The ship sails amongst the stars, several light years near the Daeir star cluster. The ship's massive exhaust keeps screaming into the cold vacuum of space as the high energy proton collisions has accelerated the ship for the past six suns in this galaxy. The outlaw is being chased.
Three ships of enormous size pursued the outlaw, releasing enormous plasma waves into space all around the outlaw. The lethal waves of energy dissipated after a certain length every time they missed the outlaw, but the outlaw stared kept a stony stare out of the front cockpit viewer. The viewer is showing a recorded video of the space beyond the blast shielding that covers the open view of the cockpit. The outlaw flicks one of the many switches that lights the dash all around, with monitors and instrument gauges in the front and control consoles at his side and overhead. The blast shielding for the cockpit retracts one section at a time with precision.
Space... surrounds the outlaw. The red nebula with glowing trails cosmic matter is swirling at his right overhead sight ports. The outlaw dims the consoles lighting to minimum and watches the nebula loom over his star ship. The overhead sight ports were split in the middle by the overhead console. Everything was quiet for a moment. The universe was a purgatory of a hundred billion lost souls.
The plasma cannons of the pursuing ships suddenly seared through his vision. The outlaw pounded the ship's console in outrage and frustration. Blindly, he groped for the flight control sticks. Other pilots have voted to have their ships flown by mental interpretation programs that understand thoughts, or fly with the touch sensitive 3D grids of space as the pilot can navigate through with his hands while the ship automatically adjusts the flight path.
"Who needs that when I can fly my own damn ship?" The outlaw mutters out to the blinking consoles.
The outlaw's hazy vision wasn't getting any clearer as the seconds pass. He grabs the dual thruster handles at both his sides and revs up the quantum collision core generators. His ship's cockpit cabin hiss air violently as it tried to keep up with the pressure difference caused by the magnetic compartments of the generators. It couldn't contain the energy exploding through the fourteen engines though out his ship.
The outlaw breathes slowly through a helmet's air mask that fits over the bottom half of his face. His hands tighten their grip on the thrusters that are slowly accelerating. He can see the blur of the familiar computer screen of his engines' status. He knows that, by now, it stated "engines prepping for quantum transfer, code M-F-8, level four, polarity synchronized, rotational lasers in overdrive, enter coordinates: ..." He pulls his visor on his helmet down briskly and it hisses when it clicked as the suit also adjusted air pressure within.
He was still alive. Even if it was only because he had released a horde of viruses through back programs into the ships chasing him for the past couple dozen solar systems. He successfully sabotaged their weapons' coordinate systems, communication channels, and several life support systems. They could chase him to the end of the galaxy until his ship couldn't handle the void beyond the unknown dark matter beyond this galaxy, but they will not take him alive. And they will not be the ones to kill him.
His vision clears a little more, but the outlaw now sees the dark ruby red nebula that still smothered the horizon of space above him.
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