this Nirvana concert in Edinburgh. I was stationed next to the stage door when some American tourist handed me a joint to look the other way while he and his mates snuck in. Of course, I took it. While I'm puffin' away, some bloke steps out of the door, also holding a joint. We just stood there, side by side, watching the cars drive by, smoking in silence. After a bit, we swapped joints. Mine must've been decent because he seemed pleased."

Ollie's gaze grew distant, the grin on his face softening into a look of reverence. "We sat like that for a while, silent as monks, until a stage manager came out and said, 'Kurt, five minutes till curtain.'" He paused, letting the weight of that name settle. "I was stunned. He glanced at me with this cheeky grin, eyes glazed to hell, and said, 'Till our next silent smoke sesh,' then walked back inside." Ollie chuckled, firm in his respect. "I'm not much for the grunge sound, but that fella was a class act, for certain."

I blinked. This guy casually smoked up with the father of grunge himself. "And not a word was spoken?" I asked, incredulous.

"Not one," Ollie said, taking another deep drag. Then, with a furrowed brow, he took an even longer pull, exhaling a thick fog that hung in the air like a bad decision. He glanced at the tiny ember at the tip of the joint with a look that could only be described as betrayal. "Just my luck, I don't feel shite."

Poor guy. Imagine being stuck on a zombie-infested space station for twenty years, only to get out and discover that you can't even get high anymore. "What a shame," I said, shaking my head. "That was good stuff you just turned into fog. Not like the grass from your time, I bet."

I grabbed a few fresh joints from my wooden stash box, tucked them into the grass side of my cigarette case, and clicked it shut before shoving it into my back pocket.

Finally, we reached the docking bay entrance, and my stomach tightened into a fluttery knot. What the hell could these jokers want with me, besides a temporal anomaly in the form of a vampire who just learned he can't get stoned anymore?

Webster guided Gonzo across the threshold, landing us neatly on the octagon-shaped pad with a pneumatic hiss. Pressure equalized as Gonzo's systems synced with the facility's life support. The Cosmo Ripper, flown by Elaine, followed and parked in the bay next to us.

Ollie and I made our way to the cargo ramp, lowering it as the ship groaned and vented. When the ramp hit the ground, Elaine was already waiting. Her expression was as sharp as a blade, still brimming with that unsettling uncertainty every time she looked at me.

Perched on her shoulder was a small, black cat, its glowing green eyes locked onto me with unnerving intensity. It was way too expressive for a normal cat, its gaze following my every move like it was trying to solve me. I raised an eyebrow, but before I could ask, Ollie stepped onto the ramp and let out a laugh.

"Now this is a bloody space station!" he said, grinning ear to ear. His eyes darted around, soaking in the glossy, high-tech interior. The place was alive with activity, mechanics in coveralls bustled around, working on some of the sleekest ships iNNoTec ever produced.

The whole station had that corporate polish: sleek surfaces, subtle aesthetic lighting, and rows of matching holomatrix panels. Even the ambient sounds of the panels, a mix of soft boops and peeps, seemed carefully calibrated, like someone in marketing had signed off on it.

I had to admit, it was impressive, but it lacked... character. Everything here matched. Every panel, every console, every glowing display. Gonzo might look like a patchwork of second-hand upgrades, but at least it had personality. This place? It screamed "company property."

"Nice," I muttered under my breath, trying to ignore the way Elaine and her creepy cat seemed to study me like a science experiment as Ollie wandered deeper into the station, his grin never faltering.

"If you'd just follow me," Elaine said, her tone clipped and professional. She gestured for us to follow as the door ahead slid open with a precise hiss. The corridor beyond was sleek and spotless, glowing with soft ambient lighting.

As we walked, a large bay window came into view, revealing a lab labeled: Protein Cultivation Lab. Through the glass, we could see the lab was turning out meat so pristine it'd make your average cow retire out of shame. Watching fat marbling in real-time was weirdly hypnotic. Like bingeing a cooking show where the chef moonlights as a geneticist on -tosh...