Crash Dive

Elton John once sang, "And all this science, I don't understand. It's just my job five days a week." That's how it is when you're a Crash Diver: you don't need to understand blue holes or how they differ from wormholes and black holes or what a mobius mirror does-only that it must work, every time-because, at the end of the day, that isn't your job. Your job is to be a guinea pig: to be shot into the vortex at near light speed and experience what effect blue hole-assisted mirror travel has on the human body and psyche.
Your job is to penetrate to whatever depth they've set the mirror-and, if you're lucky, to enter that mirror and get bounced back. It hasn't always been like this. Before there was Zebra Station-with its luxurious gravity centrifuge and its row of black and yellow delta divers hanging like bats from the launch jib-there was Blue One, a sparsely-manned outpost which had sent the first human souls into the maw of the blue hole, men who had come back white-haired and emaciated, debilitated-mentally and physically-mad.
The Crash Diver Program changed all that. From now on only specially-trained pilots would be sent into the Hole, pilots who had the benefit of the first men's experiences as well as spacecraft designed specifically for the task. A lot was learned in a very short time-one of these things was that men who entered the vortex experienced a series of hallucinations, or Dive Visions, in which they briefly felt they had become someone or something else: a soldier in the Holy Roman Army, say, or a person of the opposite sex.
Some even purported to have become animals or alien lifeforms-it was the latter which had apparently driven the men of Blue One clinically insane.