Eighty Light-years from Home
"Oh no," Porter thought. Space itself twisted and folded. One minute ago, Porter worked on the interferometer on the Icarus probe. Commander Jensen had been clear on the matter. Only the interferometer mattered. Porter let go of his powered screwdriver, which drifted towards the edge of the anomaly. The space-time lensing enveloped the tool like a rock dropping into a pond. Porter shook his head in anxious disbelief. "I must be high, please just let me be really, trippin' high!"
"Come again, Lieutenant" his radio crackled.
"Please, just tell me someone slipped me LSD in the air supply," Porter responded.
"Lieutenant, ah..." Porter noticed. Commander Jensen had been stumped exactly once before. Birthday cakes inspired by the Aliens movies did not sit well with that guy.
"Either I am high," Porter said - no begged. "... or I may have accidentally set off the wormhole generator."
"Lieutenant, it's called a quantum-foam-generator."
Porter sighed. The ripples the screwdriver had made faded along the edges of the wormhole. He could fire the RCS thrusters on his suit. He could scream in panic. Or pray to god. But the wormhole was forming and it would engulf anything within a kilometer. Porter felt like a ball rolling in a roulette wheel.
"Lieutenant, your bio-metrics are going wide," Commander Jensen said, his voice icy calm. A voice so calm it sounded more appropriate in the company of divorce lawyers. And who in their right mind described bio-metrics as wide anyway? Porter sighed again. Porter's tombstone would read "LOST IN SPACE" under his birthday and date of death. His dad would grunt in disapproval. Porter's rebellion had been signing up for engineering college.
The wormhole widened, filling Porter's field of view. So this is how I end, Porter thought.