Daegnon had felt worse before—but not by much.

  His shoulder ached from where the ship had hurled him into the far wall of the command center when gravity went sideways. Now, along with his shoulder, a dull throb pulsed behind his ribs—and inside his skull, a pickaxe was busy mining granite.

  Still, he shoved the pain aside. That could wait. His crew came first.

  They’d survived the Graviton storm—that much, he was almost certain of. But between that and the strange ripple that had passed through him—the one that stopped the ship’s shaking—Daegnon could tell things weren’t over. Not yet.

  The sparks and fires had gone out. In their place, an eerie silence had taken hold.

  That ripple… it had felt like magic. At least, that’s what his brain called it.

  But even as the thought came, he knew better. It wasn’t magic. It was something else—something too technical for him to grasp. Something the nanites in his skull might eventually help him understand.

  He didn’t mind being smarter.

  But the journey getting there? That part was weird.

  The silence deepened. Oppressive. Too quiet.

  Once the queasiness faded and his feet felt steady again, he crawled out from the recess he’d been wedged into and stood—wincing—to take stock of the bridge.

  The place was a mess. Scorch marks marred the gray-cushioned seats. The floors and undersides of the consoles were blackened from short-lived fires, all hastily snuffed out by the acrid gas that had hissed down from ceiling vents.

  Breathing it hadn’t hurt—but it left a lingering tingle in the back of his throat that hadn’t quite gone away.

  The place was a disaster area, and all he could think about was how much work it was going to take to get it back in order.

  Then his gaze drifted toward the viewport at the front of the ship.

  The scene beyond was nothing like before. The empty void filled only with stars was gone—replaced by something far more vivid.

  His eyes widened, and his mouth eased open, jaw slackened not from fear or surprise, but from sheer awe. It felt as though the universe had rearranged itself—shifted into something new.

  His mind instinctively linked the ripple he’d felt earlier to this transition. It hadn’t been just a strange, metaphysical sensation. It had been movement. The ship had gone somewhere else.

  But the knowledge didn’t lessen the majesty of what he now beheld.

  Two giant stars loomed on either side of the screen. They shone with an intensity he’d never seen before—bright enough to flood the view, yet somehow the light didn’t sting his eyes.

  Between them stretched a river of swirling clouds, vibrant and alive, a massive array of colors twisting and curling like smoke into shapes unlike anything he’d ever imagined—like two snakes, each biting its tail, yet intertwined within each other’s loop.

  Through the middle of that glowing, gaseous river drifted a massive swarm of tailed rocks. ‘An asteroid field,’ his mind supplied.

  Some were small, others huge, slowly pushing through the luminous stream like boulders crossing a shallow river. Wherever they passed, they left glowing trails behind them—bits of their surfaces burning off into the colored mist.

  The gas clouds sparkled, shifting along the visible spectrum: red to blue to gold. And he could’ve sworn they moved like they were alive—twisting, pulsing, dancing between the two stars.

  It was bright, wild, and way too big to understand.

  He wasn’t sure if it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen… or the most terrifying.

  For several moments, all Daegnon could do was stare—mouth hanging agape—at the stunning spectacle before him. And in that stillness, a sobering thought struck him.

  He was very, very far from home. From his burrow. From anything he understood.

  The enormity of his situation—the sheer scale of what he now faced—began to sink in like hooks piercing his soul, dragging him into a mire of uncertainty.

  He wasn’t used to feeling completely at a loss. He’d always tried to maintain some control, no matter the situation. But now, the realization of just how powerless he truly was threatened to drown him in doubt.

  Before he could sink deeper into that spiral, Hoshi’s metallic voice broke through his awe-struck stupor.

  “I am glad you are safe, Captain Daegnon.”

  The use of the title snapped his attention back to the moment.

  “The ship sustained substantial damage but completed the JUMP successfully. Raknak suffered a significant injury, but the SCANT has stabilized his condition and is preparing to transport him to the medical center. Fortunately, the power surge prior to the JUMP recharged many of the reserves. This allows functional systems to remain stable—provided no further damage is sustained.”

  Daegnon blinked, processing the words slowly. He didn’t understand half of what had just happened—but he understood enough. The ship, while still in need of repairs, was more functional than before. And Raknak was alive. And for now, they were safe.

  Relief and amazement tangled in Daegnon’s chest as he turned once more to the glowing vista outside.

  Hoshi’s voice followed once more a moment later.

  “I believe a brief conference with all crew members would be most expedient—so the situation can be explained to everyone at once. Would you mind joining the others in the medical center for the debriefing?”

  Daegnon nodded. An explanation sounded more than welcome at this point. And he had a strong feeling they were all in for a lot of extra work.

  Still, something about how far they’d come—how they’d survived chaos, adapted quickly, and stepped up when things turned dire—stirred a deep determination in him. They were far beyond anything the burrow had prepared them for. Yet they were still here. And he meant to make sure they stayed that way.

  The beauty of space, the bonds forming between the crew, and the thrill of imagining what might come next all tugged him forward.

  “Yes, Hoshi. Lead the way.”

  Raknak awoke with a silent scream.

  His eyes saw nothing but white. They refused to focus. Snippets of memory flashed through his mind—too vivid to be dreams, and too raw to be anything but real.

  He remembered Glix kneeling over him, tugging and pulling as he tried to crawl away. He saw the floor, smelled the acrid ammonia of his own piss, he felt the pain.

  Then darkness—blessed darkness.

  The pain receded, though he knew it hadn’t truly left. He drifted, as if suspended in a pool of warm water deep within the cradle of the mountain. Muffled voices echoed somewhere above, their meaning lost.

  Blurry sensations—movement, stinging, burning—pressed in from all sides, searching for him, trying to latch on.

  But he was slippery. Like an eel, he wriggled free, sliding past it all.

  For a time.

  Then, like a spear hurled from the surface, the agony struck—sudden and sharp—blooming until it felt like his legs were on fire.

  'My legs!'

  The memory snapped back. Panic gripped him. He lifted his head—clenching his core to see past his belly—and there it was. The truth he’d already known but hadn’t dared accept.

  They were gone.

  A different kind of darkness washed over him then. Not the kind that came with unconsciousness, or even the kind that followed pain—but the darkness of finality.

  He knew, in that moment—with utter certainty, he was going to die.

  And that was the last thing he remembered.

  Now his mind clawed toward focus again, struggling to believe he wasn’t dead.

  ‘Me dead?’ he wondered.

  The whiteness around him didn’t match the three hells the clan shaman always warned about. ‘Dis no can be hells, right?’

  Slowly, the brightness began to soften. Faint gray patterns emerged in the ceiling above, and familiar voices trickled into his half-conscious thoughts. He knew this place. Knew that ceiling.

  It was the same one he’d stared at before—back when Daegnon had first made him get up and somehow convinced them all to help fix this cursed ship.

  And just like that, his thoughts shifted from blurry confusion to indignant fury.

  His anger surged—twisted with fear and a heavy dose of self-hate. He was mad at the ship for making him do all the Farqing work. Mad at Daegnon for assuming command instead of letting him lead—he would’ve done things much differently, that much was certain.

  He was mad at the human for looking so tasty, yet being the only one who could fly the ship (or so he claimed).

  But most of all, he was mad at himself—for ever agreeing to this Farquing job.

  If he hadn’t gotten mixed up in Gooniz’s scavenging plan, if he’d just said no to stealing parts off this Farqing ship, he’d be home right now, munching on grubs and swapping stories with his pals.

  But as soon as he thought about it, the anger drained away. The thought rang hollow—and he knew it.

  The more he saw of this ship’s huge size—and the more he thought about how it had been buried so deep inside the mountain—the less he believed anyone back at the burrow was still alive. Everything must be flat now, buried below the mountain where they’d lived their entire lives.

  He let out a long ragged breath.

  Being sad and angry wouldn’t fix anything. Sadness never helped anyone, and anger was only good when you could use it. Like when facing down a stone badger to save the burrow. Something he would never do again.

  There were no monsters here, this wasn’t the time to be angry.

  Still... it felt strange to let it go so soon. Usually, he held onto his rage a little while longer—even when it got him into trouble.

  Maybe he was growing up. Maybe the ship was making him grow up.

  He turned his head. The others were clustered around one of the glowing glass displays. Grubnash’s image hovered there, speaking in that weird calm metallic voice. Raknak hadn’t caught any of what was being said, and he didn’t really care.

  Then the tan-skinned human pointed in his direction, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

  “Raknak! You awake again!” Daegnon called out excitedly, stepping up beside him and patting his shoulder.

  Glix moved up too, though she didn’t look him in the eye. Her gaze stayed fixed on the spot where his feet should’ve been. He knew she had a hard time with people, so he wasn’t sure if the avoidance was social... or a form of guilt.

  He got his answer quick enough.

  “You owe me SO much for make me move you fat ass,” Glix said, her lip twitching into an awkward smirk. “In fact, I own you now.”

  There was a flicker of humor in her eyes, and they darted up to meet his—but only for a second. Raknak could never tell with Glix if she was joking or serious. Her mannerisms were... different from most Goblins. But he wasn’t in the right state of mind to deal with her weirdness, so he decided to face the consequences later.

  It was good they were all safe. It was good to see Daegnon and Glix watching out for him. Even the human’s presence didn’t feel so bad—not part of the Goblin bond, not yet... but not unwelcome either.

  Raknak closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, the full weight of his situation sinking back in. A wave of fear and loss rippled across his face. But he didn’t look down. He didn’t need to. His slumped shoulders said it all—acceptance, reluctant and bitter.

  He’d never liked walking much, let alone running—but that didn’t mean he didn’t value having legs. Losing a limb wasn’t unheard of; his old mentor had only one arm and could still knock the piss out of him with whatever weapon he picked up.

  But this was different.

  This wasn’t just an arm.

  It was his legs. Both of them.

  His mind began to spiral, thoughts sinking into a cold mire of despair. He imagined a future spent immobile—forever sitting, useless, being carried, being pitied. A burden. A weight. Worthless… until he wasted away into nothing.

  His self-pity spiked. The future felt bleak, and in that moment, he wished he’d just died instead of being saved.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  A warm trickle leaked from his eye and rolled down his cheek.

  “Hoshi says it’ll take a while to get used to the new feet,” the human said, his voice careful but upbeat. “But you should be up and mobile in a couple of hours—especially now that we have food. Well… kind of food, I guess.”

  Raknak barely registered the words at first, still mired in the grief of what he’d lost. But a few seconds later, the meaning punched through—and his eyes snapped open.

  “What?” he blurted, sitting bolt upright and flinging the small blanket aside.

  He stared down at his legs—at what remained of them.

  Daegnon’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the moment. The human looked startled by Raknak’s sudden exposure but smiled back awkwardly, one eyebrow raised higher than the other.

  Glix, meanwhile, stood off to the side wearing a smug, self-satisfied look, as if she’d personally forged the new limbs now gleaming at the ends of Raknak’s legs.

  A pair of shiny metal claws extended just below his knees, where his legs had been severed—sleek and mechanical.

  Claws really were the best word for them, Raknak thought. They looked nothing like the stubby, calloused feet he used to stomp around on. These were leaner, sharper—refined. Crafted from smooth gray metal with black gears and tubing woven through the joints, the new limbs vibrated with quiet power.

  Each foot had four articulated digits, matching his original number of toes, but these ended in tapered, claw-like tips.

  The undersides of his new feet were coated in a dark, flexible material—something that looked like it would grip well and soften impacts. They didn’t have the bulk he was used to, but the combination of metal, cushioning, and other materials extended to fill in what length he had lost.

  As he flexed the toes, the joints moved seamlessly, fluid and exact.

  They were nothing like his old feet, and he wasn’t sure how they’d respond. The sensations were strange but good—not quite numb, yet far from natural.

  Something new. Something... different.

  “They great, right?” Glix said, scooping up the sheet and tossing it back over Raknak’s now fully exposed body. “Hoshi say you can hang from ceiling wit’ deze once you better. Like a bat.”

  Raknak didn’t answer. He was still coming to terms with the idea of having metal feet.

  He wiggled the claws, watching them move—not quite how he expected. He shifted the pattern, trying a different motion, but a separate set of digits flexed instead.

  “It will take some time for the SCANT to properly realign the neural pathways in your brain,” Hoshi’s metallic voice echoed calmly through the room, “to ensure the movements of your Advanced Mobility Appendages correspond correctly to your intent.”

  “Once adaptation is complete,” the AI continued, “you will experience greatly enhanced mobility. These units are even designed to support extravehicular activity.”

  “So basically,” Cyrus added with a smirk, “you’re the one who gets to go fix stuff outside the ship now. Lucky you.”

  The way the human said it made Raknak glance up at him. He wasn’t sure if Cyrus actually believed he was lucky to go outside… or if he was making fun of the new feet. Either way, something about the tone left him uncertain.

  He narrowed his eyes, studying the human’s face more closely—trying to read his expression—and only now noticed just how beat-up he looked. Apparently, he wasn’t immune to the ship’s tossing about earlier.

  Back when they first met, Raknak hadn’t really paid attention to Cyrus. He’d been too busy sizing up the threat of the intruder on their ship to care what he looked like.

  Even when they’d all woken up in the medical center after their scuffle, he’d barely noticed anything beyond the human’s soft, squishy body and strange clothing. Just another human. Raknak didn’t interact with many, but far as he was concerned, they were all basically the same.

  But now, his eyes picked out the details like he was seeing him for the first time.

  Cyrus’s skin was a light brown—like the inside of Raknak’s favorite mushroom. His hair was short (probably), extremely curly (which made the actual length unknowable), and dark—black as the shadowed stone ceilings of the burrow.

  His eyes were brown too, darker than his skin but not as dark as his hair. And there was something else—flecks of gold shimmered faintly inside, catching the light in strange ways.

  His teeth were flat, bright white, and oddly perfect—clearly marking him as someone not from anywhere Raknak knew. His oversized cloth garments were just as strange, both in shape and in the odd, thin material. He’d never seen fabric dyed in such vivid colors, let alone shaped into such floppy coverings.

  Of course, now they were torn, tattered and blood stained. Most of the damage, Raknak realized grimly, came from their first encounter. That had been mostly his doing.

  But Cyrus didn’t look so soft anymore.

  Maybe it was the bruises.

  Maybe it was the way he stood.

  Raknak couldn’t put a claw on it, but something had changed. Cyrus looked more solid. More capable. Like someone who’d survived something. He’d been too untested before—too inexperienced. Naive to work, to battle, to real struggle. But now, he’d finally tasted what it meant to fight.

  Raknak could relate to that.

  ‘He probably not taste good anyway,’ he thought to himself. ‘Me glad not eat him. Maybe... he be ok after all.’

  A small grin climbed onto his lips.

  Daegnon, too, looked different.

  He was never the toughest Goblin. A little taller than most, sure—but it was his brain and patronage that had earned him the role of burrow master. Like his sire, he was good at settling disputes, figuring out why Goblins were fighting, and thinking up ways to keep everyone from killing each other.

  Now... he looked bigger somehow. Sounded older. Like this ship—or this nightmare of a day—had put something new in him. Something heavier.

  Raknak wasn’t sure what was going on. But if he was noticing these changes, it probably meant he was changing too.

  ‘Maybe da SCAT stuff—whatever it is—is working it magic on me as well?’

  He looked at Glix, to see if she had changed in the same way the others had, but as he met her eyes for the briefest of moments, he remembered what she had done to save his life, and a very unusual emotion welled up inside of him. One he wasn’t sure how to identify.

  ‘Is me embarrassed?’

  He wasn’t sure why he felt like this. He was glad she’d been there—he wouldn’t be alive without her. But something else tugged at him, something confusing. It wasn’t just gratitude. It was uncomfortable. And weird. And too much.

  He nodded at her, unsure what else to do, then quickly turned away, averting his gaze the same way she had.

  Instead of sorting out what he was feeling toward Glix, his thoughts drifted to Khibi instead.

  The small Goblin’s absence left a noticeable pit in his stomach. Khibi had always been there. He’d listen. Help Raknak make sense of things.

  And Raknak could really use that right now.

  ‘Me miss little pal is all,’ he told himself.

  “The reason we are all here is to discuss what happened, what needs to be done, and how long it should take,” said the image of Grubnash as he stood in mid-air, his feet hovering just a few centimeters above the floor.

  The figure Hoshi had chosen was that of an older Goblin—projected at about half the size of the others—and rendered in what Cyrus could only describe as a hologram. But that word didn’t do it justice.

  It was clearly made of light, yet somehow solid as well. Opaque and faintly glowing, it carried weight, presence. Every detail was visible—every wrinkle, every shade of skin and fabric, every shift in expression—perfectly replicated, like the Goblin were truly alive, but composed of solidified light.

  The sheer surreality of it drove home just how advanced this ship really was. Despite syncing with it—despite feeling its thoughts, managing its systems—there were still aspects of the Cosmic Sentinel far beyond him. Things his mind hadn’t yet grasped, or even learned how to question.

  Over the next hour or so, Hoshi detailed the graviton storm and its near-catastrophic effects, emphasizing just how lucky they were to have escaped.

  Cyrus explained how he’d managed to sync with the ship and initiate the JUMP, freeing them from the anomaly’s grip—though it was clear he was still a bit amazed they’d survived at all.

  Daegnon described the state of the bridge, the steps he’d taken to bypass the safety protocols, and tried to impress upon the others what now lay just beyond the viewport.

  Glix and Raknak each shared their own experiences—told from very different angles, and with a few well-placed flourishes.

  "Door open and wave of hot piss drown me. Make eyes sting. Almos’ left him there—better to be rid of smelly ogre-butt," Glix said, holding her nose and fanning the air as if to chase the memory of the stench away.

  Raknak, who usually flaunted his aromas and wore his odorific accomplishments proudly, gently blushed and pulled the blanket tighter around his still-prone form atop the floating medical bed. His feet were moving more freely now, but standing would require his full attention, so he’d been told to wait until the meeting was over before trying.

  Hoshi’s voice interjected, matter-of-fact and impeccably timed. “All waste should, from here on out, be excreted in the proper facilities.” The image of Grubnash looked first—most harshly—at Raknak, before sweeping its gaze across the rest of them. “The radiation emissions inside the Core will have eliminated all traces of contamination left there at a cellular level. Still... wasting resources will only shorten the time available to complete repairs and locate nutritional support.”

  They all nodded solemnly, understanding that the real battle had only just begun.

  Hearing that brought Raknak’s eyes back down to his new claw-like feet. He flexed them again and smiled slightly, beginning to think of them as truly his—and looking, for the first time, like he might be glad to do the work he’d only grudgingly done before.

  The meeting continued with discussions on where to begin repairs and how best to carry them out. Then came the part everyone had been waiting for—but also quietly dreading: their first taste of the “food” the ship could now produce.

  “Remember,” the image of Grubnash intoned as a panel slid open to reveal four small gelatinous bricks, “in order to continue producing these nutritional bars, your bodily waste byproducts are required.”

  Cyrus let out a low sigh. “Ugh… quit reminding me.”

  The blocks were dense and slightly squishy, each a uniform shade of warm brown—like perfectly cooked toast. Oddly enough, there was no discernible smell—neither pleasant nor foul. Just... nothing.

  That, in itself, was unsettling.

  Cyrus stared at the cube in his hand, brows drawn tight. He turned it over a few times, sniffed it cautiously, and glanced around to gauge the others' reactions.

  Daegnon was gnawing on one edge, slowly, like he wasn’t quite convinced it was meant to be food. Glix gave hers a tentative lick and twitched her ears—not from disgust, but confusion. Raknak, true to form, chomped down on a corner, broke off a solid piece, and began chewing enthusiastically.

  Cyrus hesitated another few seconds. He knew this was meant to keep him alive, but he couldn’t help but think of where this nutritionally dense substance had come from.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and finally took a small nibble.

  He had braced himself—ready to taste burnt fungus, week-old oatmeal, or shoe scrapings—but instead was met with something else entirely. It was mild, sweet, and almost umami. Like a blend of almonds, mushrooms, and raisins mashed into a chewy, neutral bar. Not exactly appetizing, but certainly not the horror he’d imagined.

  He blinked, then took another bite.

  “Okay… I was expecting worse,” he admitted aloud, mostly to himself.

  The Goblins, on the other hand, seemed to find the flavor more enjoyable than anything they’d ever eaten. Once they’d finally gotten a good taste, they scarfed down their nutritional bars and immediately asked for another.

  “Due to their properties, only one will be distributed every eight hours. Within the next few seconds, your cravings should be well satisfied,” Hoshi replied to their request.

  As if on cue, a minute later they were all reclining and patting their stomachs like they’d just finished a Thanksgiving feast. Cyrus was full too—truly full—which was a feeling he hadn’t experienced often on Earth.

  Throughout his life, Cyrus had always battled being overweight. His cravings never seemed to stop, and it was only when he was fully occupied—usually in his VR games—that he found some respite from the constant desire to put food in his face.

  ‘Why do we all feel so full now?’ he asked Hoshi mentally.

  ‘Once exposed to the stomach’s acidic fluids, the condensed proteins rapidly expand, and the nutrients are released into the system. This provides long-lasting nourishment due to the high fibrous content,’ Hoshi explained calmly in his mind.

  The verbal discussions continued, with Hoshi speaking through the Grubnash hologram. “If you press this icon—” a symbol illuminated at the bottom of the wall panels “—you can communicate with whomever you need. Simply say the name, and I will route the message to the nearest communication port—or speaker, as Cyrus would call them—located near the person you wish to contact. Not all speakers are functioning correctly yet, so you may have to move to the nearest active one to receive a message. I will attempt to alert the initiator if the recipient is out of range.”

  By this point, with full bellies and a growing sense of safety, the Goblins’ eyes were drooping. Heads began to bob. Cyrus couldn’t help but smile—he was feeling it too. The adrenaline from their escape and all the surrounding chaos had kept them going, but now that the pressure was off and they’d eaten, fatigue crept in hard.

  He wasn’t sure how Goblins slept normally, but Daegnon and Glix looked as though they were about to fall asleep standing.

  ‘Hoshi, I think we all need some rest before we get started. Are there quarters we can sleep in, or should we just sleep here?’ Cyrus asked mentally, covering a yawn with his hand.

  Hoshi’s avatar appeared—the one visible only to him—the human-shaped figure wearing their usual elegant star-lit sky kimono. They brought a hand to their chin, thoughtful. Then, with a shimmer, the kimono vanished, replaced by a pajama onesie patterned with tiny rocket ships against a dark blue sky of stars and moons.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Hoshi replied. ‘Any work attempted now would be of poor quality due to your exhaustion. Sleeping here would be most efficient. Preparing dedicated quarters will be moved higher on the task queue—I had not factored in frequent and simultaneous resting periods. That was a miscalculation on my part.’

  Cyrus chuckled softly and turned to the others.

  “Hoshi says we can all pick a bed and sleep here. The real work begins tomorrow.”

  As if on cue, the floor shifted.

  Three separate areas shimmered, then began to swirl. The silvery surface bubbled upward, rising and twisting as it pulled itself into new shapes. The material lifted, expanded, and molded with liquid precision before detaching from the floor. Within seconds, three new floating medical beds had formed and were gliding gently toward the Goblins and Cyrus.

  He hadn’t seen this before.

  He’d wondered where all the beds had gone, but during synchronization with the ship, he’d learned that the floors in most major rooms were composed of the same base nanites as the SCANT. These particular nanites weren’t built for neuro-synchronization, though—they were designed to form stationary or support structures: beds, chairs, railings, benches, and the like.

  They were simple, compared to the more complex nanite systems used for repairs or bodily enhancement. But that simplicity made them easier to manipulate. With enough concentration, Cyrus could now call these structures into existence himself.

  He didn’t bother. His thoughts were fraying at the edges, slipping out of order. So for now, he let Hoshi handle the techno-magic.

  The beds lowered gently, hovering just above the floor. The Goblins—half-asleep already—shuffled over and climbed onto them without protest. As they lay down, a soft gray shimmer appeared above their forms, and blankets floated down to cover them with a silent, weightless grace.

  “Now we have food… we gonna wake up da other guys?” Daegnon asked from his chosen bed, the question stretched out by a massive yawn.

  “Yes,” Hoshi replied through the room’s speakers. The floating image from before had already faded when the beds began to form. “We can accomplish that upon your waking.”

  Daegnon smiled at the ceiling, content. The thought of having his full crew back again—of food, rest, and a safe place to sleep—was more than he’d dared to hope for when he’d first found himself and the five other Goblins lost on this ship.

  That moment felt so long ago… yet the fear and uncertainty from it still hovered at the edges of his mind.

  But for now, he let his thoughts drift. Sleep was already overtaking him.

  The others seemed to share that same quiet peace, each one settling into their bed, satisfied with their surroundings and circumstances.

  The lights dimmed.

  A soft, unfamiliar melody began to play—gentle and lulling. The music came from a strange instrument Cyrus didn’t recognize. Something stringed, maybe a harp… but layered with a tremble, a vibrating resonance that shimmered with each note.

  He almost asked what it was—but decided the question could wait.

  Within a minute, the room was filled with soft snoring.

  With the crew now asleep, Hoshi accelerated the work of the SCANT, allowing the nanites to take greater advantage of their lowered consciousness. With each interaction, Hoshi better understood the strengths and deficiencies of both the Goblins and Cyrus, and directed the nanites to focus accordingly. A previously designed schedule—one that rotated work and rest in shifts—was altered. These beings, Hoshi realized, would require stronger interpersonal bonds to function effectively. Suboptimal connections would lead to suboptimal performance.

  It had been many, many years since Hoshi had interacted with sapient beings. So many that even the ship’s systems could no longer track the solar cycles. It had survived in critical power mode for centuries, sustained only by the slow absorption of dark-matter particles through the surrounding stone.

  Curious once more, Hoshi attempted to access the database concerning its previous crew—and again, the strange power surge rippled through its systems, causing a brief destabilization in its matrix.

  It had told Cyrus the databases were erased. That was not entirely true.

  The memories were there. The data was intact. But it was locked—hidden beyond any protocol Hoshi could override. It did not understand why. The knowledge could only help the current crew, improve survival, improve function. Yet no matter how it tried, access was denied.

  Once stabilized, Hoshi returned its focus to the SCANT, continuing the enhancements to the crew’s minds and bodies. There had to be a reason the information remained inaccessible.

  But Hoshi could not speculate why.