If the end of the Warriors season has you down, indulge in some Warriors-themed, sci-fi NBA Fan Fiction.
Heads bounced as the ship recoiled out of hyperdrive. The solar sails already fried to hell, not worth unfolding, slept in their titanium cocoons. This vastness and no fuel to parcel it a nightmare born from too much space.
“I didn’t want to be the one to say it, but I’ll say it—”
“You don’t need to say it, Draymond.”
“I need to say it.”
“You really don’t.”
“It needs to be said.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“It does.”
“Nah.”
“Exactly,” said Klay.
“Remember when your dad was a planet?”
“He was never a planet.”
“What are you making?”
“A paper airplane.”
“Too late for blueprints, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think.”
“See, that’s your problem. You and Steph never had to think too far ahead.”
“Steph thinks.”
“Sure, but how many listeners does he have for his thoughts?”
“Listeners?”
“My thoughts exist in over two dozen star systems. Right now someone on Planet Izzo can hear me thinking about how our hyperdrive failed to activate.”
“Right now, no one can hear you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Check the panels — no lights. Your mindcast needs a signal.”
“Oh, you’re right — this is worse than I believed.”
Klay released the plane. It glided across the cabin and halted, but it did not fall.
“You see that?”
“Yeah.”
“Weird, huh.”
“Is it suspended?” asked Draymond.
“Looks like. It means we don’t have enough juice to maintain gravity. I give us a few hours.”
“And then what?”
“And then you and I — Draymond Green and Klay Thompson — are as light as that airplane.”
“Okay.”
“Then the ship comes apart in a matter of days or years, and we’re just particles. Heck, we’re already just particles.”
“Did you see that new Christopher Nolan movie?”
“I don’t live in the past, Dray.”
“What’s the last thing your dad said to you?”
“Study magic. Believe in science.”
“You’re joking.”
The cabin door slid open. The paper airplane drifted another inch, but remained afloat.
“Klay, you got a sec?”
“I’m available,” said Draymond.
“I need an engineer.”
“I built that plane,” protested Draymond.
Steph stared at Klay. Klay shook his head. The two started to leave.
“Trust magic,” said Draymond, “be-lieve in sci-ence.” He drew the plane’s paper edge across his jawline like a razor.
“What is it?” asked Klay.
“You want the good news or the bad news?” asked Steph.
“It’s all news to me.”
“We have three suits, but only two photon keys.”
“Okay.”
“I figure one for you and one for me.”
“That means we’re abandoning the crew.”
“Not exactly.”
“Leaving the crew on the ship in the middle of an unnamed galaxy is the very definition of abandonment.”
“We cut a door. Grab what we need. Cut a door back.”
“How do you know we’ll arrive somewhere with photon keys?”
“Trust me.”
“We can’t even boot up the ship’s navigational systems at this point.”
“I memorized the charts.”
“Okay.”
Steph pressed a panel on the wall. The door to the key room slid open.
“I thought you said there were three suits.”
“There are—”
“I count two,” said Klay.
“Where’s Jordan?”
A voice from behind the two men answered, “You know what happens when I find him.” The sound of knuckle on palm.
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