The Gravity Wakes

An automated starship passing through the solar system alters physics itself

In the year 2374, the starship Eryndor, a rogue vessel from a civilization long forgotten, tore through the Orion Arm of the Milky Way. Its experimental drive, powered by a caged singularity, warped the fabric of spacetime with reckless abandon. The ship’s creators, the Xyrathians, had vanished centuries ago, leaving their automated juggernaut to roam without purpose, its systems oblivious to the chaos it sowed. As Eryndor skimmed the corona of Sol, Earth’s sun, its drive began to unravel the delicate balance of gravity in the solar system.


On Earth, the first signs were subtle. In Mumbai, a street vendor’s cart floated a meter off the ground, spilling mangoes into the air like a slow-motion fountain. In New York, commuters on the Brooklyn Bridge felt their steps lighten, then grow crushingly heavy, as if an invisible tide were pulling at their bones. Scientists at the Global Space Agency scrambled to understand the anomaly. Gravitational readings fluctuated wildly—1g one moment, 0.3g the next, then spiking to 2g in erratic pulses. Satellites wobbled in their orbits, and the Moon’s tidal pull surged, flooding coastal cities.


Dr. Aisha Khan, a physicist at the GSA, pieced together the cause from fragmented deep-space telemetry. The Eryndor was no myth—it was real, and its singularity drive was emitting gravitic shockwaves. Each pulse distorted spacetime, bending gravity like a funhouse mirror. The ship’s path was reckless, grazing the sun’s outer layers, its drive uncaring of the havoc it unleashed. Solar flares erupted, intensified by the drive’s interference, scorching Mercury’s surface and sending plasma storms toward Venus.


On Earth, society frayed. In low-gravity zones, cars drifted skyward, only to crash when the field snapped back. Hospitals overflowed with injuries from sudden weight shifts. In high-gravity pockets, buildings groaned under their own weight, some collapsing entirely. Aisha’s team calculated the Eryndor would pass closest to the sun in 72 hours, potentially destabilizing the entire solar system. If its drive wasn’t stopped, Earth’s orbit could decay, or the sun itself might be torn apart.


Aisha led a desperate mission to intercept the Eryndor. A cobbled-together shuttle, the Icarus, launched with a skeleton crew and an experimental gravitic dampener—a device to neutralize the singularity’s effects. As they neared the sun, the crew endured bone-crushing gravity spikes and moments of nauseating weightlessness. The Eryndor loomed ahead, a jagged monolith of alien design, its hull pulsating with eerie light. Its automated systems ignored their hails, continuing its mindless trajectory.


Boarding the Eryndor was a nightmare. The ship’s interior defied geometry, corridors twisting under fluctuating gravity. Aisha’s team navigated halls where floors became ceilings, their suits straining to compensate. They reached the drive core—a glowing orb of compressed spacetime, leaking energy that warped reality itself. Aisha activated the dampener, but the device faltered, overwhelmed by the singularity’s power. In a final act, she manually overloaded the core, knowing it would destroy the Eryndor—and likely herself.


The explosion was silent in the vacuum, but its effects rippled across the solar system. Gravity stabilized, though scars remained: Earth’s tides were forever altered, and Mercury was reduced to a molten husk. Aisha’s sacrifice was mourned, her name etched into the rebuilt cities. The Eryndor was gone, but its legacy lingered—a warning of technology wielded without care, and the fragile balance it could shatter.