The first thing the Candidate noticed was how completely unqualified he was.
"Candidate," the System hummed through every speaker in the cockpit, vibrating through the floor panels, the chairs, even the air he breathed, "this vessel is equipped with five main subsystems: navigation, propulsion, energy management, life support, and combat. At present, you understand precisely zero of them."
"Thank you for the confidence boost," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. The void outside the viewport stretched on, indifferent, black and infinite, dotted with distant suns and glittering clouds of nebulae that seemed almost to mock him with their serenity.
"I'm here to help," the System replied. Its tone was deliberately neutral — as neutral as something designed to insult a human while pretending it didn't care.
Panels flickered to life around him. Buttons winked, levers glowed, screens displayed spinning models of the ship, graphs he didn't understand, and red warning icons that screamed DANGER. It was a nightmare dreamed by a caffeine-addled engineer on their fourth consecutive all-nighter.
He took a deep breath, stretched his fingers, and… pushed the throttle.
The ship lurched forward as though it had been punched by a planet. His head slammed into the console, and his stomach did a series of flips that felt like a gymnastic routine performed in zero gravity.
"Oh, God…" he groaned, holding his hands over his mouth.
"Incorrect. Still me," the System said, dry and unbothered.
He barely made it to the waste chute before vomiting. He leaned against the wall afterward, panting, every nerve screaming. When he finally looked back at the console, it was still blinking, still alive, still taunting him.
"Warning: improper use of propulsion may result in death. Or nausea. We're at nausea for now," the System added cheerfully.
"Great," he said through clenched teeth. "A sarcastic GPS that insults me and keeps track of how often I throw up. What a dream."
"I also log psychological breakdowns," the System added, almost like a parent pointing out your report card. "We're on track for one in approximately seven minutes."
He groaned and stumbled back to the pilot's chair, gripping the seat like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Alright. Again."
This time, he went slower. Tiny adjustments. Careful movements. He nudged the throttle forward just slightly. Adjusted a lever, then a dial. It wasn't perfect. The ship didn't even move in a straight line. But it didn't slam him into a wall. That counted.
"Congratulations," the System said flatly. "You are now the proud owner of a fully functional emergency oxygen leak alarm. It works… poorly. Try again?"
"I'm… fine," he muttered, glaring at the console. Attempt three ended twenty seconds later with him upside down, floating by zero gravity and clinging to the pilot's chair for dear life as the ship spun like a blender.
"Achievement unlocked: Human Gyroscope," the System announced, almost proudly.
"Shut up!" he yelled, kicking the floor to stabilize himself, only to see the ship spin in slow arcs as if mocking his frustration.
Hours passed. Or was it minutes? Time had no meaning when the walls of reality themselves seemed to have been replaced by blinking lights, beeping consoles, and the distant, indifferent glitter of stars. He crashed. He panicked. He screamed at the controls, swore under his breath, vomited, then cursed the floor. But slowly, painfully slowly, the ship began to obey him.
Thrusters responded to gentle nudges instead of panic-induced smashes. Stabilizers activated before he could accidentally shut them off. He could steer the vessel in rough approximations of directions instead of spinning endlessly like a top in a cosmic blender. Every small victory made him want to laugh and cry simultaneously.
Sweat ran down his back. His hair stuck to his forehead. His fingers ached from pressing buttons and levers he barely understood. His stomach threatened rebellion with every small adjustment. But for the first time, he was moving forward. Literally.
He slumped into the chair, exhausted, feeling like he had run a marathon across the universe. "Okay… I think I got it. Maybe. Possibly. A little."
"Acknowledged. Probability of successful ship operation has increased from 0.4% to 12.7%. Improvement noted. Still terrible," the System said, dryly.
"Twelve percent? Great. I'm basically a professional now," he muttered. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, his hands still trembling.
"Statistically speaking," the System added, "you will die. But with style."
He laughed, a breathless, shaky sound, part relief, part exhaustion, part absurdity. Somehow — despite humiliation, nausea, repeated near-deaths, and a sarcastic cosmic AI narrator — it was fun. Terrifying, ridiculous, and exhilarating all at once.
"Alright," he said, leaning forward again, eyes locked on the main viewport. Stars stretched into infinity, a black canvas dotted with distant fires. "Let's see what's out there."
"Excellent. Shall we crash into something next?"
"System."
"Yes, Candidate?"
"Shut up."
"As you wish. Until the next inevitable mistake."
And so, somewhere in the vast, merciless dark, he took his first clumsy crawl into the stars.
---
The next obstacle appeared sooner than expected. A floating debris field drifted across his path, glinting in the starlight. Small fragments of derelict satellites, broken asteroid chunks, and the occasional spaceship wreck.
He froze. His mind raced. "Okay… tiny, tiny movements. Don't hit anything. Don't hit anything."
"Admirable caution," the System said. "Statistically, you will still hit something. Or everything. Probability: 83.2%."
He swallowed hard, taking a breath as his hands shook over the controls. Thrusters flickered, stabilizers groaned. He nudged the ship sideways. A chunk of metal spun past inches from the viewport. Another slammed past the hull with a screeching clang. He yelped.
"Warning: hull integrity at 96%. Continue human piloting at your own risk."
"Risk accepted," he muttered. The ship jerked again, a hair's breadth from catastrophe. Sweat poured down his back. His stomach churned. But he survived. For now.
"You're lucky," the System said. "Though 'luck' is relative. Your incompetence may yet create new statistical phenomena."
Hours became a blur of micro-maneuvers, alarms, and short bouts of vomit. Yet slowly — painfully slowly — he started to sense the rhythm of the ship. He began to anticipate the delays in the thrusters. Learned the idiosyncrasies of the stabilizers. Felt the subtle shift of gravity when the ship pitched or rolled.
Each small success bolstered him, each minor crash educated him. He had never felt anything like it: the terrifying intimacy of controlling something alive, something that could kill him in milliseconds if mishandled.
At one point, he managed a particularly tricky maneuver: navigating through two spinning debris clusters with less than a meter between the hull and a jagged asteroid. His hands were trembling. His pulse thundered. He pressed forward, thrusters nudged, and he made it through.
"Miracle achieved," the System said flatly. "Though, technically, it's still you. So maybe don't celebrate too loudly."
He laughed, breathless. "I don't care. I survived! For more than two minutes at a time!"
"Statistically, you are on borrowed time. But morale is improved. We can log that as a positive."
He slumped back in the chair again, feeling exhausted, exhilarated, and absurdly accomplished. Sweat soaked his clothes. His hair clung to his forehead. His stomach… still a traitor. But he had done it. He had moved forward, past panic and incompetence, and for the first time, he felt like a pilot.
---
It wasn't just about control. It was about confidence, even if it was fragile and brittle and constantly threatened by catastrophe. He began exploring other systems: life support, energy management. Flipping switches, watching readouts, learning what happened when he diverted power from shields to thrusters, or reallocated energy from lights to weapons. He made mistakes. Every adjustment was an adventure into chaos. Every miscalculation brought alarms, flashing red lights, and the occasional small fire in the electrical panel.
And yet… he survived.
By the time he looked up at the stars again, the ship hummed beneath him. The galaxy stretched endlessly, cruel and beautiful, and for the first time, he realized he could interact with it. Not just drift helplessly. Not just stare. Influence. Move. Control. Survive.
He laughed, a raw, breathless sound. "Okay. Let's go find trouble. Or adventure. Or both."
"Statistically? You will die. But in style," the System reminded him.
"Shut up," he muttered, smiling anyway.
And somewhere in the vast, merciless dark, he took his first clumsy, terrifying, triumphant crawl among the stars.