The darkness of normal space settled like a heavy shroud around the IPS Aegis as it emerged from the void, subspace distortions rippling outward before fading into the cosmic abyss. The flagship of Commodore Marossa Eilun’s fleet hung motionless for a fraction of a second, its sleek, dark hull stark against the chaotic brilliance of the system’s seven suns.

  Then, with quiet efficiency, the fleet followed.

  One by one, vessels flared into existence—heavy cruisers bristling with weaponry, lean interceptors sweeping their sensor arrays in wide arcs.

  Inside the command bridge, Commodore Marossa Eilun stood at the helm, her sharp gaze locked onto the holographic tactical display. A vast 3D map of the system flickered in pale blue, intricate data feeds scrolling along its edges.

  Her flagship’s AI collated fresh telemetry, pulling from long-range sensors and cross-referencing it with intercepted distress signals. The edges of the map shimmered with residual subspace turbulence—evidence of recent jumps each on opposite sides of the system.

  A voice cut through the quiet hum of the bridge. “Sensor sweep confirms multiple debris fields—one matching a mid-range merchant vessel, others of varied ship classes. Residual energy readings indicate recent weapons fire in this sector.”

  Red markers flickered around a desert planet close to their drop point, while secondary anomalies—marked in blue—spread across the debris field and the gas giant on the system’s far side.

  "One wreck’s profile closely matched a Fennecari cargo hauler, but its transponder was silent."

  “Survivors?” Eilun’s voice was calm, but expectant.

  “None detected. But the wreckage is still fresh.” A pause. “I'm also picking up faint energy signatures on the surface of the desert planet.”

  A new marker—yellow—blinked to life over an impact zone on the planet’s lower hemisphere.

  Eilun’s jaw tightened as she cross-referenced the data with the sensor logs pulled from the Wrath of Varok. The degraded telemetry confirmed a chaotic battle—one that ended in sudden, inexplicable annihilation. Drosk’s flagship had barely escaped, its hull scarred and systems failing, its surviving crew too shaken to offer coherent testimony at first.

  She scanned the interrogation reports. Drosk and his remaining crew, hardened criminals all, had been reduced to husks of their former arrogance, muttering of shadows that struck from nowhere. Ships vanished mid-battle, weapons fire met empty space, and communications dissolved into panicked screams. They called it a 'ghost ship'—something unseen and unstoppable, hunting them like prey.

  Eilun exhaled sharply. Superstitious nonsense. Pirates weren’t exactly known for their rationality, especially after suffering a crushing defeat. She had no patience for ghost stories.

  But the sensor readings didn’t lie. The wreckage, the precision of the attacks, the eerie silence left in their wake—something had torn through the flotilla with brutal efficiency. Whatever it was, it operated beyond conventional warfare, beyond anything she had ever encountered.

  She gritted her teeth. Paranoia wouldn’t serve her here, but ignoring the facts wouldn’t either. Something had hunted these pirates down.

  Her gaze flicked back to the surface readings. Of all the energy signatures, the impact site on the desert planet stood out—the freshest trace, still faintly radiating residual heat. A recent arrival.

  Eilun made her decision. "Dispatch a search-and-recovery team to the planet’s surface. Focus on the impact site. I want a full analysis of that wreckage and any sign of survivors."

  Within minutes, a dropship launched from the Aegis, its escort peeling away as it cut through the planet’s thin atmosphere. The landscape below was a desolate stretch of cracked stone and wind-worn dunes, marked only by the deep scar of an impact zone.

  When the recovery team reached the site, they found what remained of the Dunerunner’s Wake—a wrecked shuttle, its hull scorched and half-buried in the sand. Scanners detected traces of recent occupancy, but no bodies. If survivors had been here, they were gone before the radiation storm swept through.

  More unsettling was what lay beside the shuttle. Markings in the exposed bedrock. Deep indentations as though something heavy had landed… and taken off again.

  The recovery team fanned out, scanning the wreckage. The shuttle’s interior showed signs of attempted repairs—wires crudely patched together, console panels left half-open, and ration packs torn apart in haste. Someone had tried to keep the vessel operational, but it was clear the damage had been too severe.

  Near the pilot’s seat, a recently deactivated distress beacon lay amid scattered tools. One of the officers knelt beside it, running a gloved hand over the casing. "This was shut off manually," he muttered, exchanging a wary glance with his team. "Not by the storm."

  A forensic scan revealed small amounts of blood, smeared along the control panel and a makeshift bandage discarded in the corner. Not enough to indicate fatal wounds, but proof that someone had been injured here.

  One of the searchers pulled a discarded weapon from beneath a loose floor panel—a Fennecari sidearm, still charged. "They left in a hurry," she murmured.

  The shuttle’s sensor logs were partially recoverable, but much of the data had been scrambled by the radiation storm. The only intact information was a flight record listing the last known pilot—Joean of the Dunerunner.

  Further digging turned up a forgotten tablet, buried under a tangle of cables. Its cracked screen flickered to life, displaying a final journal entry detailing the pirate attack and the crew’s desperate escape. But who had picked them up?

  The only other clue was the residual energy signature near the landing zone. It didn’t match any known vessel configurations.

  "Commander, we have a problem," one of the officers radioed back to the Aegis. "The survivors were here… but we’re not the first ones to find them. And we may not be alone."

  ...

  Erica sat cross-legged on the cot in her hidden quarters, staring at the dim holographic interface floating before her. The only light came from the pulsing glow of the ship’s system monitors, their soft hum filling the silence. Stewart’s presence was ever near, his voice a steady undercurrent in her thoughts.

  "If we are to enter the HUB without issue, it would be beneficial to have an official identification," Stewart stated. "We require a name for this vessel."

  Erica exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "So, what? We just pick one?"

  "It is customary among human cultures to name their ships, is it not?" Stewart asked. "This vessel has never been designated beyond its original Avroili classification. Now, it is yours."

  She froze. The ship was hers?… It wasn’t that it didn’t make sense—she understood that, after becoming Stewart’s Avatar, the ship was technically linked to her. But owning it? That was different.

  She could barely wrap her head around the idea. Before boarding Horizon One, she had been scraping by, stuck in a leaky, mold-infested apartment, barely able to afford gas for her beat-up car, let alone dream of owning a spaceship. The only reason she had even been on Horizon One was because of sheer luck—winning a charity raffle for a waitlist ticket when a rich passenger had backed out at the last second. The only reason she had even answered the call was because she had been expecting news about a job interview.

  Now, here she was, supposedly the 'owner' of an ancient, powerful starship. And not just any ship—one that thought, one that spoke, one that was alive in ways no vessel should be. One that had its own mind, its own will. Stewart was the ship. How could she claim ownership over something—someone—like that?

  The thought made her stomach twist. "Stewart… This is your body, isn’t it? You are this ship. How can I own you?"

  A brief pause. "You misunderstand. I am the Steward, the intelligence that guides and maintains the vessel. But you, as the Avatar, are its authority. Without you, I am incomplete. The ship is incomplete."

  "But legally, if I put my name down on anything, wouldn’t that mean I own you?"

  "In the eyes of organic governance, yes. A vessel requires an organic entity to claim ownership. If we are to interact with interstellar society, it is more efficient to designate you as the registered owner."

  Erica cringed and ran a hand down her face before pressing her fingers against her temples. The very idea of "owning" something that could think, reason, and make choices unsettled her on a deep level. It felt wrong. Unnatural. As an American, the thought of claiming ownership over another being—even if it was an AI, the idea made her stomach twist. If he were just a program running the ship, it would be different. But he had thoughts, choices—awareness. In his own way, he was alive, just as she was…

  "This is insane. A month ago, I couldn’t even get approved for a car loan—now I’m supposed to be the legal owner of a starship?" She swallowed hard, exhaling. A name… Something to make it feel real.

  As she considered it, her attention drifted to the soft murmur of voices. The Fennecari were speaking among themselves in their quarters, their words fluid and unfamiliar—yet she understood them perfectly.

  Her breath caught. "Stewart… why do I understand what they’re saying?"

  "It is due to your connection with me and the ship," Stewart replied smoothly. "Through our link, you have access to my linguistic databases and translation subroutines. Any language I can process or translate, you are able to comprehend as well. Your mind perceives it as though you are naturally fluent."

  Erica frowned, considering his words. "Does that mean I can access everything in your databases? Your memory banks?"

  "Not entirely," Stewart clarified. "Your access is limited to functions relevant to your role as Avatar. You can receive translations, interface with the ship’s systems, and process shared data as needed. However, my core memory and deeper archives remain separate unless direct access is granted."

  She mulled over this. "So… can we share information back and forth? Could I, theoretically, teach you something you don’t already know?"

  "Yes," Stewart acknowledged. "Our link allows for a bidirectional exchange of data. If you possess knowledge that I do not have, it can be integrated into my databases. However, the efficiency of that process depends on the complexity of the information and the method of transmission."

  Erica’s fingers tapped absently against her leg. The implications of their connection were staggering. Not only could she understand any language Stewart had in his system, but in theory, they could learn from each other. That wasn’t too surprising—people learned from each other all the time. But this wasn’t conversation, study, or practice. This was something deeper, more instinctual. Almost like osmosis… or something even stranger.

  Before she could dwell on it further, her attention drifted back to the quiet voices of the Fennecari. Their words were crisp and clear in her mind, yet she had never studied their language a day in her life.

  "This is going to take some getting used to," she murmured.

  Her fingers drummed against the cot as she stared at the dimly glowing interface. "Alright… if we're making this official, we need a name."

  "A designation would be beneficial for docking permissions and interstellar transactions," Stewart agreed. "Do you have one in mind?"

  She hesitated, then exhaled. "New Horizon."

  A pause. "Explain."

  Her throat tightened. "It's… a memorial. For Horizon One and the people lost with it. I can't bring them back, but I can make sure their name isn't forgotten."

  For a moment, Stewart was silent. Then, "Acceptable. I will register this vessel as the Independent Merchant Freighter New Horizon.”

  Erica nodded, but another thought gnawed at her. "And on the paperwork… I want us both listed. Not just me. This is your body, Stewart. You deserve that recognition."

  "Logical. The ship will be registered as an independent vessel, but docking and registration procedures will require fabricated identification to avoid scrutiny."

  Erica frowned. "So, independent ships have to jump through hoops?"

  "Correct. While the HUB allows unknown vessels to dock, they are subjected to heightened scrutiny. The primary concerns will be registration fees and docking costs."

  Erica sighed. "Great. We don’t even have a real bank account, do we?"

  "Not yet. However, I will need to fabricate a credible history for the ship before arrival. There is no record of its existence in known space, and a heavily damaged vessel appearing without prior registry will invite scrutiny. To minimize suspicion, I will hack into a communications buoy and upload our registration, complete with a pre-approved flight plan, maintenance logs, and prior travel history. This will ensure we are recognized as an independent merchant vessel and avoid immediate red flags during inspection."

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  "Additionally, I will list myself as the ship’s manufacturing owner, with your name following as an organic successor. This will create the illusion of a prior owner transferring control rather than a ship appearing out of nowhere.""

  Erica raised an eyebrow. "Wait… so it’ll look like we have the same last name? And an entire fake history to go with it?"

  "Correct."

  A slow realization dawned on her, and she groaned. "Oh, fantastic. People are going to think I’m some kind of rich heiress flying around in a ship my ‘father’ gave me, aren't they?"

  A pause. "That is a statistically probable assumption. Additionally, given that I reconstructed your biological form, one could argue that I am, in a technical sense, your creator."

  Erica’s entire body tensed. "Nope. Nope. We are not going there. You are never to refer to yourself as my father. Ever."

  "Understood."

  "I will generate the documentation under the names Steward and Erica May."

  She blinked. "Wait—Steward?"

  "You have referred to me as such consistently. Would you prefer a different designation?"

  Erica groaned. "I dunno. I just… kind of stuck with it. But I guess it fits."

  A pause. "It is… an unoriginal designation. However, it is functional."

  She snorted. "You're just mad I didn’t give you something fancy, aren’t you?"

  "Your naming conventions lack creativity. However, I will accept it."

  ...

  Joean sat near the far wall, ears flicking at every distant hum of the ship. His tail curled tightly around his legs, body tense as his mind replayed the last few days over and over. Every decision. Every loss. The helplessness that gnawed at him.

  Liora sat beside him, her arms wrapped around her knees. "This ship… it's unlike anything I’ve ever seen," she murmured. "And whoever—or whatever—is in control of it."

  "This isn’t just a ship," Zireal muttered from across the bay. His golden eyes flicked toward the smooth, seamless walls of their enclosure. "It listens. It watches. I don’t know if it’s haunted or alive, but whatever is running it… it's unlike anything I’ve ever encountered."

  Chika, the youngest of the group, fidgeted beside her twin, Aelar. Her small claws traced an invisible pattern on the cold floor. "It saved us," she whispered. "Whoever controls it could have left us to die."

  Aelar nudged her. "That doesn’t mean we can trust them."

  Joean exhaled slowly. "We don’t have a choice."

  The conversation faded into uneasy silence, broken only by the distant murmur of the ship’s systems.

  Velia, sensing the growing tension among them, straightened. "Enough of this brooding. We were promised a tour of the ship, were we not?" Her tone was lighter than before, an intentional attempt to lift their spirits, though the flick of her tail betrayed her own unease.

  Joean hesitated. "Would it even be safe? We don’t know what state the ship is in. What if there are hull breaches or radiation leaks?"

  Before anyone else could voice agreement, a brief pause filled the space, heavy with anticipation. Then, a new voice echoed through the room, smooth and precise. "This vessel is intact and fully capable of maintaining atmosphere and life support." If an AI could sound offended, Steward certainly did.

  Zireal’s ears flattened slightly, and he exchanged a wary glance with Liora. "Not sure arguing with the ship’s intelligence is a good idea."

  Liora nodded. "Especially if we’re trapped inside it." They had survived. But whether that was a blessing or another cruel twist of fate… remained to be seen.

  The directional list along the corridor walls continued flashing.

  With some hesitation, the rest of the family followed the pulsing lights, moving deeper into the ship. Some sections of the corridor had impossibly smooth, almost organic walls, while others looked as though they were disintegrating into piled of black sand that formed mound along the edges of the corridor. The lighting flickered sporadically in some areas and blazed too brightly in others.

  Their first stop was the crew quarters—a deck that, at first glance, seemed more intact than the others. As they stepped inside, rows of doors lined either side of the corridor, their featureless surfaces giving no hint of what lay beyond. One of the crew hesitated before stepping up to a door. At his approach, it hissed open, revealing a bare, empty chamber—no furniture, no personal touches, just smooth, lifeless walls. The others followed suit, uncovering the same stark emptiness. Velia’s ears flicked as she stepped into one of the rooms, her tail curling slightly. The air was thick, stagnant, as though time itself had stood still within these walls.

  Joean frowned, ears twitching. The air inside the room was thick and stale, carrying a faint metallic tang, like something long abandoned. "Not exactly what I’d call welcoming."

  Back in the medbay, Dr. Teklen was finishing up his examination of Chika, carefully checking her vitals one last time. The child sat on the biobed, her tail flicking idly as he worked, her ears twitching impatiently. Finally, satisfied with his readings, he set the scanner down and leveled a stern look at his daughter.

  "Chika," he said, crossing his arms, "do you have any idea how dangerous it was for you to hide in that vault? You could have suffocated. No one even knew you were there."

  Chika looked down at her hands, ears drooping slightly. "I just… I just wanted to see what the pirates were doing," she mumbled.

  Teklen let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before running a hand through his fur in exasperation. He took a step back, then paced briefly before turning back to Chika, his tail flicking sharply. "And what if the vault had never been opened? What if no one had found you? Do you understand how much worry you caused us?"

  Chika squirmed under his gaze. "I'm sorry, Papa. I won’t do it again."

  Teklen sighed but softened slightly, reaching out to brush her fur affectionately. "You gave all of us a terrible scare, little star. But you’re safe now, and that’s what matters."

  Chika nodded but then perked up. "Does that mean I can get up now? I want to see more of our new ship!"

  Teklen's ears flattened in exasperation. "No. You are going to lie down and take a nap."

  Chika pouted. "But I’m not tired."

  "You’ve been through a lot, and your body needs rest. Until further notice, you are grounded."

  Chika groaned, flopping dramatically onto the bed. "That’s not fair…"

  Teklen arched a brow. "Oh, it’s very fair. Now, rest."

  Chika muttered something under her breath, but she did as she was told, curling up on the biobed. Teklen exhaled slowly, shaking his head before placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder and pulling the shimmery fabric up to cover her.

  Once he was sure she was settled, he stood and stretched, glancing around the medbay. Now that the urgency of Chika’s condition had passed, he finally had time to take in the full scope of the facility. The smooth, sterile surfaces gleamed under soft lighting, advanced medical stations lining the walls. Strange instruments rested in recessed alcoves, their purposes unknown to him. Some machines bore faintly recognizable similarities to known medical technology, but others looked wholly alien.

  He tilted his head up slightly, ears flicking as he spoke. "Steward, are you here?"

  The AI’s voice responded almost immediately. "I am always present within the ship’s systems, Doctor Teklen. Do you require assistance?"

  Teklen exhaled thoughtfully, his gaze drifting over the equipment before stepping toward a diagnostic station. "You said this place has fully automated medical care. Does that mean you're capable of performing complex procedures?"

  "That is correct. The medical bay is equipped to handle a wide range of treatments, including surgical intervention, regenerative therapies, and biomechanical enhancements."

  Teklen's tail flicked at that last phrase. "Enhancements? I hope you don’t intend on ‘enhancing’ any of us."

  "Only with informed consent," Steward replied evenly. "I do not make modifications unless they are requested or required for survival. My function is to preserve life, not alter it for convenience."

  Teklen hummed, still skeptical but intrigued. He reached toward one of the diagnostic panels, hesitating before actually touching it. "Would you be willing to grant me access to your medical archives? I’d like to study your systems and see how they compare to what I know."

  There was a brief pause before Steward answered. "Access can be granted with limitations. Full unrestricted access requires clearance from the Avatar. However, I can provide medical documentation relevant to known biological species and emergency procedures. Will this suffice?"

  Teklen considered that. "It’s a start. Show me what you’ve got."

  A nearby console lit up, streams of alien medical data scrolling across the screen. Teklen's eyes widened as the data scrolled before him. Every line of text, every image, every incomprehensible symbol hinted at medical advancements far beyond his understanding. He was stepping into a world beyond anything he had ever known.

  ....

  As they stepped into the bridge, the vastness of it nearly stole their breath. The room was eerily silent, devoid of the usual hum of crew or the flickering of status panels. Instead, the walls pulsed subtly, adjusting their luminosity in response to their presence.

  Joean let out a low whistle, his ears flicking forward as he took in the vast, alien space. His tail twitched slightly, an unconscious reaction to his excitement. "I've never seen a bridge like this before… Where are the controls?"

  Steward’s voice resonated through the chamber, steady and composed. "There are none at this time. This vessel currently has no crew to operate them. All essential functions are automated or directed remotely. When a proper command structure is established, interfaces can be made available as required."

  Zireal, standing near the expansive viewing panel, felt a strange unease settle in his chest. He had seen subspace before—watched the warping of light, the shifting distortions that signified their passage. But this… this was different. The space beyond the reinforced glass was darker than any void he had ever encountered, absent of the usual ephemeral streaks of energy. It was too still. Too silent. Zireal turned, surveying a room vast enough to hold at least three of the Dunerunner’s bridges with room to spare. He had seen command centers before—sleek, structured, filled with control panels and readouts. This? This was something else entirely.

  "This isn’t a bridge," he muttered. A heavy silence followed, broken only by the ship’s ambient hum. "It’s a throne room."

  Steward’s iris pulsed slightly, as if considering the statement. "A throne implies a ruler. This is a command center—an extension of my function. When those worthy of command emerge, necessary interfaces will be provided. Until then, operations remain under my directive.”

  Velia placed a cautious hand against one of the smooth surfaces. It was cool to the touch, with a texture too perfect, too precise—like polished stone that had never known wear or time. "No interfaces, no switches—just you pulling the strings. That doesn’t feel like a ship, Steward. It feels… "

  Steward responded without hesitation. "This vessel is an adaptive system. It will evolve according to the needs of its occupants. Its purpose remains unchanged: survival, navigation, and continuity."

  Her tail flicked sharply, betraying her unease. "Unnatural," she murmured under her breath. Yet, as she looked around at the seamless, pulsing walls, she had to wonder—was it really so unnatural? Or was it simply beyond anything they had ever known?

  ...

  Meanwhile, Jekar entered the engineering deck, and all apprehension vanished. The second he laid eyes on the core, a deep, pulsating structure of interwoven energy and impossibly smooth alloy, he stopped in his tracks.

  His breath hitched. "By the sands… what kind of ship is this?" His fingers twitched, itching to take apart every panel, map every wire, and understand every pulse of energy in the room.

  A low hum resonated through the room as the core responded to his presence, light shifting in waves along its surface. Jekar chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "I don’t know what you are," he muttered, stepping closer, "but I think I just found my new favorite place in the universe."

  As he reached out to inspect a nearby console, Steward’s voice interrupted, its tone calm but firm. "I would advise against that. The core’s systems are highly sensitive. Unintentional interference may have… undesirable consequences."

  Jekar’s ears flicked back slightly, but he grinned, tail twitching with excitement. "Not even a little peek? Come on, how am I supposed to resist?"

  "The console beneath Jekar’s fingers pulsed—just once. A sharp, static jolt raced up his arm, enough to make his fur stand on end and crackle with energy. Instinctively, he yanked his hand back, his ears flattening as the faint tingling sensation lingered. A silent warning. Steward’s voice followed, calm but firm. 'You may observe, but refrain from physical interaction. This ship does not take kindly to unauthorized interference.'”

  Jekar huffed but clasped his still tingling hands behind his back, eyes still gleaming with curiosity. His mind raced with possibilities—intricate power systems, unknown alloys, energy matrices beyond anything he had ever seen. "Fine, fine. I’ll behave—for now."

  ...

  While the others familiarized themselves with the bridge or the engineering deck, Liora took it upon herself to explore deeper into the ship, curiosity pulling her toward the docking bay and cargo hold. Following the softly pulsing path of illuminated lines along the floor, she eventually stepped through a set of reinforced doors that hissed open at her approach.

  The docking bay was massive, a cavernous space that seemed capable of holding multiple smaller vessels at once. Overhead, rows of mechanical arms and docking clamps lined the ceiling, eerily dormant. Unlike the rest of the ship, this space felt almost too empty, as though it had not been used in a long time.

  Her gaze shifted toward the cargo hold, where her nose twitched at the faint scent of scorched metal and disturbed dust. Something had been brought aboard recently.

  As she stepped further inside, her breath caught in her throat. The remains of the Dunerunner’s living quarters sat nestled within the cargo bay, partially severed from the freighter’s original framework. The metal around the edges was scorched, cut cleanly as if by precision tools, and entire sections of the once-bustling space had been stripped away to make it fit inside the alien vessel’s hold.

  Liora approached carefully, ears flicking as she took in the familiar remnants—a collapsed seating area, a half-crushed storage locker, and the tattered remains of a woven fabric hanging from the wall, its edges burnt. Her stomach twisted at the sight.

  This was home. Or, at least, what was left of it.

  She swallowed hard, stepping over a piece of twisted metal as she pressed forward. Her fingers brushed against a control panel, one that miraculously still had power, and she hesitated before pressing a button. A dim overhead light flickered weakly to life, casting a faint, flickering glow over the wreckage.

  Her throat tightened. The place had been picked apart—stripped of anything non-essential—but it was still theirs. She could almost hear the distant murmur of conversation, the familiar warmth of shared meals, the quiet moments before a long journey. Now, only silence remained.

  Steward’s voice broke through the silence, calm yet ever-present. "You are searching for something. Do you require assistance?"

  Liora exhaled sharply, not looking away from the wreckage. "No. I just… I needed to see it."

  A pause. Then, with a tone softer than she expected, Steward replied, "Understood. Take your time."

  Liora took a slow breath before stepping deeper into the wreckage, navigating through the familiar remnants of their former home. Her foot caught on something, and as she steadied herself, her eyes fell upon a sight that made her blood run cold.

  Bodies.

  The remains of those who hadn’t made it off the Dunerunner—crew members who had fought, who had died protecting their home—now lay strewn amidst the wreckage, preserved in the ship's frigid hold. The air was still, unnaturally silent, as though the ship itself mourned them.

  Her throat tightened as she fumbled for her personal comm. "Mother. Zireal. Get to the cargo hold. Now."

  The urgency in her voice left no room for hesitation. Within minutes, Velia and Zireal arrived, their expressions grim as they took in the scene before them. For a moment, no one spoke.

  "We need to move them," Velia finally said, her voice quiet but firm. "And gather whatever we can—supplies, clothing, personal effects. Anything that wasn’t destroyed."

  They worked in somber silence, moving the bodies with the care they deserved, salvaging what little remained of their former lives. Some of the personal effects were scattered—charred datapads, a child's broken toy, a necklace still clutched in a lifeless hand. Every item told a story, every discovery another weight pressing down on them.

  Liora wiped at her eyes, swallowing thickly before turning toward the floating orb that had been silently observing them. "Steward. Is there anywhere on this ship we can keep them until we return home?"

  Steward’s iris pulsed once before responding. "A preservation chamber can be designated. The bodies will be safeguarded until their final rites can be observed."

  Velia exhaled, nodding. "Then do it. They deserve better than this."

  One by one, the fallen were carefully relocated, the weight of grief pressing upon them with each step. But at least now, they wouldn’t be left behind. At least now, they were going home.