We live inside our greatest achievement.
I watch the stars as we Jump, a slight flicker in some of their positions, no noticeable change in most.
Another near miss, as anticipated: the Sun is four trillion kilometers away. Nothing but useless space around us. Two years ago, we unexpectedly arrived near Alpha Centauri, a false light at the end of our tunnel.

   The 351 passengers and crewmembers of our starship were Earth's brightest minds. They invented the Quantum Bridge as part of their quest to lead mankind to the stars.
For a while they even persuaded me. When the Elite Revolution failed, they used the prototype to escape into deep space.

   Turns out every Jump has a random deviation: the resulting course is called a Drunkard's Walk. With an error margin set by Heisenberg, our arrival point is fundamentally unpredictable. The United Nations can't catch us, but we'd be better off in a UN jail. One day by pure chance, we may arrive within ten billion kilometers of Earth, and then we can rocket home. But the odds are against us. Space is big and extremely empty.

   We Jump as often as possible. Our average distance increases as we spiral away from Earth.
I'm in charge of life support. My recycling system will last another century. Our ship looks brand new, but the crew is degenerating, playing games of intrigue, plotting their improbable revenge.
Unfocused talent devours itself. What percentage of mankind would survive their brilliant schemes?
There was another fight in the Main Room. At this rate, we'll have a civil war onboard.

   Must history repeat itself? It took me two years to break into the control room, but finally I have my chance. I set the dial for infinity.