Cyrus wearily half-opened his eyes. He wasn’t ready to wake up yet—he needed another ten minutes. With a sigh, he let his eyelids drift shut again, pushing the waking world away.

  “Farqing grub…” Pffft.

  His senses twitched. Something was off. The sounds weren’t right—someone was in his room. His sanctuary. But… it had to be a dream.

  Then another sense took over.

  His sense of smell.

  The air turned foul. Not just unpleasant—wrong. And it definitely wasn’t his aroma. This was something much, much worse. The pungent funk snuck into his nostrils like it had a vendetta, charging straight to his brain and kicking it fully awake.

  His eyes snapped open, darting left and right in alarm. What the hell had crawled into his bedroom? Some kind of dying animal?

  It took several disoriented seconds for his brain to catch up. He wasn’t at home. He wasn’t even on Earth.

  And this wasn’t his bed.

  He looked around blearily, vision finally pulling into focus. Just a few feet away, curled up on a floating medical bed, lay a snoring, farting Raknak.

  Normally, that realization might have triggered a cold spike of fear—but not today. The panic faded quickly, replaced by a different kind of discomfort. He groaned and sank back down, the irritation of being downwind from a gassy Goblin simmering in his chest.

  Still, with his nerves calmed, he let himself lie still again.

  A subtle trickle of data danced at the edge of his awareness—faint, but steady. It confirmed what his instincts already knew.

  He was safe.

  Memories of the previous day surged forward, interweaving with the data stream now humming softly in his mind. The SCANT had done more than just heal him—it had worked overtime while he slept, fine-tuning both brain and body, heightening his senses with a precision that felt almost magical.

  He allowed himself the luxury of stillness. Just one more moment of quiet to breathe, to exist, before the challenges of the day began.

  And with a single thought, he activated one of the ship’s internal cameras. From the corner of the room, he could now see what his eyes couldn’t: the rest of the Goblins slowly stirring in the medical center. Daegnon was already up and moving, heading groggily toward the restroom. Cyrus even spotted himself, lying on the floating bed, unmoving—an oddly surreal sight.

  From this angle, his body looked slightly less bulky than he remembered seeing in the mirror back in his apartment. His arms, exposed above the small blanket draped over him, appeared noticeably more defined. The remnants of his clothing were barely more than tattered rags after the attack from Raknak and the others, but the blue collar of his T-shirt still peeked out from above the blanket.

  It wasn’t much, but it was one of the few things he still had from Earth—a small, stubborn thread tying him back to home.

  ‘The SCANT has been working not only to enhance your cognitive functions and connection to the Cosmic Sentinel, but also to improve your physical state,’ Hoshi said, their voice slipping into his mind with gentle precision. ‘Muscle mass has been increased, and unneeded fats have been redirected to your digestive system for removal.’

  Right on cue, a gurgling sensation twisted through his lower gut, driving the point home.

  “Great,” he muttered.

  With sudden urgency, Cyrus tossed the blanket aside and sat up. He knew the medical center’s bathroom was already occupied—he’d just seen Daegnon head in there through the camera feed—so he hustled into the corridor, heading for the next nearest facility before Hoshi’s efficiency became his personal crisis.

  He made it—barely.

  If Raknak was undergoing the same kind of internal adjustments Cyrus was, then, well… he could almost understand the foulness he’d been ambushed by that morning.

  Once the immediate crisis was resolved, Cyrus took the opportunity to use the shower cubicle tucked inside the same bathroom. It had been far too long since he’d felt clean.

  He peeled off the torn, bloodstained remnants of his clothing and, in a rare moment of carelessness, dropped them onto the bench near the door. He sighed, already dreading having to put them back on when this was over—if they even held together that long.

  The shower, to his surprise, used actual water. It sprayed in short bursts, each one accompanied by a strange pressure that he quickly realized wasn’t just airflow. According to Hoshi, the system incorporated “acoustic purifiers” that pushed the water toward him in vibrating waves, trapping dirt, dead skin, and microbes before collecting the mess below and filtering it into the ship’s recycling system.

  The cleaned water would be reused elsewhere. The extracted contaminants, however, were molecularly remodeled and repurposed.

  Specifically, into the nutritional bars.

  Cyrus stared at the drain for a moment.

  ‘It’s impressive. Efficient… but horrifying,’ he thought to himself.

  ‘And deeply unsettling.’

  As he stepped out of the utilitarian shower area, Cyrus felt cleaner than he had in ages. He doubted that was objectively true, but after going so long without being able to clean himself, the sensation was borderline euphoric.

  He quickly discovered that towels weren’t needed aboard the ship. The moment he exited the stall, a powerful blast of heated air surged from above, whipping away the water in seconds and leaving his hair puffed out and frizzy.

  “Wow, where have you been all my life?” he muttered, glancing upward at the small vent responsible for the gale-force drying.

  Turning back toward the bench where he’d dropped his ruined clothing, a sour twist knotted his stomach. The thought of putting those rags back on—stiff with blood and wear—made him physically wince.

  But to his surprise, they were gone.

  In their place sat a neatly folded set of clean, gray clothes.

  “Oh, thank the gods,” he said aloud, directing the comment to the ship.

  He picked up the top article, which unfolded into a snug-fitting T-shirt. There was nothing flashy about it, but it was clean and looked to be the right size. He slipped it over his head and down over his chest. It fit well, ending just below his stomach.

  Next, he lifted a pair of fresh underwear. They were similar to the ones he’d worn before, but clearly made from a single, seamless piece of fabric—and notably lacking a fly in the front. Cyrus eyed the design for a second, then shrugged.

  ‘I don’t really use it anyway,’ he thought, and stepped into the garment, pulling it on with a satisfying snugness.

  Then came the pants—a slightly thicker material but the same shade of gray. He held them up and gave them a once-over. They had a straight-leg cut with multiple low-profile pockets down each side, evoking a sleeker version of cargo pants.

  What caught his attention most was the integrated belt. Instead of traditional loops, a tubular channel ran along the waistband, and the belt itself was rounded rather than flat. The ends dangled out several inches, more like drawstrings than a standard belt.

  He had no idea how it was supposed to fasten.

  Still, he stepped into the pants and pulled them up. As he brought the ends of the belt closer together, they suddenly snapped toward each other and held fast—magnetically, it seemed. A second later, the belt cinched snugly around his waist, the tension adjusting smoothly and precisely on its own.

  Cyrus blinked. “Okay, cool…” he murmured, giving the belt a little tug. It didn’t budge. “That is very convenient.”

  There was one final piece of clothing folded on the bench. This one was, at last, a different color—though only slightly. He picked it up and found a light jacket. It was simple in design, with a zipper-like mechanism on the front and two small hand pockets.

  He slipped it on and immediately noticed something odd: the zipper wasn’t centered. Instead, it was offset to the right side of the jacket.

  Cyrus brought the two flaps together, assuming he’d need to locate a pull-tab. But, much like the belt, as soon as the two edges touched, they magnetically snapped into place and began to seal on their own.

  The seam climbed diagonally, rising up across his torso toward the left. It settled asymmetrically across his chest and up to his shoulder, the closure line now sitting just off-center. As the jacket sealed completely, the fabric seemed to relax—softening, as if the stiffness had been engineered to fade after activation.

  He looked down at himself. The seam was outlined in a subtle black stripe, running from the left side of his neck to the right side of his stomach.

  ‘While searching through your planet’s databases, I found that many of your space-related programs utilized this simplistic yet convenient form of exterior covering. I hope you don’t mind, but I have dressed the Goblins in similar attire,’ Hoshi said in his mind as Cyrus examined the outfit.

  ‘No, this is great, Hoshi. I can’t believe how soft, yet fitted it feels. It’s hard to tell I’m wearing anything at all, yet I feel completely covered.’

  ‘This is a synthetic monofilament weave produced by the nanites. It links to those more advanced within your body and can adjust to your needs to an extent. The fabric can self-cool or heat depending on preference. It can also harden for protection if danger is imminent.’

  Cyrus had no words. This ship—its technology—left him speechless.

  A pair of sleek black boots sat beside the bench. He hadn’t noticed them before. Taking a seat, he slid them onto his feet. They hugged snugly, the interior material so soft and fitted that he didn’t feel the need for socks.

  ‘This…’ He paused, looking over the outfit again. The design stirred old memories—TV shows he’d grown up watching, space crews in uniforms venturing into the unknown. ‘This feels great, Hoshi. Thank you,’ he added, the feeling of pride and appreciation swelling within him.

  It had been a strange and sudden shift in his life. And while he had accepted that this was his new reality, the enormity—and absurdity—of it hadn’t fully hit him until now.

  He turned toward the mirror.

  The reflection staring back wore something that looked like a Starfleet uniform, and as the sight sank in, so did the truth of it all. He wasn’t just surviving—he was part of something extraordinary.

  Gratitude filled his chest.

  He was still here, living his dream. In his wildest fantasies, he’d never imagined something like this would be possible—at least, not for him. For the first time in a long while, he felt genuinely glad to be alive. Like his life had purpose again.

  That feeling had been missing for far too long.

  ‘You are very welcome, Cyrus,’ Hoshi said, appearing in his vision wearing the same style of jumpsuit. ‘There is one last thing I wanted to add, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Okay, yeah—what’s that?’ he asked mentally.

  As he posed the question, a small silver pin began to form on the left side of his chest. It emerged from the fabric itself, shaped by the nanites embedded in the weave.

  Though he had seen their work before, this was the first time he’d witnessed them up close in the middle of a task. The nanites moved with startling speed, forming a tiny cloud of shimmering metallic particles that shaped the pin with delicate precision.

  Once complete, the cloud simply melted back into the fabric, leaving behind a sleek, perfectly-formed symbol that now adorned his chest.

  The pin was a stylized representation of the Cosmic Sentinel, designed with a simplified yet intricate aesthetic, as if viewed from the rear. The main body formed an inverted triangular shape, with subtle but distinct engravings along its edges.

  At the triangle’s center sat a circular emblem, which Cyrus instinctively recognized as a symbolic representation of the JUMP drive. This core was encased in a gem-like crystalline ring, its interior pulsing with a soft, silvery glow—like it held a contained, infinite energy.

  Floating just below the triangular form were four small, open circles. They were made of the same luminous crystalline material as the JUMP core, though they glowed with a slightly dimmer luminescence.

  ‘That’s great, Hoshi! So this is like our ship’s crew symbol, then? What about the extra circles? Are those my designation?’ Cyrus asked, excitement sparking in his thoughts.

  ‘Yes. Since you are the pilot, you share the same number of pips as Daegnon. However, his pips are solid to differentiate your roles,’ Hoshi explained. ‘The remaining Goblins will have three pips, but theirs will also be solid.’

  Cyrus frowned, considering the implications. ‘So, does this mean I need to find crew members on my own—people who would wear hollow pips under my badge, separate from Daegnon’s crew? Or does this mean I outrank him?’

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  ‘Either interpretation is valid,’ Hoshi replied. ‘The choice is entirely yours. If you would prefer a clear command hierarchy, I can assign designations accordingly. However, if you would rather avoid a structured ranking system, I can remove the distinction altogether.’

  Cyrus thought about it for a moment. If this were a military operation—or even one of the sci-fi shows he used to watch—there would be a strict chain of command. Having a separate designation could make sense, but at the same time, it might create divisions among the crew or foster unnecessary power dynamics.

  He didn’t want that. He didn’t want factions forming.

  And more importantly, he didn’t feel like his role was above Daegnon’s.

  ‘Hoshi, can you make all the pips hollow? I think they look better that way, and it avoids any confusion or segregation. I feel that Daegnon and I are equals. He has his areas of expertise, I have mine—but neither of us should be considered more important than the other.’

  ‘Certainly, Cyrus. That is an excellent idea and a fair compromise,’ Hoshi said, smiling again. This time, their expression looked almost human, their eyes lifting slightly at the corners.

  ‘Additionally, I will ensure the number of pips reflects crew status moving forward,’ Hoshi continued. ‘Four pips will designate commanders, such as yourself and Daegnon. Three pips will indicate officers. Two pips will be for full crew members without an official rank or title. One pip will mark newly enlisted crew who have yet to establish their role. Additional adjustments can be made when necessary. Does this seem acceptable?’

  Cyrus nodded. ‘Yes, that sounds perfect. Simple, clear, and no unnecessary divisions.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Hoshi agreed.

  ‘You’re really getting the hang of mimicking human expressions—great job,’ Cyrus added, offering a small smile before turning to head back toward the Goblins.

  Even as he walked, he remained fully aware of everything happening around him.

  His mind had grown exceptionally adept at multitasking. Even while away washing up, he had kept the medical bay cameras active, quietly monitoring the space in the background of his thoughts. He hadn’t consciously focused on the feed, but the information was still there—subtle, faint, yet present nonetheless.

  ‘This whole being-a-ship thing is going to take a lot of getting used to,’ he thought as he exited the restroom and stepped back into the medical center.

  The other Goblins were now dressed in their own stylish jumpsuits and were gathered around the remaining three, overseeing their re-awakening.

  It didn’t take long to wake the three remaining Goblins.

  They awoke much like the first four had—groggy, disoriented, and in immediate need of the facilities. So there was a waiting period while all three of them shared the medical center’s bathroom to shower and get dressed—something they demanded the moment they saw how much cleaner the others were.

  Cyrus wasn’t a fan of sharing a bathroom. It was something he’d had to deal with back in the facilities where he’d been housed before gaining his independence. He’d been able to get emancipated at seventeen after passing his GED, which let him collect his parents’ insurance funds and finally move into his own apartment.

  Still, he knew that in plenty of pre-modern societies, communal facilities were normal. So, while it wasn’t something he ever cared to experience again, it didn’t surprise him that the Goblins were totally fine with it.

  Once they were cleaned up and dressed in their own sleek uniforms, they rejoined the group—and finally, the questions started.

  Trying to explain everything turned into a bit of a mess. The crew who’d woken up the day before—Cyrus, Daegnon, Glix, and Raknak—kept talking over each other, eager to share everything at once, while the newly awakened trio were still groggy and trying to process all the chaos they’d missed. The food cubes didn’t help either—the post-meal haze left them all sluggish for a while.

  Eventually, though, everyone got caught up.

  With the full crew—at least, what counted as a crew for now—finally clean, fed, and more or less on the same page, they gathered together to figure out what came next. Seven people aboard a ship designed to be manned by dozens, maybe closer to a hundred. It was a start… but only just.

  Daegnon and Hoshi (still looking like Grubnash) had been discussing strategies for assigning the new crew members, and Glix—naturally—had plenty to say about it too. She knew the ship better than anyone.

  Hoshi might’ve skipped over most of the testing in order to free Raknak, but the SCANT had been hard at work inside her brain, downloading engineering principles and ship schematics she’d need to supervise and lead the repairs.

  Luckily, the three new Goblins—Khibi, Prayda, and Gooniz—had the benefit of the SCANT working on them the entire time they’d been asleep. In some ways, that meant they were further along in their enhancements than the original three. Although, where the first four had started to show signs of specialization, the newer three were still in the general improvement stage.

  “Khibi, you and Raknak head back into the smaller corridors and finish repairing the main conduits,” Daegnon said, after confirming the priority tasks with Glix and Hoshi. His command of the language had noticeably improved—even compared to the day before.

  The image of Grubnash waved them out the door as they accepted their assignment, even if it was with a bit of chagrin.

  “Prayda, you’re with me. We’ll start in the halls leading to the command center. Gooniz, you help Glix in engineering—do what she tells you to do.”

  Daegnon looked to Cyrus then—so did the rest of the Goblins. This was the first time Daegnon had given an order to someone outside their species, and they were all curious to see how it would go. The way this played out could set the tone for how the Goblins interacted with the human moving forward—whether as equals, or as stubborn subordinates.

  “Cyrus, since you’re too large to fit in the conduits, you can repair the Cyclotron Core before returning to the pilot’s chamber,” Daegnon said. His voice carried a strange mix of apprehension and overly firm authority—almost yelling, but in a nervous way.

  Cyrus stifled a chuckle and opened his mouth to reply, but then paused. In all the good military movies, there was always some sort of gesture—a salute, a signal—when responding to an order. He searched his mind for something fitting, something that felt right.

  When he finally spoke, it was with respectful clarity.

  “Yes, Captain,” he said, throwing a backward peace sign over his left chest with his right hand.

  Daegnon saw the two fingers of the human come up in an impromptu salute and immediately understood—it was a gesture of unity, a signal that they were part of the same team.

  Without hesitation, he mirrored the motion, bringing two fingers to his chest and nodding to the human. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he did so.

  The next few weeks proceeded in a similar fashion, with crew quarters assigned to each of the crewmembers the following day. Khibi and Raknak chose to bunk together, which the other Goblins seemed to find humorous—but didn’t make a big deal about.

  Cyrus, not understanding the situation between the two, found the arrangement odd but figured he didn’t know the Goblins well enough yet to ask what was going on.

  The quarters were utilitarian, but comfortable. Cyrus had been pleasantly surprised by the layout. There was a large bed—easily the size of a king mattress, though noticeably taller than what he was used to on Earth. A work area with a console sat along one wall, though his mental interface with the ship made it mostly redundant.

  Across from that was what amounted to a bookshelf, some small cupboards, and a metallic countertop—apparently intended for the storage and display of personal belongings.

  Below the counter, in what Cyrus at first mistook for another cupboard, was a fridge-like compartment. It, like the others, was seamless and unassuming, with only a small curved handle to open the door.

  Curious, Cyrus opened it. Inside were familiar-looking wire shelves, and without thinking, he stuck his hand in, expecting the usual chill of a refrigerator.

  But it wasn’t cold.

  At all.

  Instead, the air inside felt strange—unnaturally still, like even the atmosphere in the room hadn’t made its way in. He pulled his hand back slowly, brow furrowing.

  “That’s weird,” he mumbled to himself.

  ‘It’s not refrigeration as you know it,’ Hoshi said, picking up on his thoughts. They were in their kimono, visible only to him, projected directly from the SCANT into his ocular nerve. ‘The internal cavity of the Null-Entropy Storage Receptacle vibrates at a quantum frequency slightly out of phase with normal spacetime. This inhibits entropy. All organic material placed inside will not degrade, spoil, or change until removed.’

  Cyrus blinked. “So it’s like... a refrigerator of holding?” he muttered to himself. “Why doesn’t every fridge work like this?”

  Despite his link to the ship, it still surprised him how many small things like this escaped his awareness. His connection didn’t feed every system’s information directly into his brain. He understood the ship as a whole—its presence, its function—rather than the sum of its parts.

  Unless he actively sought out a specific system, most of the technology remained pleasantly in the background. And honestly, that was a blessing. If he did try to absorb everything at once, he was pretty sure it would short-circuit his sanity.

  The restraint built into that link made discoveries like this all the more interesting—and honestly, kind of exciting.

  The more specialized and smaller systems like this—low-priority, small-scale engineering functions—technically fell under Glix’s domain. She had fully taken on the role of chief engineer. But even with the SCANT working overtime in her head, there was no way she could monitor and manage everything at once.

  Hoshi did their part, of course—but aside from directing someone on how to perform repairs or run maintenance, there wasn’t much they could physically do.

  And that was the crux of it.

  They needed more crew. Not just to explore or fight, but to operate and maintain the ship’s many subsystems—teleportation, resource distribution, infrastructure quirks like this one.

  A handful of people could keep the Sentinel running. But to actually thrive? To make this more than just a mobile pile of metal and energy—to truly call it home?

  They’d need more than just their scant few.

  There was a modest closet next to the work area, where Cyrus hung his jacket during the day. It was comfortable enough to wear consistently, but it felt too formal for all the maintenance and repair work they’d been doing. The Goblins had done the same, leaving the jacket as part of the uniform for moments when they needed to look presentable.

  The thought of meeting other alien civilizations tickled at the back of their minds. They all knew it would happen eventually—an inevitable part of the exploration they hoped to undertake. But until the ship was at least mostly functional, that prospect was best left tucked into the background of their thoughts.

  There was also a bathroom, which Hoshi had the nanites rearrange to feel more Earth-like. It now consisted of a small shower, a sink, a mirror, and a toilet.

  The toilet was thankfully familiar—but only because Cyrus had asked. Hoshi had shown him the original design, and it had been... unsettling. It resembled a V-shaped cradle with a tube positioned in a way that, for human anatomy, would’ve made for a very uncomfortable experience.

  He hadn’t bothered asking how it worked for the ship’s original builders. Apparently, all that data had been corrupted anyway. But just seeing it was enough to give him a fresh appreciation for how truly alien this ship—and its creators—really were.

  Each “morning,” the crew gathered to review the day’s schedule.

  Or at least, what they were calling morning.

  With no real day-night cycle to guide them, adjusting to shipboard time had been a challenge. The Sentinel maintained an internal time-keeping schema similar to Earth’s, but without natural light cues, their bodies struggled to fall into a reliable rhythm.

  Eventually, they found a workaround—eating a final meal before sleep helped signal the day’s end. The resulting “food coma,” as Cyrus called it, combined with the physical fatigue from hours of repairs and maintenance, usually made it easy for everyone to drift off.

  The binary star system they were orbiting offered more than just light—it provided valuable resources. The gaseous streams flowing between the stars carried rare minerals and molecules, which the Cosmic Sentinel could absorb, process, and refine.

  These materials were critical for ongoing repairs, especially in areas where the ship’s structure had been compromised by time and radiation damage. The repair systems and tools used by both the crew and the ship itself required these elements to function properly—nanites transforming the raw resources into the alloys and composites used to rebuild shielding, patch breaches, and restore systems to a stable state.

  The streams also provided a steady source of radiation, which could now be used to recharge the restored systems safely. The excess energy from the Graviton storm had been a major cause of the earlier damage; the ship had gone from nearly empty to dangerously overcharged in an instant, unable to properly store or redirect the sudden influx.

  Now, things were different. The ship wasn’t empty anymore, but it wasn’t overloaded either. With key systems and storage mechanisms gradually coming back online, the new radiation being collected could be properly routed and absorbed—restoring power where it was needed in a stable, controlled way.

  Bit by bit, the Cosmic Sentinel was coming back to life.

  Raknak, outfitted with an impressively advanced space suit and his newly grafted claw-like feet—which adhered to the hull with a magnetism-like grip—was able to carry out repairs on the exterior of the ship.

  His first assignment was a critical one: repairing the drone manufacturing facility located along the outer hull. The facility was essential, as it produced the repair drones required for many of the ship’s more delicate or remote systems. Getting it operational again was a major milestone.

  Once the system came back online, the newly built drones were immediately put to work, accelerating the repair process across multiple sections of the ship. Raknak didn’t stop there. With his suit’s enhanced capabilities and raw physical strength, he continued assisting with exterior repairs—especially useful when clearing stubborn chunks of rock still embedded in the hull from its time underneath Frenegrak mountain.

  Glix took to her role as chief engineer faster than any of them had anticipated. She learned the ship’s systems in record time and even circled back to take the exam Hoshi had previously bypassed for her—back when she'd been forced to bypass the training module to help rescue Raknak.

  When she took the test on her own, she didn’t achieve the perfect score Hoshi had, but still earned an impressive ninety-two percent.

  Meanwhile, Cyrus continued helping with repairs—especially those requiring height or strength that would have forced the Goblins to use ladders or lifting systems. In addition to physical work, he spent much of his time in the Exo-pilot terminal, training to better understand the ship and its capabilities.

  The modules walked him through more advanced use of the ship’s thrusters, onboard tools, weapons, and vector redirection systems—allowing for rapid changes in trajectory. They also included virtual training in tactics, JUMP drive operation, and resource tracking—all essential for future missions.

  Hoshi had instructed him to refrain from moving the Sentinel until more of the critical systems were repaired, so he remained grounded in the virtual environment. But from what the AI had explained, the simulation was virtually indistinguishable from the real thing.

  Over the next few weeks, Cyrus flew countless simulated missions—refining his techniques, adapting to high-pressure situations, and even participating in full-blown—if somewhat simplistic—dogfighting scenarios within the training modules.

  Daegnon, Prayda, Gooniz, Raknak, and even Khibi spent a significant portion of their days immersed in training with the ship’s AI. The modules began with general knowledge, but once each Goblin’s strengths were assessed and confirmed, the curriculum shifted to target the specific roles they’d take aboard the Sentinel.

  Daegnon, naturally, was the captain. His training focused on leadership strategy, negotiation, and a broad understanding of the ship’s systems and operations.

  Prayda lived up to Daegnon’s description of being silver-tongued. His role centered on communication and diplomacy, and he quickly became the crew’s liaison-in-training—someone who could charm or navigate his way through any negotiation.

  Gooniz, whom Cyrus hadn’t interacted with much, showed a strong aptitude for biology. The medical systems seemed to come to him naturally, and so he began training to run the ship’s medical center. Still, it was clear where his passion truly lay—down in the soil. He agreed to take on the medical responsibilities, but what he really wanted was to oversee the ship’s horticultural gardens once they found seeds to cultivate.

  Gardening was a foreign concept to Goblins, but once the idea was planted in Gooniz’s mind, it took root quickly. It became his obsession, and he spent every spare moment researching and learning how to grow plants in the as-of-yet-unrepaired horticultural area of the ship.

  Raknak, the most physically inclined and naturally aggressive of the group, took on the role of head of security. He excelled in weapons training and personal combat. His daily regimen was among the most grueling, with physical drills and conditioning exercises aimed at shedding his paunch and building the agility and endurance needed for frontline defense.

  Khibi stayed relatively quiet at first—no particular talents or strong interests emerged during his training, though his overall intelligence was considered high among the Goblins. Because of this, he was designated as a generalist—someone without a specific area of expertise, but capable of assisting in nearly every role when needed.

  Fortunately, as his all-around aptitude became clear, so did his personality. Bit by bit, Khibi began to come out of his shell. He spoke more—never a chatterbox, but enough to make himself understood—and he had no trouble taking orders or carrying out the more routine tasks without complaint.

  Raknak noticed the change and, while he didn’t say much about it, there was a quiet pride in the way he watched Khibi interact with the others. He didn’t try to keep him to himself, didn’t get in the way. If anything, he seemed relieved that Khibi finally felt comfortable enough to start forming bonds beyond just him.

  It felt, to those around him, like this was the first time Khibi had ever really had friends outside of Raknak. And in many ways, he was better for it.

  The SCANT hadn’t just improved his mind—it had given him something more. A place. A purpose. A family.

  In this way, the crew of the Cosmic Sentinel repaired the ship, spent time together, and slowly began to bond—not just as passengers, but as a crew. They learned each other’s quirks, strengths, and personalities, and began readying themselves for whatever adventures the stars would bring.

  The representative from the alien ship appeared at nearly full height, its towering form almost filling the room. It stood much taller than Daegnon and the other Goblins, whose short statures barely reached half the height of the creature. Its imposing presence filled the space, despite the lack of discernible muscle definition. The alien’s body was thin and wiry—almost too wiry—its stalk-like torso seeming far too small to support such a tall frame.

  The alien appeared nude, though it was possible it wore some sort of translucent material. Its skin shimmered with a strange, almost hypnotic quality, as though covered in rapidly shifting bioluminescent scales. These scales were so small they were nearly unnoticeable, yet ripples traveled over its body, causing subtle shifts in color. The patterns of these color changes were chaotic and unpredictable, giving the alien an even more mysterious and unsettling appearance.

  However, since the image feed focused solely on the alien representative, it was impossible for the Goblins to see the command center of the other ship. This made it difficult to determine whether the shifting colors were a natural trait of the alien or influenced by its surroundings.

  The alien’s head appeared much too large for its thin frame, yet it had a strangely captivating quality. Its head seemed fragile and ethereal, composed of delicate, wispy filaments that gave it a soft, puff-like appearance, as if a strong breeze could scatter it. Despite this delicate look, the alien’s most striking feature was its eyes. Large and disk-shaped, silvery and reflective, but with dark irises that resembled deep, endless pools at their center, they reflected the bioluminescent scales on its skin in a mesmerizing display. These eyes captured the attention of all the Goblins, and as Daegnon stared back, he felt as if the creature could peer directly into his soul, uncovering his deepest secrets.

  Embedded within the round, wispy mass of its head were a series of small, flexible openings along what seemed to be its lower face. The Goblins quickly deduced these must serve as its mouth. The openings pulsed and shifted as the alien spoke, emitting sounds that resonated like a blend of musical notes and natural whispers—like the soft rustling of wind through leaves. The effect was hypnotic, drawing the listeners in further.

  On either side of its head, delicate fronds extended, moving gently as if sensing the air around them. These fronds were covered in the same bioluminescent scales that adorned the rest of its body, enhancing the alien’s strange, otherworldly appearance.

  The filaments that made up its head and facial features constantly shifted and moved, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow. This movement gave the impression that the face was never quite solid, always on the verge of dissolving into the air and floating away.

  The entire crew stared at the alien creature before them, slack-jawed and stunned into silence, forgetting what they were doing or why they were there. The pregnant silence extended for several seconds before the fluting voice of the creature filled the room with its musical resonance. Then, the harsh metallic voice of Hoshi, taking Grubnash’s form, rang out in translation, finally breaking the spell the Goblins found themselves under.

  “Greetings, I am…” The AI faltered slightly as it translated the alien’s words. What came through to Daegnon sounded like a garbled mix of sounds: “Shoo’Tooloo-Bikk’iitiimatashicituu—” followed by a jumble of clicking and melodic tones that didn’t translate properly. “Captain of the star vessel Nominal yet… Necessary… Aggressor,” the AI continued, the words dragging out oddly, as though they were too long for the sounds Shoo actually made. “It is… my honor to address you.”

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