"...Fuel levels are go. Engine temperature is go. Lifters are go. Capsule sealing is go. Steering is go. Instruments... are go." I inhale and exhale deeply, closing my gloves around the yoke. "I think...I think that's everything." I'm careful not to clench onto the wide U-shaped steering mechanism too hard, though it's tempting. I don't want to fray the last stitches keeping these old, grayed things together, even if they are a bit too small.

The starship hums quietly underneath me, free of the rattling and grinding noises the engine made when I first, uh, 'salvaged' this thing from a junkyard about nine months ago. Instead of jolting me around in my seat the way it did the first time I turned it on, all I can feel now is a quiet, calm rumbling.

I'm not the best mechanic—I'm much better at being a pilot—but I'm apparently good enough at mechanical stuff to puzzle-piece salvaged bits and chunks of junk together into an operational starship. Between what I read at the last few branches of the Startropolis public library that haven't banned me (for not having a permanent address and therefore being unable to get a library card) and what I've learned from hanging out around repair shops, I've learned enough to get this thing up and running again.

And, of course, modified well past its original scope of use.

The silence of the old-growth oak forest surrounds me, broken only by the quiet of the engine. Outside, it's a lovely, warm, clear Earlsummer night. It's the perfect night for a flight test. In here, inside the sealed capsule, it's slightly cooler than outside, but still a nice temperature. The air smells a little strange, lacking the earthiness of the forest air or the electric liveliness of the air in Startropolis that I'm around more often. It's clean, though, and full of enough oxygen to keep me breathing. That's what matters.

I flex my gloves, tighter and looser, once again, making sure I've got a solid grip on the yoke. "Alright. Let's just go for an easy liftoff to start." I press the hover buttons on either side of the yoke, sending the starship hovering gently straight up into the air. "Perfect takeoff. That's promising." Releasing the hover buttons, I pull the yoke down and towards me, slowly accelerating and angling upwards at the same time. I guide the starship up past the tree cover of the forest outside the city, grateful for the new moon hiding me from any prying eyes in the outskirts. "Let's just fly above the treeline for a bit, make sure we don't get any system alarm surprises this time."

I don't really know why I'm talking out loud. It's not like anyone's listening. It's not like I've bothered to alter the radio to be able to send signals out, so nobody could possibly be listening. Must be the nerves and excitement; I need to hear something besides the engine to keep my heartrate from going too nuts.

The starship does fine with a slow, drifting flight over and around the oak forest below, so I slowly start to push it faster and turn it harder. Still, no alarms, and the engine still sounds like a contented cat. So far, so good. "Atta ship. You're doing great," I murmur, reaching my pink-side glove out and giving the dashboard a pat of encouragement. My blue-side glove stays firmly on the yoke, of course. I don't need any nasty surprises. Not when I'm finally this close.

"Alright. Low flight test is passed with flying colors." I accelerate further, taking the starship farther from the city to avoid any noise issues as the engine will inevitably get louder. Once I feel secure that I'm far enough out, I tilt the yoke sharply towards me, pulling the starship into a steep climb, up to atmospheric travel level. The engine still doesn't clank or whine, and there's no telltale hissing or whistles of a broken capsule seal.

I might actually be able to pull this thing off this time.

At travel level, a single alarm finally goes off, but it's one I'm expecting. "Warning," the dashboard radio warns in a staticky, broken voice. "You are not on an approved air travel course." That's a good thing; I don't want to be spotted by any late-night commuters or joyriders, or hit any of them, for that matter. The locator system in this thing works insofar that it knows where it's at about 95% of the time, but I made sure to modify it so it's not pinging my location out to anybody else.

After all, I don't want some cop showing up scolding me first for flying in an unauthorized zone, second for flying an unregistered ship, and third for flying period, given I don't have a license. You need a permanent address for those, too, of course. And while technically, the abandoned apartment building I and several other members of Startropolis' refuse bunker down in most nights has a street address, I'm not exactly a legal tenant.

Let's just sum it up this way: Me and the law aren't exactly besties. It's not easy to be when their system is kinda built to make being homeless all but illegal.

I silence the almost-cheerful chiming of the alarm with a quick button press of my right, blue-side glove. Then, it's back to both gloves on the yoke, and another slow, controlled breath in and out.

"Show me what you've got for evasive maneuvers, ship."

With a sudden jerk of the yoke, I wrench the ship first into a barrel roll, and then into a spiraling loop-the-loop that takes me up a little farther from the ground. A sharp zigzag quickly follows as I throw the ship to port, to starboard, and back to port again, as if dodging small asteroids or some other form of airborne junk. Still, the ship itself doesn't complain, although the altimeter begins to blink a slow, ponderous red light, warning me that I'm reaching the top of this starship's intended altitude zone.

This ship was meant for inner-atmospheric travel around the planet, probably mostly by Startropolis-based company execs who live out in splendid mansions about 20 minutes' flight out of the city. If this was a larger model, I'd assume it was meant for family or school travel, or possibly for medical purposes. But when a ship is built for one or two passengers, tops, like this one is, and when the chipped paint on the outside still shows its flashy original chrome in places, it's pretty obvious this thing was meant to be some big shot's shiny toy, not an orbital or post-orbital transportation ship like what they'd use in, say, the Army.

But like I said. I've been modifying this thing for nine months. I've crashed three ships before this one, but none of them started out in as good of shape as this one did. Neither was I able to get ahold of some cast-off Army parts that wound up in the junkyard with the other ones, either. Salvaged ships, cleaned up out of the atmosphere after they met with Nightmare's paltry occasional air attacks and didn't make it out, must suck for the bigwigs up in orbit. For me, though, they mean free parts, and free orbital and even post-orbital parts at that.

Hence, this thing has a sealing capsule now, as well as an air tank. The fuel system and propulsion aren't up to code for an orbital machine, by any means, but this thing hits the most basic requirements to make it to escape velocity and then some. Would the Army ever want this thing up running missions? No. Will it get me out of the atmosphere? Well, that's what I'm about to find out.

I level the ship out of a spiraled acceleration and let it slow down to a cruising pace once again. A glance at the fuel meter tells me I'm go to try a steep climb; I haven't even made a dent in the levels yet. My first try at flying this high in my first salvaged ship, I quickly found a leak in the fuel system that didn't show up at hover level thanks to the different air pressure down there. Up here, though, I started losing fuel at an alarming rate, and while I got back to the ground, let's just say that the landing impact was rougher than ideal.

But I survived, and I've still got a brain and paws, and as far as I'm concerned, that's everyone's problem but mine.

"Okay...Okay." I steady myself, and take another glance at the altimeter, which is now pulsing red a bit faster. I'm less than halfway to orbit at this altitude. Let's close that distance a bit. "Here goes."

With a yank of the wheel in two different angles, I simultaneously start climbing and accelerating at a much faster pace than I've gone so far. In about five seconds, the altitude alarm starts going off with the obnoxious chiming sound again.

"You are past safe altitude levels, please—You are far past safe altitude levels, plea—WARNING. WARNING. YOU HAVE REACHED DANGEROUS ALTITUDE LEVELS. ENGINE MAY STALL AT THIS ALT—"

I jab at the button to override the alarm the first chance I get, after it's already hit several alarms in a row. The altimeter that came preinstalled tops out, unable to keep climbing. The Army-requisition altimeter on the dash that I jerry-rigged in, though, keeps climbing.

I level the ascent out slightly, but keep rising. The accelerator I keep pushing as hard as I can, eyes flicking down to the Army speedometer every couple of seconds. "Come on. I'm not at escape velocity yet and I need to be. Come on."

The engine starts to whine. I hit the speed of sound a few minutes ago, of course—part of why I wanted to be out of town, so the boom didn't alert any nosy cops—but I can still hear the engine's distress, given I'm traveling at the same speed it is. And boy, is it a sound I do not want to be hearing right now.

"Oh no you don't," I hiss at it, leveling out slightly more to slow the ascent again. I still don't let up on the accelerator. If I don't hit EV soon, the engine will stall due to the thinness of the air up here. Once I'm out in space, the secondary, orbital fuel-cell engine I installed will have its turn to shine. Out of all the parts I've nabbed, that one's gotta be the most impressive. Before I get a chance to actually use it for its intended purpose, though, the atmospheric engine has to do the grunt work.

And right now, its whine is gradually turning into a screech.

"Come on," I hiss, flickering my eyes constantly between the windshield and the speedometer. For most of the flight, I've been surrounded by clouds, but up here in the stratosphere it's just sort of dark and empty. The turbulence of lower altitudes has all but vanished. "I'm so close. Just a little faster."

The engine screams, now joined by a chorus of alarms. I ignore them, pressing onward. I hit EV with seconds to spare, and I yank the ship once more into a steep climb. The ship rattles, the engine wails, but it's getting quieter as the air gets ever thinner. And then suddenly, all goes silent, as no air is left to carry sound. All that's left is the feeling of the shuddering engine below me.

I cut the atmospheric engine with my shaking blue-side glove. I'm past EV, and I'm out of the atmosphere. I don't need propulsion anymore to keep moving. Inertia will keep me going at speed until I use a burn from the orbital engine to change direction.

I am, for the first time in my life, out in space.

"I did it," I mutter in amazement. I lock the yoke in place with the flip of a switch, and flop back against the torn leather benchseat, letting my gloves fall limply to my sides. "I really did it."

The space around my ship is empty, and when I glance at the rearview mirror, I can see Star World, still up close and personal, but slowly getting smaller. With a sudden twist, I whip around in the seat to look out the back glass of the thickly-domed capsule.

The slowly-shrinking planet looks just like it does in all the photos I've seen in books and video clips aired on news broadcasts I've watched in television store windows. Blues and greens abound with patches of brown and tan, and white rests on the top and bottom of the looming sphere. All over are wisps and patches of clouds; above the ocean, the beginnings of a tropical storm lazily churn.

It is absolutely gorgeous, just like I knew it'd be. And yet, although I've seen images of this view probably a hundred thousand times, it's so much more beautiful than I could ever imagine.

If only life on the surface lived up to what it looks like out here.

Exhaling slowly, still in a state of disbelief, I slide back around in the seat. In shock, I hold my gloves to my head. "I did it. I really, really did it."

It took about four total years of teaching myself to fly, two and a half years of smuggling junked parts, and two years of crashes and bumps and bruises, but I finally escaped the atmosphere of the planet that's never wanted me.

I'm gonna have to go back, I know. I don't have enough fuel to make it anywhere; not yet. But I have enough fuel to land, assuming I'm more cautious on the way down than I was on the way up. I already start taking mental notes, figuring out what I need to accomplish for next time. Beef up the engine further. How, I'm not sure, but I'll figure something out. See if I can get the altimeter alarm system cut without damaging anything else.

Shaking myself, I force myself to quit analyzing for now and just enjoy the moment. It is so eerily silent here. I'm the only thing making noise, since I'm pretty much the only thing out here still lucky enough to be carrying air around with me.

Almost as an afterthought, I reach over and flick on the orbital engine, and pull the decelerator while carefully executing a turn, leveling me into a steady orbit several hundred kilometers above the ground. Far enough out I won't hit any of the few weather and Army satellites that circle the planet, but still close enough that I won't be scared of drifting off into empty space. Once I'm sure my orbit is steady, I flip the orbital engine back off. The fuel cell for that thing is a lot more expensive than the liquid fuel the atmospheric engine takes, and a lot harder to replace if it goes kaput. Liquid fuel I can siphon out of tanks while the rich people who own starships or cars sleep or while an underpaid and undertipped valet who knows what it's like to be down and out turns a blind eye. I've even managed to siphon from a couple of cop cars, but those are a lot harder to sneak up on, so I don't make a habit of it.

I lean against the port side of the capsule, and take a closer look around. The moon is still far past me, but bigger than I've ever seen it before other than on harvest moon nights. The sun is much farther still, but definitely looks more like a giant ball of gas out here than it does on the surface. I'm careful not to focus on it; if I can't even afford liquid fuel then I definitely can't afford to get my eyes fixed if I sear my retinas or something.

The stars, though. Shoot. The stars are as breathtaking as I imagined they'd be from up here. I don't always agree with my species on everything, but even I can admit we're right when it comes to our collective obsession with the stars.

A broken, disbelieving chuckle escapes my throat. "You crazy street urchin, you really did it." Somehow, it doesn't feel real, even though I'm literally here, living it. I'm in orbit. I made it. And it's all thanks to me and my stubborn-headed drive to get here, no matter what it took.

Now what are you going to do? Now that you don't have some crazy goal to live for anymore?

I shake off that thought, just like I shook off its predecessors in the years before. What do I do now that I'm homeless? How in the world am I going to find a place to stay? Why do I think I could ever manage to fly myself out of here? All things I eventually found answers to. I'll figure out a new goal. I'll figure something out for myself. I always have.

I've made it this far. I've survived almost 21 years on a planet that doesn't care whether I live or die, and my acceleration away from it hasn't let up once in all that time. I don't plan on slowing down now, even if I'm not sure which direction I'm going in just yet.

"Attention, un—wn spacecraft. This is Airman First Cl— Striker of the St— —arrior Air Force." I startle at the voice suddenly crackling out of the radio. "Remain statio—ry and prepare for ren—vous. This is forbid— airspace for all non-military or non-app—ved vessels. Over."

A scowl instantly overtakes my face. Before the relay is finished, I've already unlocked the yoke and flipped the orbital engine on. I can't believe I forgot to plan for space cops. Of course there would just have to be space cops. What I don't understand is, how did they find me? I don't beam my location out; I made sure to remove that function long before I ever powered this thing on.

"Radar indi—cates that your vess— is smaller than requi—tion size. Orbiting in such a ve—el is highly danger—. Redezv— in approxi—ly thirty secon—. Over."

Radar. Of course they'd have radar. I'm an idiot; I didn't once think about needing to figure out a cloaking or jamming mechanism. Well, now I know for next time. And there's gonna be a next time, because I am not about to let some glorified donut-muncher take me in. I haven't been in a questioning room in almost a year, which is my longest streak since becoming homeless. I'm not about to break it.

They'd have to catch me first.

I can see the larger starship coming for the declared rendezvous now. The Academy/Army HQ space station must be on the other side of the planet from me; I haven't seen it while I've been up here. Still, it's amazing they've gotten somebody out to me this fast. Then again, they probably sent someone out here soon after I exited the atmosphere and just waited until they were close to tell me about it, to give me less time to escape. Or it could be that my radio is just old and bad and not built for this, so I didn't pick them up until now. Though, I'd think I'd at least get some static if that was the case.

Sucks for them, regardless. I've still got time.

With a wrench of the yoke, I twist the ship out of steady orbit and throw the accelerator. "What the—" 'Airman First Class' Striker's voice crackles over the radio. I can't hold myself back from a tiny smirk at the obvious shock in his tone, but I keep my focus. It's not gonna be easy to throw him up here. Throwing cop ships down surface is easier, insofar that I can just go into the old-growth forest and find a place to hide and cut the engine. Of course, I've also gotta avoid obstacles and can't go maneuvering too crazily. Up here, there's no obstacles, but there's nowhere to hide, either.

I glance at the ship in my rearview mirror, easily able to tell it's gaining on me. Makes sense; he has a bigger engine. I can't tell from this distance, though, whether he'd be able to follow me into the atmosphere or not. His might be a space-only vessel, but it could just as easily be equipped for station-to-surface transport. It's pretty much impossible to find specs on the newest Army ships as a civilian, and this one, standard gray, star-shaped like mine, but about three times the size, isn't a model I recognize off the top of my head.

I grunt, throwing myself into a barrel roll that pulls me 'above' his current trajectory. "Who taught this psych— to fly?" the radio crackles, quieter, as if he's speaking under his breath. His ship tilts up to follow me, but I quickly drive myself down, and then pull back on the decelerator, quickly moving my ship behind his. "Holy buckets. They didn't teach us that in ground school." The static of the radio is improving as he gets closer. Lovely. My radio is old and built to pick up atmospheric transmissions, but he's close enough at this point for it to be able to actually pick him up. I don't like that, but when he's got me beat on speed, there's not much I can do about it.

"Roger that," he says suddenly, speaking to dispatchers I can't hear. "Scans indicate this guy's flying a—no way. That can't be right." My smirk comes back, quite a bit bigger this time. "You're not gonna believe this. I don't believe this." Oh, believe it, buddy. "It's some kind of luxury ground ship; its registration expired some fifteen years ago. Thing was built before I was born; interwar era. How the blazes did he get it up here, and how did he get it fitted with an orbital engine?"

For some reason, his assumption that I'm a 'he' rubs me the wrong way. He's wheeled around towards me again, still 'up' from me, but I yank to the side and soar under his trajectory, hoping if I spin him around enough times, I can throw him. He clearly either doesn't have the maneuverability I do, or the skill to use it. One or the other. That seems to be my primary advantage.

"Rogue pilot has some pretty good evasive skills," Striker comments, a touch of respect in his voice. I wonder in passing what he looks like. It's kinda strange, in a way; he's chasing me and I'm running from him, but neither of us are able to get a good glance at the other. "This nutcase knows what he's doing flying this thing, though how come we've never noticed him up here before, I don't know. We get a few joyriders up here, sure, but never in old luxury models. Boys'll never believe this, huh?"

I doubt you'll wanna tell 'em about today once you've lost me, bud. Not exactly like you can run me into something and force me to pull over up here.

I twist myself up 'above' him in a swoop right before he can catch up to me, leaving him on the wrong trajectory once again. A low whistle comes across the radio, followed by louder speech directed at me. "Alright, bud, you've impressed me. Now come on and allow for rendezvous before I have to get mean. Over." He rises to my level and slows to my speed, only a handful of kilometers to my side. I chance a quick glance over towards him as I try to decide where to run next, and startle a bit as a yelp comes over the radio.

"It's a girl," his voice says, and while I can't see the disbelief on his face from here, I can see the gray shape of a Star Warrior in the pilot's seat of the bigger ship. "Either my eyes are lying to me, or she's pink and blue." A moment of stunned silence and listening on his part. "No, no; I mean she looks like she's a Split."

I wince at that last word, and with a snarl, I roll my ship into an ongoing roll, driving myself underneath him and out to his other side again.

"I don't know, Sarge; I don't want to hurt some girl." the radio says a moment later. "Scans show she doesn't have a Warp Star onboard with her. What'll protect her when—" A long pause, and then, "Fine, but I'm sending my Warp Star after her too. Don't need a civilian death to add to our records, even if it's under circumstances like these."

What about a Warp Star? Why would he need to—Shoot.

Shoot shoot shoot.

He's going to fire at me. He's not some atmospheric cop. He's an Army ship. Of course he's got guns.

Thankfully, I process that realization fast enough to drop below the aim of his first volley of laser bullets. "Sarge, I just don't feel good about this. Her ship doesn't have a radio out function in its specs, and as beat-up as the thing looks and as old as it is, she might not even be able to hear our orders. And again, it's a blinking miracle she even got the thing up here." Another volley. Another dodge. "I understand that we are at war, Sir, but I'm telling you, that's not a nightmare aboard that ship; it's either a rogue from our ranks or a civilian." I stay on high alert for another round of shots, but it doesn't come. "Prelim scans indicate she's not that old, either. This looks like some whiz kid on a joyride, not a threat, Sarge."

Wow. A space cop who's not a blame-happy jerk. Will wonders never cease.

"Yes, Sir... Yes, Sir. No, no; I understand Sir." Striker's voice sounds disappointed, almost; defeated, certainly. I grimace, preparing for another volley of lasers to be fired at me, but then jump in surprise at the sight of a Warp Star keeping speed immediately outside my capsule on the port side.

I scowl at and wrench towards it, trying to crash into it, but it somehow knows I'm coming for it and easily avoids me, keeping the same spot inches from my capsule. The radio speaks louder, to me, once more.

"Rogue pilot, be advised this is your final warning. Please slow for rendezvous or prepare to have your vessel be... decommissioned. Over."

I yank my yoke towards me once again, zooming 'up' past his nearing ship once more. The Warp Star keeps the same spot right next to me.

The radio sighs in some form of regret. I roll my eyes, preparing to dodge his next volley, still mentally searching for a way to escape.

The dash suddenly erupts in an explosion of lightning and sparks, and as soon as I process their presence, the world goes flashing black in a shock of searing pain.