My Ultimate Sign-in System Made Me Invincible

Chapter 366: Gravitational Slingshot Around Saturn (2) (Bonus Chapter 3/4)

The shuttle fell toward Saturn in complete silence.

Without the fusion drive’s constant hum, every small sound became amplified. The faint creak of the hull adjusting to temperature changes.

The soft whisper of the life support system cycling air. The almost inaudible buzz of the orientation thrusters maintaining their rotational stability.

Through the viewport, Saturn filled more of the view with each passing second. The rings resolved into finer detail—individual bands separating into thousands of ringlets, each one a distinct orbital path carved by gravitational resonances.

The Cassini Division cut a dark line through the structure, and within it, fainter rings were visible, proof that even the gaps weren’t truly empty.

The Lucid users stood frozen in the shuttle’s cabin, their avatars clustered together like survivors of a shipwreck clinging to debris. No one spoke. The immersion was too complete, the silence too oppressive. Their brains insisted they were falling toward certain death, and no amount of rational thought could completely override that primal fear.

On screens across Earth, standard viewers watched the same approach, but their experience was fundamentally different. They could look away, minimize the window, check their phones. The Lucid users couldn’t escape—their consciousness was locked into the experience, unable to disconnect without physically removing their devices.

Liam’s hands rested lightly on the manual controls, but he didn’t touch them. Not yet. The trajectory had been calculated down to the millimeter, accounting for Saturn’s gravitational field, its rotational influence, even the minute perturbations caused by its larger moons. Any input now would only introduce error.

The trajectory overlay showed their path as a thin green line arcing around Saturn’s northern hemisphere. They would pass through the outer rings—the tenuous E ring composed of microscopic ice particles—then sweep around the planet’s limb before being flung outward at increased velocity.

Simple physics. Elegant mathematics. Nothing that thousands of space missions hadn’t done before.

Except those missions had computers making corrections thousands of times per second, compensating for the tiny variables that accumulated into catastrophic errors if left unchecked. Solar wind pressure. Micrometeorite impacts. Thermal expansion. All the small forces that nudged a spacecraft off course in ways too subtle for human senses to detect.

Liam was betting everything on his initial calculations being perfect.

Current velocity: 24.7 kilometers per second

Distance to periapsis: 847,000 kilometers

Time to closest approach: 9 minutes, 32 seconds

The numbers appeared on the single active display, updating in real-time. Every viewer with basic math skills could calculate whether they’d survive. Too fast and they’d overshoot, missing the optimal trajectory and wasting the entire maneuver. Too slow and Saturn’s gravity would capture them, dragging them into an uncontrolled descent.

“We’re committed now,” Liam said quietly, his modulated voice breaking the oppressive silence. “The approach angle is set. Our velocity is fixed. For the next nine and a half minutes, we’re a ballistic projectile following the path I calculated.”

Someone in the Lucid crowd made a small, strangled sound.

“The key to gravity assists is timing and geometry,” Liam continued, apparently unbothered by the tension radiating from his digital passengers. “You enter the planet’s gravitational influence at a specific angle and speed. The planet’s gravity bends your trajectory, and because the planet itself is moving, you steal a tiny amount of its orbital momentum. You exit faster than you entered.”

Current velocity: 26.3 kilometers per second

Distance to periapsis: 621,000 kilometers

Time to closest approach: 6 minutes, 14 seconds

Their velocity was increasing as Saturn’s gravity pulled them forward. The rings grew larger, individual particles becoming visible now, with chunks of ice glinting in the distant sunlight, some no bigger than snowflakes, others the size of houses.

Through the viewport, the rings’ edge approached rapidly. They would pass through the outermost E ring first, a diffuse cloud of ice crystals so thin it was nearly invisible except when backlit by the sun.

“Ring crossing in twenty seconds,” Liam announced.

The Lucid users braced themselves, though bracing was meaningless in zero gravity. Their avatars gripped whatever surfaces they could find, their body language screaming terror despite the blurred faces.

The E ring’s outer boundary was unmarked, just a gradual transition from empty space to space filled with microscopic particles. But as they crossed it, something changed. A faint haze appeared ahead, barely visible—billions of ice crystals catching and scattering sunlight.

Then they were through, and the view cleared again.

“E ring traversed,” Liam said. “No damage. Those particles are small enough that our hull shielding handles them without issue.”

Current velocity: 29.8 kilometers per second

Distance to periapsis: 284,000 kilometers

Time to closest approach: 3 minutes, 1 second

Saturn filled the entire viewport now, its pale gold atmosphere showing subtle banding and storm systems that could swallow Earth whole. The north polar hexagon became visible—a geometric storm pattern that defied intuitive understanding, six straight sides forming a perfect hexagon around the pole.

The curvature of the planet was pronounced now, the horizon dropping away as they fell past the ring plane and began their swing around Saturn’s northern hemisphere.

Current velocity: 34.2 kilometers per second

Distance to periapsis: 89,000 kilometers

Time to closest approach: 43 seconds

“Thirty seconds to periapsis,” Liam said, his voice steady. “This is where we’re closest to Saturn and moving fastest. Our velocity peaks here before we begin the outbound trajectory.”

The numbers climbed faster now, velocity increasing as gravity’s pull intensified.

37.1 kilometers per second

45,000 kilometers

22 seconds

Through the viewport, Saturn’s atmosphere showed incredible detail. Individual cloud bands became visible, their colors ranging from cream to ochre to burnt orange. Storm systems spun in the gaps between bands, some larger than Jupiter’s Great Red Spot but paler and harder to see against the planet’s subdued coloring.

42.3 kilometers per second

12,000 kilometers

9 seconds

The Lucid users had gone absolutely silent, not even breathing audibly. Every person in that digital cabin was fixated on the viewport, watching Saturn rush past at speeds that made atmospheric reentry look gentle.

Then something changed.

The trajectory overlay flickered. The thin green line showing their planned path shifted slightly, by just a fraction of a degree, but at these speeds and distances, fractions of degrees meant thousands of kilometers of deviation.

A red warning appeared on the display:

TRAJECTORY DEVIATION DETECTED

PROJECTED ERROR AT PERIAPSIS: 340 KILOMETERS HIGH

The Lucid users gasped collectively. Several people screamed. Daniel’s avatar stumbled backward, his hands raised as if to ward off the inevitable.

340 kilometers high meant they’d miss the optimal trajectory. The gravitational assist would be weaker, the velocity gain reduced. Not catastrophic, but it would compromise the entire maneuver—proof that manual calculation couldn’t match computer precision.

Liam’s hands remained motionless on the controls. He stared at the warning for one second, two seconds, three—

Then his left hand moved, fingers dancing across the orientation thruster controls with perfect precision.

A micro-burst fired from the starboard thrusters. The shuttle rotated fractionally, its nose dropping by less than half a degree. The correction was so subtle that most people didn’t even feel it through the immersion.

But the trajectory overlay updated immediately. The red warning blinked twice, then vanished. The green line snapped back to its original path.

TRAJECTORY NOMINAL

PERIAPSIS WITHIN OPTIMAL PARAMETERS

“Micrometeorite impact,” Liam explained, his voice containing the faintest hint of satisfaction. “Struck the port bow thirty seconds ago. Mass approximately 0.3 grams, velocity 12 kilometers per second relative to our frame. Enough to alter our trajectory by 340 kilometers at periapsis.”

His hand returned to rest position, the crisis resolved so quickly most viewers were still processing what had happened.

“This is why computer systems make thousands of corrections per flight. Space is never truly empty. But humans can compensate too, if they’re paying attention.”

Current velocity: 47.9 kilometers per second

Distance to periapsis: 1,200 kilometers

Time to closest approach: NOW

They flashed past periapsis so fast the moment was almost imperceptible. One instant Saturn filled the viewport ahead of them, the next it was sliding past to the side, their velocity carrying them around and away in a brutal arc.

The g-forces were immense—enough that even the inertial dampeners couldn’t fully compensate. The Lucid users felt pressure building in their chests, their avatars swaying as their brains interpreted the acceleration as physical force. This is even with the fact that they aren’t feeling the full g-forces acting upon Liam and the spacecraft.

Then they were through. Saturn fell behind them, its gravity releasing its grip as they climbed back out of the gravity well. The planet shrank rapidly, the rings rotating into view edge-on before expanding again as their perspective changed.

Current velocity: 51.3 kilometers per second

Distance from Saturn: 127,000 kilometers (INCREASING)

Status: OUTBOUND TRAJECTORY CONFIRMED

“Gravity assist complete,” Liam announced, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his modulated voice now. “Entry velocity was 24.7 kilometers per second. Exit velocity is 51.3 kilometers per second. We gained 26.6 kilometers per second using nothing but Saturn’s gravity and momentum.”

His hand moved to the panel where he’d shut down the systems. The switch flipped back to its original position.

Immediately, the cockpit came alive. Holographic displays flickered back into existence, status readouts scrolling across multiple screens, system confirmations appearing in rapid succession. The fusion drive’s background hum returned, and the sound was almost comforting after the terrible silence.

The Lucid users erupted. Some screamed in relief, others laughed hysterically. Several people actually collapsed, their avatars dropping to the cabin floor as their real bodies gave out from the psychological strain.

The comments section had become absolute chaos:

“HE DID IT”

“THAT MICROMETEORITE NEARLY KILLED EVERYONE”

“Did you see how fast he corrected?! That was INSTANT”

“Computers make thousands of corrections. He made ONE and it was PERFECT”

“I think I just watched the most skilled piloting in human history”

“My heart is going to explode. I can’t handle this.”

“TWENTY-SIX POINT SIX KILOMETERS PER SECOND GAINED. THAT’S PHYSICS. THAT’S REAL.”

Liam turned his chair to face the Lucid users, giving them a moment to recover. Several were still on the floor, their avatars sprawled in undignified positions. Others had clustered together, seeking comfort in proximity despite being digital representations.

“Welcome to the reality of space travel,” he said, and there might have been humor in his tone. “One micrometeorite, 0.3 grams, nearly compromised the entire maneuver. That’s why we test limits—to discover what’s actually possible versus what we assume is possible.”

He gestured toward Saturn, now just a bright disk in the distance, its rings visible as a thin line bisecting the planet.

“Every space agency that’s performed gravity assists has had computer systems making constant corrections. We did it manually and we succeeded.”

The viewport showed stars ahead now, the darkness of space no longer dominated by Saturn’s overwhelming presence. They were outbound, moving faster than they’d arrived, with the maneuver complete.

“This concludes the third livestream,” Liam said, his modulated voice carrying a note of finality. “Thank you for joining me and for trusting the mathematics.”

He paused, letting the moment settle.

“There will be more. Not immediately—I have other things that require my attention. But eventually, we’ll return.”

His helmet turned toward the camera, toward the 1.08 billion people watching.

“Once again, we at Nova Technologies remain committed to testing and removing all limitations.”

The feed held for three more seconds—long enough for viewers to see Saturn one final time, beautiful and distant and conquered—then cut to black.

The third livestream was over.

And across Earth, over a billion people sat in stunned silence, trying to process what they’d just witnessed.