It won't be long before I find the artifact that'll change my career forever. And yet, long enough to make me edgy. Hyperjumping across the galaxy takes a few hours, so I try to settle into my padded chair. My eyes are heavy from a long night of prepping this rental—and scrubbing it. The smell of rotten fruit only lingers if I breathe too deep. The S.S. Fresh Pineapples needs a better name. Lights in the dashboard blink, and star charts in the viewscreen flash by at breakneck speeds, making me dizzy. I fidget, but that makes the harness digs into my shoulders and waist.  

Enough of this.

After unbuckling, I stand. The anti-gravity makes my head reel as I stumble out of the cockpit and into the tiny, windowless living quarters. It's not tall enough for me to stand erect, and I'm a man of only 5'10. My ankle collides with the bed frame, and I hiss through my teeth. I try to hop over to the table, but the crown of my head bangs into the ceiling. Just the thousandth time I've done that. Who designed this heap? They need to be sent out the airlock.

Falling into one of the two bench seats built into the wall, I rest my arms on the cold table and swallow. I should drink one of the protein shakes, chilled and waiting within the built-in fridge overhead, but the thought makes me queasy. Should've sprung for a more advanced model, like the honeymoon jumper. It had better stabilizers and more room, since it was built for two. Two . . . wish I had someone to travel with me. I've been too busy alienating everyone to find a research partner. Alan might've come out of sheer curiosity. Or Jan and Ben. They were on board with most of my older theories. But no, it's just me, out here braving the universe alone. Same old, same old. Friendships are hard to maintain when you're more concerned with people long dead and gone, obsessed with finding their leftovers. That's what Ellie called me, right before she dumped me: obsessed. Maybe I am. Maybe that's what it takes to make a history-changing discovery.

I wobble to my feet and carefully get into bed. Pulling the covers up to my chin to combat the constant chill, I stare at the pipes and wires along the ceiling. Where things like oxygen is pumped in and carbon monoxide is sucked out, and the connections to things like the heater—as mediocre as it is. My life net. The system that keeps my sorry behind alive. Why am I alive? Is proving that my research is correct my only purpose in life? What happens when I do prove it? What will I do? I've built my entire career around this, and I've annoyed so many that they'll never want to work with me again. My eyes drift shut. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.