The AI—still projecting the image of Grubnash—had separated Daegnon and Raknak once the bulkier Goblin had shown enough competence and finally stopped shooting himself in the eyes with the mender beam. Now, Daegnon was being guided down a full-sized hallway, bright yellow arrows appearing on the wall displays to mark his path.

  “Since you are now designated as captain, I am taking you to the bridge,” the AI said in Grubnash’s familiar voice. “There are several systems there that need attention, and I believe it would be in your best interest—as well as the ship’s—if you knew how to repair them.”

  Daegnon grunted in response.

  While he was excited to be away from the mountain, this wasn’t turning out to be the adventure he’d imagined. Everything was moving far too fast for his liking. Still, he liked the sound of his new title. Captain. It had a good ring to it.

  He was already a burrow-master—but this wasn’t a burrow, and he only had five Goblins under his command now. The old title didn’t quite fit. And deep down, he had the sinking feeling he’d never see his former burrow again. He hadn’t sired a son to take his place, and he wondered who might try to claim the role in his absence… or whether the burrow even still existed.

  Some quiet, unshakable instinct whispered that what he’d done might’ve caused more damage to his clan than he was willing to admit.

  As Daegnon drifted through his thoughts, he noticed the walls of the hallway beginning to change. The sleek metal surfaces gave way to panels filled with data readouts and shifting schematics. It was as if the ship were peeling back its outer layers—revealing its innermost workings to him, piece by piece.

  The AI seemed to pick up on his curiosity.

  “You will need to familiarize yourself with these systems,” Grubnash’s voice said. “Understanding the ship’s internal mechanics is crucial for effective leadership and for ensuring the survival of your crew.”

  Daegnon nodded absently, though his mind still lingered on the possibility of never returning home. He pushed the thought aside, turning his focus to the path ahead.

  The bridge, as the AI had called it, sounded important. If he could master it—really understand this place—maybe he could lead his fellow Goblins into something more than survival.

  Maybe even into a future.

  A large, familiar door slid open before him, revealing a room he had entered several times before—though he hadn’t realized it was considered the ship’s bridge. The first time he’d heard the term, he’d asked the AI why it was called that, imagining a path over water. Hoshi had launched into an explanation involving “paddles” and strange words like steamboat, which had quickly left Daegnon more confused than before.

  “You may call this place the command center, if that terminology suits you better,” the metallic voice offered now.

  “Command center,” he repeated, rolling the unfamiliar words around in his mouth. They weren’t from his native tongue, but their meaning still rang clear. “Yes. I like taste of dat,” he said, stepping into the expansive room.

  The darkness of space stretched out before him through the large rectangular opening at the far end of the chamber. The view was vast—majestic. An endless field of pinprick stars stared back at him, cold and distant.

  “Cyrus and Glix will hopefully complete their tasks shortly,” Grubnash’s voice continued, pulling Daegnon’s attention from the stars. “Once they do, this room will regain full power. I suggest you begin repairs before that step is complete.”

  “Umm… Can I ask question first?” Daegnon said, turning to the glassy display in front of the central chair, where the image of Grubnash had shifted and now hovered.

  “Certainly. What would you like to know?” the AI responded.

  “You show image of Grubnash, but you no—er, you don’t sound like Goblin. And Cyrus say you look different to him. So… what you actually look like?” Daegnon asked, his speech already improving, the words coming more easily as his intelligence continued to grow.

  “I don’t have a fixed appearance,” the AI replied. “I take whatever form is most effective for the individual I’m communicating with. Would you prefer a different image?”

  As it spoke, the display began cycling through several faces.

  First came Daegnon’s father, Friguk. Then his mother—the Elven woman whose name, he suddenly realized, he had never cared to learn. Next was a Goblin he didn’t recognize, but who looked to be about his own age and stature. After that, a human face appeared briefly, before the image reverted to Grubnash.

  With each transformation, the AI’s voice shifted to match the new form. “Is this preferrable?” it asked, repeating the question with each face.

  “Do you prefer any of those other images?” the AI asked, its metallic voice returning as the display settled back on Grubnash’s face.

  Daegnon scrunched up his expression, his lips pressing together and the wrinkles on his forehead bunching tightly. “Da human face… is dat how you look to Cyrus?” he asked.

  “Something similar, yes,” Hoshi replied.

  Daegnon paused to consider. Having the same face as Cyrus might make things easier—one face for everyone. Simpler. But… he’d liked seeing his father’s image, too.

  A stray thought flickered: maybe he could ask the AI to wear his mother’s face. She had coddled him, at least as much as any Goblin mother could. The sudden sting of guilt caught him off guard—realizing he’d never even asked her name. That hurt in a way he didn’t fully understand. He figured it must be the SCANT inside him, stirring up feelings he wouldn’t have normally had. Feelings like loss. And regret.

  His father, Friguk, had been unusually lenient with the breeding chattel. He’d allowed them a full room to roam, to speak with and even raise their children. Most burrow-masters kept females used for propagation either chained or sedated with sleeping potions. Allowing them freedom was nearly unheard of.

  But it was those moments—those interactions with the Elf woman—that had given Daegnon a different perspective. A sharper mind. And a reputation for being smarter than most Goblins.

  She had taught him many things, though the madness brought on by her captivity was always evident. He’d learned to take much of what she said at face value, never certain what was truth and what was delusion.

  In the end, it came down to comfort.

  “No… Grubnash is good. Everyone know Grubnash,” he said, gesturing with his hands.

  “Very well then,” Hoshi replied, still wearing the face of Grubnash and speaking in the same metallic voice as before. A soft pulse of light beamed from the ceiling, illuminating a nearby panel. “If you will step to this panel.”

  Glix was being sent from one spot to the next within the massive circular room. At each stop, she was taught how—and why—to use a different tool, only to be guided to the next repair site, where she’d learn how to fix yet another broken part with yet another device.

  She was having a lot of fun.

  But she was also getting very hungry. And tired.

  “Hoshi? Dat what I call you, right?” she asked, pausing between tasks.

  “Hoshi is my designation, yes. How may I assist you?” the AI replied.

  “I think I need to sit down for a minute. I very tired,” Glix said. “Got something to eat maybe?”

  “I’m sorry, Glix,” Hoshi answered, and there was a note of something like regret in the metallic voice. “That is why I’m attempting to expedite repairs—so the ship can either be flown to a resupply location, or I can activate one of the basic nutritional replicators.”

  “I know, but really nothing? No grubs? Not even a rat?” She made a face, her tongue sticking out in exaggerated disgust. “I’d even eat a tuber. One of doze icky things.”

  “This ship was fully stocked when—”

  A sudden metallic grating noise cut through the air, followed by several sharp clicks. Then the voice stopped completely, leaving Glix blinking blankly at the glassy panel where Grubnash’s image had just been.

  She stared at the darkened screen, unmoving, until a small light flickered and the image reappeared. As it did, it rapidly cycled through several unfamiliar faces—one of them the Elf woman who had birthed her—before settling back on Grubnash.

  “I am sorry,” Hoshi said, the metallic voice a bit softer now. “I am unable to access that part of my memory. Perhaps, once the ship is more fully operational, I will regain access to that data.”

  Glix wasn’t sure how to respond. She and the image simply stared at each other for a long moment as the silence stretched between them.

  Then, with a small cough, she said, “Okay. I guess dat enough break. What need fixing next?”

  Raknak found himself in an even smaller tube than before, squirming his way through it using little more than his broad shoulders to inch forward. He grumbled and cursed the builders of the ship. Then he cursed Daegnon for being chosen as leader, the human for… humaning, and pretty much everyone else he could think of as he slowly shimmied along.

  Once his arms were free, he pushed upward, dragging himself out of the narrow crawlspace. The sweat-slicked skin of his exposed midsection squeaked against the metal with increasing volume—reaching a crescendo just before, with a wet pop, he slipped free.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  He flopped onto his back and lay there panting.

  He was used to work. Used to fighting. But those came in short, satisfying bursts. The extended, cramped climb he’d just endured had drained him more than facing a stone badger on his own.

  As his breathing slowed and he finally opened his eyes to assess his surroundings, he realized he’d only emerged into another tube.

  This one, thankfully, was much larger—though otherwise just as featureless. Smooth metal walls stretched ahead, broken only by irregular patches of discoloration, larger and more frequent than the ones he’d seen on the way in.

  A hollow thud echoed behind him as the hatch he’d just exited sealed shut. He looked around, but the new tube offered no obvious exit. Just smooth metal, silence, and an uncomfortable sense of being sealed in.

  “What in de Farq?” he muttered—then frowned. He didn’t recognize the word he’d just said. “What the Farq? Hey, did it again. Farq. Farqing. Farq it!”

  He cursed louder now, trying to push through the odd barrier—but every variation came out warped.

  “Why I no can swear?!” Raknak bellowed into the tunnel, his voice ricocheting off the metal walls with a furious echo.

  There was no answer.

  The image of Grubnash, which had guided him up to this point, had disappeared when he entered the narrow crawlspace. He’d assumed it would return once he emerged. But now—no screens, no light, no voice. Nothing but him, the tube, and the censored sting of whatever the Farq was going on.

  Then, a familiar yet distant metallic voice echoed through the tunnel.

  Raknak turned toward the sound, muttered a few more Farqs under his breath when he realized he’d have to walk to reach it, and reluctantly started moving. Each heavy step thudded against the floor, sending rhythmic reverberations down the metallic walls.

  It took several long moments before he reached the source of the voice. No image accompanied it this time—just Grubnash’s disembodied tone echoing from the walls.

  “This is the heart of the Dark-Matter Fusion Conduit. Once this area is sufficiently repaired, power can be restored to the majority of the ship. Use the mender beam in your possession to cleanse and restore the areas of discoloration before moving to the next destination.”

  Raknak grunted and looked around. From where he stood, he could still see the place he’d entered. Just beyond that point, the tunnel narrowed into a section far too tight for him to fit through.

  In the other direction, the corridor curved gently away out of sight. If his estimation was right, there were nearly four hundred footsteps between the narrowing and where he now stood.

  He eyed the pock-marked metal around him and grunted again, completely forgetting to ask the metallic voice why his words kept coming out differently than he intended.

  With a sigh, he muttered, “Farq me,” and stepped toward the first discolored patch—his stomach rumbling in time with his disheartened mood.

  Studying the nebulaic clouds carefully, Cyrus noticed something peculiar about the original one—the bubble closest to him. One of the bands swirling within it held an unusual color, slightly off from the others. As he analyzed it further, he began to recognize subtle differences in how the emission lines within the gases’ spectra were diffusing at different rates.

  He didn’t quite understand why or how he knew this—nor how he was even parsing the sheer amount of visual and spectral data flowing through his mind. It felt strange, almost as if the information wasn’t coming from his own observation, but rather being gathered externally by something else and then streamed directly into his awareness.

  The sensation unsettled him.

  Still, he stared at the glowing bubbles for several long minutes, intent on wringing as much understanding from them as he could while this strange new perception lasted. Before long, he found himself identifying the different gases within the nebulae by analyzing their emission lines. He could distinguish how various molecules and contaminants refracted and split the light into specific grades.

  And it didn’t stop there.

  He could sense how the rotational forces within each cloud subtly altered local gravity—and even influenced the flow of linear time inside them.

  “What is going on here, Hoshi?” Cyrus finally asked, once the stream of data into his brain began to feel less like alien information and more like knowledge he somehow already knew.

  “At the moment, most of the ship’s sensors are non-functional,” Hoshi replied. “What you are experiencing is a simulation within this mindscape—designed to mimic conditions as they would be once the ship is fully operational. Your senses are beginning to merge with the ship’s—at least in a preliminary form—allowing you to perceive and analyze the nebulae as if you had access to the ship’s full sensory array. This is why the information feels both familiar and externally sourced.”

  “The ship’s sensors function not only within the third dimension, but also perceive data across multiple higher dimensions. Adapting to that sensory input may be difficult. However, I remain optimistic that you will adjust, thanks to the SCANT’s enhancements.”

  Cyrus’s thoughts spiraled again. He felt overwhelmed—not just by the incoming data, but by the emotional crash still lingering from his earlier breakdown. His fantasy of flying a spaceship like in a VR game had been completely shattered. Now, with every passing moment, he was being dragged deeper into something stranger, more advanced, and far more frightening than anything he could have imagined.

  ‘Maybe I should’ve just asked for a better explanation in the first place,’ Cyrus muttered to himself—or tried to. In the mindscape, even thoughts seemed to echo outward. Keeping anything private felt nearly impossible.

  “There would have been too much information to convey verbally,” Hoshi replied. “I chose to obscure much of it until this point, allowing you to receive and process it all in a single session. I am sorry, Cyrus. While your DNA is a decent match, your mental adaptation is taking longer than I anticipated.”

  Cyrus offered a mental nod—since he had no body to move—and accepted the statement without argument.

  He knew he wasn’t the easiest person to handle. He’d been very young when the explosion happened, the one that shattered his home and fractured his life. His mind had been split by the trauma—half of him locked in the worldview of a fourteen-year-old, while the other half was forced to grow up far too quickly. Whole pieces of his developmental years had been blown away along with his house, his neighborhood, and everything he used to call normal.

  “When you are ready, please verify which two nebulae are a match so that you can proceed with the neuro-registration,” Hoshi prompted as Cyrus withdrew into himself once more.

  ‘Yeah, sorry—again. It’s the bottom right. That one matches the original,’ he replied.

  “Excellent,” Hoshi said as the bubbles filled with swirling gases vanished from view. “The second part of the neuro-registration involves spatial coordination.”

  A series of what Cyrus could only describe as pillars of white light appeared before him, stretching off into the distance. They formed a kind of mid-space race course, with glowing lights marking the edges like a runway. Thin white beams connected the pillars, outlining a path.

  The course wasn’t long—but it wasn’t flat either. It rose, dipped, curved sharply into a twisting turn, then spun into a spiral before straightening out and ending at a glowing plane of light that cut across the finish like a winner’s ribbon.

  “You will need to navigate this course in under twenty seconds. You have three opportunities,” the AI explained.

  “Can you explain how I’m supposed to move?” Cyrus asked.

  There was no response.

  In fact, the image of Hoshi had vanished entirely from his vision.

  He could still see—but now with a wider field of view than normal, as if his peripheral awareness had expanded. Stars filled the space beyond the track, and the small window containing the rotating image of the ship remained in the bottom right corner of his vision.

  “Okay… I guess I have to figure this out on my own, then,” he muttered, turning his focus inward.

  He reviewed what he’d learned so far. He was connected to the ship—like it was his body. Hoshi had said the ship required him to move it, just as a brain directs a body. He thought about how walking took a baby years to master… but figured he had to be at least a little more coordinated than that.

  He shifted his attention to the ship’s image, enlarging the window until it filled most of his view. He could still manipulate it—rotate it, zoom in—and as before, he focused on one of the tube-like protrusions that looked like engines or thrusters.

  The image zoomed in, revealing every detail.

  Cyrus studied it carefully, hoping the same instinctive knowledge would return—something that would help him feel what it meant to move like the ship.

  And it did.

  It was a curious sensation.

  As he focused on the thruster engine, it felt as though he could feel his own attention—not as a part of his body, but as an overlay, like something layered atop it. Not tactile, exactly—but present.

  An image from an anime series came to mind as he tried to make sense of it—one with massive mecha-suits piloted from within. In those shows, the pilots used their own reflexes to control the machines, and somehow they always seemed to feel when part of the suit took damage.

  ‘There’s no way this thing is a mecha-suit… right?’ he thought. But the idea—whether it was a ship, a robot, or something else entirely—somehow fit the sensations he was experiencing.

  Zooming out from the thruster, Cyrus imagined himself wearing the Cosmic Sentinel like a suit. He visualized a mannequin version of his body, scaled proportionally to the ship’s size, and used that mental framework to estimate where the thruster would be in relation to it.

  Then, mentally, he extended a hand to that spot—his spot—and willed the engine to engage, as if clenching a fist tightly.

  The image behind the window displaying the ship lurched to the left—and a timer appeared, counting down in large, flashing numbers from twenty.

  “Oh come on! That’s not fair, I barely moved,” Cyrus protested as the numbers continued to drop.

  By the time it hit ten, he knew this first attempt was a lost cause. Still, he figured he might as well make the most of what time he had left. He extended his other virtual hand to where the second thruster would be and willed it to activate.

  His perspective shifted—first into a slow leftward spin, then a stop, and finally a sluggish drift to the right.

  Once he was mostly centered again and the timer ticked down to three seconds, he pushed hard with both side thrusters. The ship responded—he actually felt himself move forward.

  It wasn’t fast. He still had no idea how to go up or down, or even how to slow down. But he was moving.

  And that meant something.

  The entire process had taken less time to figure out than he’d expected—a small miracle, all things considered. And for that, he was extremely grateful.

  Raknak had been in the wide tube, clearing and repairing tarnished metal for what felt like hours when his stomach growled—loudly. The rumble echoed through the corridor, bouncing off the metallic walls like a warning.

  “I wonder how human taste,” he muttered under his breath, finishing yet another tarnished patch with the mender beam. He looked up, sighed, and scanned the long stretch of discolored spots still waiting for attention. “Deze spots better be da last. I not last much longer with no food.”

  He thought back to the last thing he’d eaten—a plain grub, roasted over the fire pit and sprinkled with a bit of salt. It wasn’t anything special, but the memory of its savory flavor made his mouth water. The thought also reminded him that hunger wasn’t his only pressing need.

  “Hey, uh… Hoshi? Where is bathroom?” he called out, not entirely sure how to communicate with the ship-spirit.

  No response.

  “I need piss! Get me outta here or I’m gonna make puddle right in the middle of this cave,” he barked a few moments later, his ire growing by the second.

  Still no response.

  “Fine!” he muttered, stomping toward the center of the room—right in the middle of the bend. He had warned the spirit, the AI (as the human called it), and he wasn’t about to go back on his word.

  He glanced around once more and growled, “I gonna go right here if you not let me out.”

  The tube remained silent.

  With a shrug, he slid the hide cloth from his waist down around his ankles and let his golden stream flow.