The party had barely resumed before the crew gathered behind the scenes to deal with the aftermath. Four pirates. One dead by pan, one strangled by feline tail, one neatly knifed without a sound, and the last vaporised mid-bicker.

  Zog rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Alright, you know the drill. Garbage chute. No mess, no questions.”

  HALAT and Clorita dragged the first two bodies with practised efficiency. Tuk wrinkled his nose as he helped with the last. “We should really get a separate chute for pirate disposal. This one’s... sticky.”

  Clorita smirked. “Adds flavour.”

  As the last boot disappeared into the abyss with a final whump, Zog turned to the only remaining pirate—Gavax, hands now bound behind her back, lip curled in stubborn defiance.

  “So,” he drawled, “what do we do with the mouthy one?”

  “Airlock?” Clorita offered.

  “Too easy,” HALAT replied, scanning tactical protocols.

  Zog tapped his chin theatrically. “I believe there’s someone aboard who’s uniquely qualified for prisoner management…”

  A shadow loomed behind them.

  Reginald.

  Poised. Impeccably polite. And holding a tray with three steaming towels and a complimentary glass of sparkling water.

  “I would be delighted to provide our... guest with an extended hospitality experience,” he said, voice smooth as warm engine oil.

  Gavax paled.

  Clorita leaned close to her ear. “The last guy lasted two hours before begging for the airlock.”

  Zog chuckled. “When you're lucky, we’ll ship you off to some remote meteor... with a lunchbox compiled by Reginald.”

  Gavax whimpered as Reginald led her away, softly narrating his plans for a full sensory spa protocol and a seventeen-course etiquette seminar.

  Back in the main hall, the celebration roared on. Music pounded, glasses clinked, and laughter echoed.

  Zog and Clorita re-entered through the main doors, greeted by cheers. Only RG looked vaguely mournful, standing beside the puddle of what had once been a stunning crystalline sculpture.

  Clorita patted his metal shoulder. “Sorry about the sculpture.”

  RG gave a slow, theatrical sigh. “It took me four hours of hand-chiseling, a molecular sculptor, and an entire playlist of arias.”

  “But,” he said, lifting a single brow-plated ridge, “he won’t make that mistake again.”

  The doors sealed behind Gavax with a quiet hiss—too final for comfort.

  Inside, the lighting shifted to soft twilight blues. Gavax sat rigidly in a high-backed velvet armchair, staring at the steaming teapot in front of her as though it might launch into song. Beside it sat a pyramid of triangular and offensively delicate cucumber sandwiches.

  Reginald, the ship’s hospitality unit and, for the moment, her guard, hovered with maddening grace. Clad in a waistcoat embroidered with constellations and the energy of a relentlessly chipper ma?tre d’, he beamed.

  “I’ve set the room to Comfort Protocol Seven,” he said, voice buttered with politeness. “That includes ambient nebula lighting, a vaporised lavender mist, and a gentle simulation of whale songs—filtered through the harp.”

  Gavax didn't speak. Her eyes twitched slightly at the mention of the harp.

  “No? Perhaps you'd prefer my curated playlist, Songs to Reflect on Your Poor Life Choices. Instrumental, of course.”

  The Duj sailed steadily through the star-speckled void—post-chaos, post-disaster—wrapped now in laughter, motion, and something dangerously close to joy.

  Back in the ballroom, HALAT entered with serene precision, gliding through a throng of increasingly chaotic partygoers. Beside her, Tuk pinballed through the crowd, grabbing finger food with the hunger of a stowaway unchained. Plates vanished mid-pass; servers blinked and found their trays suspiciously weightless. A snack drone veered off-course, tethered to Tuk via a quick hack and sheer audacity.

  HALAT paused at the edge of the dancefloor, posture impeccable, gaze calmly dissecting the crowd. Someone offered her a fluorescent cocktail. She didn’t so much as glance at it.

  “I do not consume solvents,” she said without inflexion. “Even those advertised as fruit-based.”

  Meanwhile, Zog and Clorita leaned against one of the ornate columns near the entrance. Zog clutched a tall silver cylinder of Lubricoffee like it was the last molecule of sanity in the sector. The caffeine-laced coolant hissed quietly in his grip. He sipped it reverently.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “We could always dump her on a meteor,” Clorita said, arms crossed, her voice dry enough to rust plating. “Install a commemorative plaque. Something poetic.”

  Zog frowned. “We’re not tossing this one into space. Officially, there are procedures. Even for space pirates. And besides, there are way too many witnesses.”

  Clorita tilted her head, her optical sensors narrowing. “There are also thrusters. And meteors. And poetic justice.”

  “She tried to hijack a ship with five thousand people on board.”

  “And now she’s being slowly disassembled by polite conversation. If that’s not punishment, I don’t know what is.”

  Zog took another sip. The hiss of the coolant was oddly soothing. “We’ll call the Interstellar Police. Let them sort it.”

  “Fine. But when they get lost in the paperwork maze, don’t say I didn’t offer you a fast-track solution.”

  The band’s following number sliced through their conversation—a brassy, chaotic anthem that was just loud enough to qualify as a health hazard.

  The lead singer bellowed into the mic, “Get ready for the Nebula Boogie!”

  Clorita turned, her grin unmistakable even without facial muscles. “Come on, Captain. You’ve got two left feet and no rhythm. Let’s make it public.”

  Zog edged back. “I don’t dance.”

  “Exactly why you should.”

  She seized his arm and yanked him toward the floor with the confidence of someone who once rewired gravity just to win a bet. Zog followed, helpless beneath the combined pressure of sarcasm and social obligation.

  He moved like a man trying to avoid a collision in zero gravity. Every limb looked uncertain of its purpose.

  Clorita, on the other hand, danced with mechanical elegance—perfect pivots, calculated flair. A diagnostic dervish.

  HALAT stepped into the beat as though syncing with the ship’s rhythm. Her movements were crisp, hypnotically precise. A cheer rose as a small circle formed around her, and she remained unmoved by the attention—merely efficient.

  Tuk, already orbiting a sugar high, leapt onto a serving tray and crowd-surfed across the floor, laughter trailing behind him like an engine flare.

  And somewhere deep within the ship, muffled behind velvet-lined bulkheads, Gavax let out a long, low groan as Reginald launched into a cheerful explanation of aroma diffusers and the emotional benefits of positive affirmation scrolls.

  Once again safe from annihilation, the Duj spun quietly through space, its hull pulsing with survival, celebration, and the distinct probability of poor choices yet to come.

  The music slowed—not ended, just softened into something that shimmered more than pounded. The once-roaring crowd had thinned to a few stubborn celebrants clinging to their last glasses and last songs. Glitter drifted like low-orbit snow. Somewhere, a punch bowl revolved slowly on a lazy hover disc, bumping gently against a speaker.

  And still, Zog and Clorita remained on the dancefloor.

  He was loosening up. Not good yet—but it was less like he dodged invisible laser beams.

  Clorita moved around him in smooth, teasing orbits, tossing mock flourishes and irreverent spins that coaxed something rare from Zog: a smile he didn’t even notice forming.

  Nearby, on the edge of the crowd, Tuk stood beside Spark, chewing the last crumbs of a stolen puff pastry, his gaze flicking between his crewmates and the flickering lights above.

  He tapped two fingers thoughtfully against her metallic arm.

  “Spark,” he said, his voice soft. “Do you think they’re in love?”

  HALAT turned her head slowly, servos whirring in the quiet. Her sensors blinked once, then narrowed.

  “Define love, Tuk.”

  He shrugged, four arms crossing in a way that suggested neither certainty nor care.

  “You know. That thing where people act weird and stick together even when they don’t have to.”

  She processed the input for 1.3 seconds.

  “These behaviours align with common markers of affectionate bonding in organic species,” Spark said at last. “I have observed increased mutual proximity, physical contact, elevated vocal resonance, and several instances of shared glances with dilated pupils.”

  “So... yes?”

  “No.” Her tone was flat, certain. “Love is a chemically driven, highly variable set of irrational behaviours. While Clorita may exhibit certain compatibilities with the Captain, emotional conclusions are not analytically useful. Moreover, romantic entanglement between units—organic or synthetic—is inefficient. Attachment introduces systemic vulnerabilities.”

  Tuk blinked. “You think love’s a bug?”

  “I believe it is a design flaw.” Her head tilted just slightly. “Yet it is one organic lifeforms frequently refuse to patch.”

  He smiled a little, tilting his head to the side. “You ever think about it? Like... if you could feel something like that?”

  HALAT paused longer than she had to. Her optics flicked back toward the dancefloor. Clorita twirled, laughter audible even over the dying music. Zog tripped slightly, caught himself, and laughed with her.

  “I am not programmed to feel,” HALAT said at last. “Only to understand.”

  Tuk leaned against her arm. “That’s kind of sad.”

  HALAT didn’t answer. Not right away. Her gaze lingered.

  “Mother does not prefer that title,” she said quietly.

  Tuk grinned. “She likes it more than she lets on.”

  HALAT didn’t reply. But her next blink was slow. Almost thoughtful.

  On the dancefloor, Zog and Clorita leaned into each other, laughing at nothing. The music wound down one last spiral. And for a rare moment, even aboard a ship as strange as the Duj, time felt still.

  As the last notes of the Nebula Boogie faded into the recycled air, the lights in the grand hall slowly adjusted, dimming from party strobe to something closer to sunrise in a tasteful restaurant chain. Guests wobbled in various directions, shoes in hand, hair undone, laughter trailing behind them like engine exhaust.

  RG stepped up onto the low platform where the band had played, brushing a nonexistent speck from his perfectly pressed chef’s coat. He looked remarkably composed for someone who had, three hours earlier, fended off pirates with a flaming ladle.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, gelatinous lifeforms,” he began, his voice crisp and commanding, “I trust your night was—like all my recipes—unexpected, potent, and mildly regrettable.”

  A ripple of laughter skittered through the room.

  “Fear not if you find yourselves too inebriated, euphoric, or existentially shaken to pilot your vessel tonight. The Duj has over a thousand guest cabins designed precisely for such shameful states. Simply signal one of our bellboys, and they will guide you to your bunk with absolute discretion—though I can’t promise they won’t judge your footwear.”

  He gave a bow that bordered on theatrical and stepped back, making way for a brigade of gleaming bots in pressed aprons and hairnets. The galley staff moved in like an elite cleaning unit, followed by mops, buffers, and sanitation drones that had been visibly itching for hours to reclaim the space.

  In minutes, the grand party hall began transforming into the Duj’s version of a breakfast lounge.