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Supernova
Supernova (Declan Dodgers, Mars 2508)

Supernova (Declan Dodgers, Mars 2508)

I woke up to the wretched screech of my communicator. Ignoring the pounding headache, I forced my eyes open and glanced around. I was lying in my hotel room, with a blonde girl peacefully snoozing on my chest. The communicator was on the nightstand — way too far out of reach.

Carefully, I tried to slip out of the stranger’s tight embrace, but she stirred awake anyway. “God, how much did I drink last night?” flashed through my mind as she blinked at me with a sleepy, slightly annoyed gaze.

"Leaving already?" she asked in a sweet, drowsy voice.

"Time waits for no one," I replied, hastily pulling on my clothes. "It was a great night, uh...“ I faltered, staring at her and forcing my sluggish brain to function.

"Mindy," she offered.

"Right. Mindy. It was great. I'll give you a call," I rattled off, yanking on my pants, grabbing the communicator from the nightstand, and dashing into the living area. The chaos there matched the mess in the bedroom. Across the wall, someone had scrawled, "Duck — Superstar".

Fastening the communicator strap around my wrist on the go, I answered the incoming call.

"Duck here," I said.

"Where the hell are you? The launch is in two hours!" barked the annoyed face that flickered to life on the holographic screen hovering in midair.

"On my way, Chris!" I shot back. That seemed to be enough because the call cut off immediately.

A BIT LATER

Chris was waiting for me right at the entrance to the hangar, clutching a massive wrench in her hands. Her blonde curls practically sparked with fury, and for a second, I thought she might bash my head in with that thing.

"Drinking again?!" she barked instead of saying “good morning”, crossing her arms over her chest. "Setting the fastest qualifying time doesn't mean you get to party all night!"

"Oh, come on. Next you'll say Rodriguez slowed down on purpose just to start behind me," I shot back. "We both know how much he loves taking P2."

"And he also likes to shoot at his opponents. Don't forget that," she reminded me with a stern look.

"But you reinforced the aft shields, so there's nothing to worry about," I replied nonchalantly, gently brushing her aside as I headed into the hangar.

"Yeah, I did...," she muttered with a hint of hesitation, falling into step beside me, "but we’ve got a slight problem."

I froze mid-step.

"What problem?"

"Not enough energy to power all systems at once. You’ll have to juggle the energy flow more actively. The reactor’s already at its limit."

"That’s what you call a slight problem?"

"Yup. I recalibrated the cooling system and insulated one of the thermal sensors. That’ll give you about twenty percent more power when you hit the reactor boost. For about five seconds."

"Damn, you're throwing tech talk at me, and my brain's still not functioning."

"It's simple. Hit the boost button, and you’ll get a serious burst of speed. Hold it too long, though, and you’ll fry your ass."

"Hmm... Sounds serious."

"Also, the extra energy can only go through the main engine conduit," she added. "You can’t reroute it to the shields or maneuvering thrusters — unless you want the wiring to go up in smoke."

"Alright, time to get our 'little lady' ready for launch," I said, striding purposefully down the corridor with Chris keeping pace beside me.

The hangar opened up before us, a vast chamber of steel and light. And there she stood, right in the center — gleaming and pristine, every inch polished to perfection. It was clear Chris had put in some serious work.

The racer had once belonged to my father, a man who’d dedicated his whole life to this sport. With its sleek design, sharp edges, and bright red hull slashed by a white stripe down the middle, “Matilda” practically radiated speed. Her name stretched across half the side in bold white letters — impossible to miss. Other racers called her over-the-top, claiming that the leather interior, climate control, and extra aerodynamic stabilizers only added unnecessary weight. But my father always said racing was won by the pilot — and how could you focus on victory while sitting on a hard plastic seat in a cockpit hotter than hell?

Even with her twin fifty-meter automatic cannons hidden beneath the hull, “Matilda” still looked dangerous. She was built for both spaceflight and atmospheric racing, a rare hybrid that could dominate in any environment. Her hull bore scars — some from my father’s days, others still fresh. I always told Chris not to smooth them out, just touch up the paint. They added character.

"Quit gawking! Test run!" Chris’s voice snapped through the air, cutting my admiration short.

Climbing into the cockpit, I settled into the seat and started the pre-flight sequence by muscle memory: reactor, navigation, auxiliary systems — all online. I sealed the canopy, the soft hiss of pressurization filling the cabin as Chris headed for the control booth at the far end of the hangar.

With a hum of machinery, massive magnetic clamps rose from the hangar floor, locking onto “Matilda’s” frame to hold her steady during the test. Ventilation slats opened in the rear wall, ready to absorb the engine’s exhaust plume.

"Start at ten percent," Chris’s voice crackled through the comm speaker.

I nudged the throttle lever forward to the ten-percent mark. The ship shuddered, and the clamps creaked slightly under the strain.

"Looking good! Now ease it up to full power."

I gradually pushed the throttle forward. The vibrations intensified, rattling through the hull — nothing unusual during a stationary test. There were two ways to test engine output: like this, or out on the track. The first method was riskier — if the clamps failed, the ship would rocket straight into the nearest wall. But track hours were strictly limited, and the third option — flying out to open space where there were no limits — was too far and too time-consuming.

"Okay, that’s enough!" Chris called. "Not bad — almost three percent better than last time. Temperatures are within normal range. Just one last test."

Something heavy rose from the hangar floor — a turret, large-caliber and menacing. I never heard the shot, but the burst of flame that erupted ten meters ahead of the ship was enough to make me flinch, eyes squeezing shut out of reflex. Just for a moment. When I opened them again, a projectile was hovering inches from the cockpit canopy, crackling with sparks against the protective energy shield. Painted right on the shell was a cheeky smiley face.

"God, I love you, Chris," I exhaled.

The shield pulsed once, and the projectile clattered harmlessly to the floor. By then, the magnetic clamps had already retracted into the hangar deck, releasing the ship from their iron grip. I popped the canopy open to savor a last breath of relatively clean air. A second later, Chris appeared beside the cockpit, climbing halfway up the boarding ladder until her face was level with mine.

"You forgot something," she said with a smirk, pressing a helmet into my hands — painted in the same bold red and white as “Matilda”.

"Take care of yourself," she added, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "And give ‘em hell!"

I grinned and pulled the helmet on.

"Let’s rock, baby," I murmured to the ship.

Waiting until Chris stepped back, I eased the throttle forward, and “Matilda” slowly lifted off the deck, rising toward the open hangar doors in the ceiling above. Time to hit the starting line.

THREE HOURS AND FIVE THOUSAND KILOMETERS LATER

“Come on, Duck! You’ve got this!” Chris yelled through the comms. “Final stretch! Two minutes to the line — you’ve still got a shot at passing T’Ziro and Rodriguez! Hit the booster!”

“I know, I know…” I gritted through my teeth. “Not yet.”

Three ships thundered down the straightaway, practically welded together in a high-speed pack. Rodriguez led the charge up front, his bulky racer swaying side to side as he tried to block T’Ziro from slipping past. Her ship was faster, but it lagged slightly in maneuverability. I clung to their tails, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Options were limited. I could see both rivals clear as day — one press of the trigger, and I could light them up at point-blank range. But firing would slow me down too much, and the racers breathing down my neck would tear past in an instant. Another option: redirect power to the shields and ram them head-on, hoping to knock them aside. But Rodriguez’s ship was heavier, and that gamble might backfire spectacularly. The last option was a split-second gamble — wait until Rodriguez stopped weaving, then slingshot past both of them with a burst of afterburner right before the finish. Risky as hell, especially if T’Ziro reacted faster. But I chose to roll the dice. I cut power to the auxiliary systems — axial stabilizer, ECS, climate control. The cockpit instantly went dark and eerily silent, the pedals stiffening under my feet as if weighted down by thirty extra kilos. In the corner of the holographic display, a countdown began, the digits blurring as they ticked off the final kilometers.

Six seconds. I pressed the red button.

Five seconds. The pressure on my shoulders doubled, pinning me to the seat.

Four seconds. Fifteen Gs. My vision narrowed, veins throbbing in my temples as a high-pitched whine echoed in my ears.

Three seconds. It was a miracle I was still conscious.

Two seconds. My skull felt like it was about to split open.

One second. The cockpit flared crimson as “REACTOR OVERHEAT”! flashed across the display.

Zero!

Finish!

The world blurred in a haze of speed, then snapped back into focus as the racer hit the braking zone. Indicators flashed wildly across the dashboard — every damage warning in existence lit up at once. The air in the cockpit burned my lungs like molten metal.

But none of that mattered. The finish line camera flashed on the display — First Place! I’d edged out T’Ziro by barely a third of a hull. Rodriguez had crossed nearly side by side with her, but the photo finish awarded him third place.

“Well done, Duck!” Chris whooped through the comms. “Now you’ve earned the right to drink yourself stupid!”

“You too — it’s your win as much as mine!” I shot back.

“Oh, quit it, kid. Nobody cheers for the mechanics. Besides, all that glory’s wasted on me — I didn’t even put on makeup today,” she teased, then cut the connection.

I exhaled a shaky breath as “Matilda” coasted onto autopilot, gliding toward the platform beside the winner’s podium. By some ancient, godforsaken tradition, the top three pilots had to stand on that three-tiered platform — with their ships towering proudly behind them.

The moment I touched down, the ship was instantly swarmed — paparazzi, fans, and every other breed of nosy bastard trying to peer straight down my throat. I kept my helmet on as usual. The flashes from their cameras could blind you if you weren’t careful. By the time I pushed through the crowd, T’Ziro and Rodriguez had already taken their places on the podium — second and third, respectively.

As always, T’Ziro was a blue iceberg of composure, her expression unreadable, as if missing the gold yet again didn’t bother her in the slightest. Rodriguez, on the other hand, was all yellow-toothed grins, loudly arguing with his fans as if the whole race had been a personal offense.

I stepped onto my platform. From nowhere, a woman appeared — a vision in a dress colored like the championship flag. She handed me a massive bottle of champagne. Tradition dictated that I shake it up, pop the cork, and spray everyone within range — another ancient ritual nobody seemed inclined to retire. The paparazzi around the pedestal took a cautious step back. Finally, I could breathe.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

I took a swig for victory — the stuff inside was, as usual, the cheapest, most gut-wrenching champagne they could find. Before I could toss the bottle aside, it vanished from my hands, replaced with a gleaming trophy that was far heavier than it looked. Raising it overhead without collapsing into the dirt for the cameras was its own kind of endurance test.

The rest passed in a blur — flashes, shouted questions, polite answers shouted back. Eventually, they herded us inside to sit at a table beneath a backdrop plastered with endless sponsor logos. The press fired off the usual barrage of stupid questions. After that came the banquet. By the time the circus finally wrapped up, the sun was sinking low, and I was free to go wherever I damn well pleased.

As usual, I left with a girl on my arm.

We were just stepping into the hotel lobby when I spotted two painfully familiar figures. Frank and Hank — or was it Hank and Frank? Even their names were interchangeable. Built like industrial refrigerators, squared off from shoulder to jaw, dressed in flawlessly pressed, anonymous black suits. From a distance, you could mistake them for androids.

“The boss wants a word,” they said in perfect unison.

“Sweetheart, head on up and make yourself at home. I’ll catch up in a bit,” I whispered to the girl, handing her my room key.

Before I could blink, the twins had me by the shoulders, hauling me outside and stuffing me into a sleek black vehicle that glided up to the curb.

“Don Carlos, in the flesh”. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of an old holo-film — three-piece suit, fedora, cigar, and a glass of something expensive in hand.

“Dodgers, you disappoint me…” His voice rasped like gravel underfoot. “You’ve completely lost respect for our arrangement. We clear your debts, you do what you're told. It was simple. You did your part — until tonight. You had one job: make sure that blue-skinned brat didn’t slip past Rodriguez. And Rodriguez was supposed to win.”

“Rodriguez is a damn anchor!” The alcohol in my bloodstream apparently had no filter. “T’Ziro would’ve blown past him at the last second anyway. I just took my shot!”

“Hmm…” The Don swirled his drink thoughtfully. “A dangerous thing… thinking you know better.”

“So what now? I’m the Supernova champion! What can you do, huh? Sponsors are gonna be fighting tooth and nail to get me on their teams for the Galactic Championship.”

“Ah, youth… No respect for tradition…” He exhaled a slow plume of smoke, eyes narrowing to slits. “Still, you’ve cost us dearly, boy — and trust is not so easily repaired. You have one week. Five million credits. The clock is ticking.”

I only smiled, though my tongue itched to fire back with “Piss off, you old geezer”!

The car pulled up to the hotel again, and the twins deposited me back at the front steps. I headed upstairs to my room. Dim lighting, soft music, the distant sound of water splashing in the shower...

The night was far from over.

MORNING

Stone-cold sober and carrying a small bouquet of flowers, I made my way toward the hangar, as usual, to help Chris pack up our gear for the trip home. Inside, everything looked the same as always: “Matilda” stood proudly in the center, spotlights gleaming off her hull. But something felt off.

Chris was nowhere in sight.

Her tool cart sat beside the open side panel of the ship, tools scattered across the surface, and her favorite coffee mug lay abandoned on the floor. My pulse quickened as I approached and spotted a note resting among the wrenches. The handwriting was neat, deliberate:

“One week. Five million credits. The clock is ticking. If you ever want to see her again”.

"SON OF A BITCH!!!" My mind instantly flashed back to last night’s conversation with Don Carlos.

I was screwed. Again.

Without hesitation, I dialed her number on my communicator, hoping this was some sick joke.

"Calling to say you’ve got the money already, Dodgers?" Don’s gruff voice answered the moment his face flickered onto the screen. "That was quick."

"What? Money?! That’s five million! Where the hell am I supposed to get that kind of cash?!"

"Not my problem," the boss replied calmly. "Maybe you should ask your sister."

The camera on his end shifted, now showing Chris in close-up. She looked tense, furious, but otherwise unharmed.

"Chris, sweetheart, it’s Declan!" I shouted.

Chris glanced toward the camera, her eyes blazing with anger. "Damn you, Declan! You dragged me into your shady crap again! How many times is it now?!" Her voice kept going, though someone offscreen quickly muffled her.

"As you can see, she’s fine… for now," Don added smoothly. "But the clock’s ticking, Dodgers."

With that, the line went dead.

I dropped to the floor — well, more like collapsed, landing hard and leaning against the tool cart. This wasn’t a prank. And it sure as hell wasn’t a dream.

No time to dwell on it. I needed options.

Five million credits — that was way too much, even for a rising star like me. After taxes, crew payments, and all the other expenses eating into yesterday’s prize money, I’d barely have a million left. Not bad, but nowhere near enough.

That left two options: steal five million or hand over “Matilda” — which happened to be worth exactly that much.

The second option was a no-go. Besides, that’s probably what Don Carlos wanted all along. He’d been after “Matilda” for years, offering to buy or trade for her more times than I could count. As for the first option… well, I had a few ideas.

A FEW HOURS LATER

“No, no, and hell no! You’ve completely lost your mind!”

“Morty, you’re my only hope!”

“They’ll catch you and throw you in jail! And then they’ll throw me in for aiding and abetting!”

“Morty, I swear, I'll break your nose right now — make it look like you had no choice.”

“No thanks. I happen to like my nose the way it is…”

For the past half hour, I’d been sitting in a bar, nursing a beer and arguing with my best friend, who stubbornly refused to help me pull off the job.

“Alright, fine,” Morty finally said, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Let’s just ignore the fact that you’ll be arrested exactly four minutes and fifty-one seconds after the alarm goes off. How do you even plan to pull this off?”

“Like the good old days!” I grinned and slammed a massive pistol onto the table, pulling it from my coat pocket.

“Are you completely an idiot?!” Morty exploded again. “Where the hell did you get that?!”

“It’s mine — leftover from the old days.”

“And how the hell did you even get that thing onto this planet?”

“That’s the best part — totally legal.” I chuckled. “It’s listed in our equipment inventory as a ‘shield-testing device,’ right next to the 120-millimeter cannon.”

“Time may pass, Duck, but you’re still the same lunatic…” Morty muttered, rubbing his temples as if fighting off a headache.

“So… will you help me?”

“Only if you promise not to break my nose! Also, it'll cost you two hundred grand.”

“How much?! Are you out of your damn mind?!”

“Nobody parts with information like that for free, you know… And just to be clear, you’re planning to do this solo? Don’t count on me to take any bullets for you.”

“No, I need a partner. Maybe two. Know anyone?”

“…Yeah, I know a couple of guys. But! ” —He hesitated, shaking his head. “Ah, screw it. It’s your funeral… Tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

With that, Morty shot out of the bar like a bullet, vanishing through the doors before I could say another word. I stayed behind, nursing the last of my beer and mentally piecing together the details of the plan.

THE NEXT DAY

"Alright, here they are. Glen and Butch. Total psychos — just the way you like ‘em."

"Let’s go, then…"

"Nope! You’re on your own, buddy!"

With a shrug, I approached their table at the far end of the bar. The two of them nursed mugs of cheap beer. Butch, the big guy, was built like a cargo hauler — musclebound and not exactly radiating intelligence. Glen, on the other hand, was wiry, bespectacled, and clearly the brains of the duo. Their clothes gleamed—not from style, but from the greasy stains that shimmered across the fabric. Odds were, they worked down in the lower levels of the local spaceport.

Grabbing three more mugs of beer from the bar, I slid into the seat across from them.

"Hey! Declan Dodgers!" Butch boomed in a rough but friendly voice.

Glen silenced him with a quick wave of his hand.

"Good evening, Mr. Dodgers," he said smoothly. "Let’s cut to the chase — why would someone of your stature need the services of people like us? Why not approach a larger organization? The CSP, for example."

"Uh… I was told you’re the best specialists around. Versatile, discreet… just what I need," I replied, choosing my words carefully.

Glen’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if measuring me. Butch, meanwhile, grinned and slapped the table.

"Yeah, damn right we’re the best!"

"Alright… Do you have a plan?" Glen asked after a brief pause, his calculating gaze locked onto mine.

I pulled a small holo-projector from my pocket, placing it on the table. The device whirred to life, displaying a compact schematic in midair.

"The transport will move toward the city through this canyon," I explained, tracing a route with my finger. "Standard escort — one, maybe two fighters. I'll intercept them here and disable the escort. You’ll wait at this spot and take down the transport the moment it enters the kill zone. Then it's just a matter of collecting the cargo and delivering it to me. By the time the police respond, I'll be long gone, and you two will vanish without a trace. Thoughts?"

"Hmm… It’s a decent plan… in a way," Glen mused, stroking his chin. "What's the cargo?"

"No idea," I admitted honestly. "All I have right now is the route. I’ll get the exact timing soon."

"And payment?" Butch asked, leaning forward.

"How much do you want?"

"Six hundred thousand," Butch replied without hesitation.

"Four hundred," I countered.

"Five hundred. And we want a hundred upfront."

"Deal." I flashed a grin and clinked my mug against theirs. "Stay ready. I'll call you tomorrow."

THE NEXT EVENING

I stood at my position, eyes locked on the horizon where the red dust of the Martian desert swirled like a living thing. Then, right on schedule, the transport emerged from beyond the ridge, flanked by three fighters bearing the “General Aerospace” emblem. Three escorts? A bit heavier protection than I’d expected. Time to fire up the engines.

The transport, though surprisingly swift for its size, still couldn’t hope to match even a standard racer — let alone “Matilda”. My radar locked onto the first target. I squeezed the trigger. A streak of fire shot across the sky — the fighter vanished into a plume of smoke and debris, tumbling into the canyon below.

The other two instantly caught on.

I pulled back hard, rocketing upward and bursting free of the dusty veil, head-on with the second pilot. Unlike mine, his craft could maintain cruising speed along any axis, thanks to engines mounted on pivoting pylons.

But I shot first.

A burst of tracer fire lit up his shields — flickering, then failing altogether. The last two rounds clipped his right engine, sending the fighter into a wild spin before it smashed into the canyon wall with a thunderous crash.

The third pilot wasted no time. He slipped onto my tail, and the cockpit blared with the shriek of a rear-shield overload alarm. One more hit, and I’d be toast.

Yanking the stick back, I diverted power to the engines, pushing “Matilda” into a wide vertical loop that left my stomach somewhere near my boots. The maneuver spat me out right behind the last fighter.

The pilot hesitated — a fatal mistake. He veered left, trying to dodge, but my cannons shredded through his tail section. His ship began a slow, spiraling descent until it slammed into a rocky mound below.

I swung my sights toward the transport, then checked the timer.

Right on cue.

As if sensing my thoughts, two bright streaks of light shot up from the canyon floor — heat-seekers, both locked on the transport.

The first missile struck dead-on. The second… veered off course — straight toward me.

“THOSE JERKS!”

I didn’t even think — just yanked the ejection handle.

LATER

"You think he's still alive?" a voice drifted through the haze behind my closed eyelids.

"Why guess? Just shoot him to be sure," another voice replied.

Chances were good they were talking about me.

Eyes snapping open, I reached for my pistol with one hand and the seatbelt release with the other. Butch loomed over me, a massive shotgun pressed against my stomach. His eyes went wide with shock — and fear.

Bang!

Instinct moved faster than thought. The shotgun blasted harmlessly into the air as Butch's body slumped forward, pinning me down with dead weight.

"What the hell was that? Butch?!" a voice shouted nearby.

Shoving the corpse aside, I spotted Glen a few meters away — the so-called brains of this dynamic duo. He stood frozen, too shocked to even reach for the pistol holstered at his waist.

"It wasn’t me! It was all Butch’s idea!" he yelped as I closed the distance, pistol aimed squarely at his chest.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "Where’s the cargo?"

"In the truck," he stammered, jabbing a finger over his shoulder. "But it’s weird. The transport was carrying military cases or something."

"What?!" I cut him off. "It was supposed to be hauling fuel rods!"

Glen just shrugged, clearly too terrified to care.

I forced a smile — or at least something that vaguely resembled one — and cracked him across the skull with the butt of my pistol. Before his knees buckled, I grabbed him, keeping him upright. Sliding his pistol into his hand, I wrapped his fingers around the grip and fired several shots into the air — enough to leave traces of gunpowder on his skin. Then, using Butch’s massive hands, I pulled the trigger and put Glen down.

When the cops arrived, they’d see two low-life thieves who’d turned on each other over the loot. That should buy me enough time to pay off Don and vanish from this rock.

Snagging the truck keys and a clean pistol from Butch’s belt, I turned and headed toward the vehicle.

THE NEXT MORNING

"What the hell is this?!" Don Carlos growled, eyeing the contents of the case with visible frustration. "This doesn’t look like five million credits!"

"I don’t know what it is," I replied calmly, holding up the stolen documents Morty had swiped. "But it’s definitely worth more than five million. The cargo was being transported under a falsified manifest."

Don inhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual measured tone. "Alright... Let’s hope the profit is worth the risks."

Turning to one of his men, he gave a brief nod. A moment later, Chris was led in from an adjacent room. Her posture was stiff, her expression weary. Her gaze flicked between me, Don, and the case on the table before she stepped up behind me and clutched my arm tightly.

Without another word, we left Don Carlos’s estate and climbed into the waiting vehicle.

Half the ride back to the spaceport passed in silence, until Chris could no longer hold it in.

"Duck… you’re not planning to disappear like Dad, are you?" she asked, her voice strained with unspoken fear.

I eased off the accelerator, glancing over at her. Tears glistened in her eyes.

"I won’t leave you," I promised. "We disappear together."

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