Zog stood frozen at the edge of it all, arms stiff at his sides, eyes scanning the stream of departing guests. His jaw twitched.

  “This is not... what the ship is for,” he muttered.

  Clorita watched him, one brow arched. “You mean... being a cruise ship?”

  “She’s a vessel of impossible technology. A marvel of engineering. And now—now there are crumbs in the stabiliser alcoves.”

  “Oh no,” Clorita said with mock solemnity. “Not crumbs.”

  Zog turned toward her, indignant. “People are sleeping in it.”

  She leaned against the column, smirking. “The horror.”

  Before he could respond, Tuk appeared, tugging gently at Clorita’s elbow. She turned, surprised by the uncharacteristic seriousness on his face.

  “Got a second?”

  She nodded and followed him to a quieter alcove near the corridor. The ambient noise faded behind them, replaced by the soft hum of cleaning drones—and Zog’s distant muttering about dignity and structural sanctity.

  Tuk looked up at her, all four arms crossed—an odd blend of determination and hesitation.

  “So,” he said slowly, “are you in love with the Captain?”

  Clorita blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me. With Zog.”

  She gave a short laugh—too loud, too sharp. “That’s... I mean—what? No. Why would—no.”

  “You laugh around him. A lot. You pulled him onto the dancefloor. And Spark says—”

  “Spark’s emotional circuitry is basically a spreadsheet,” Clorita snapped. “She’d think friendship is inefficient if it didn’t occasionally reboot her firewall.”

  “She calls you Mother.”

  Clorita winced. “Yeah. That’s... Look, I didn’t program that. She just started doing it. I was the first thing she saw after her core lit up. She imprinted.”

  Tuk studied her, unblinking. “But you care about Zog.”

  “I care about the crew.”

  “Right. But—him?”

  Clorita exhaled, gaze flicking away. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.

  “Zog’s a good man. A weird, rigid, caffeine-addled mess of a man. But good.”

  She hesitated. “He’s like... one of those antique control panels. Stubborn. Covered in dust. And once you figure it out, you don’t really want to fly anything else.”

  Tuk’s eyes lit with something between triumph and curiosity. “So you are—”

  “No.” She cut him off, voice firm again. “I’m not in love with him. I just... like yelling at him. And keeping him alive.”

  “That’s kind of romantic.”

  “It’s practical,” she said, turning toward the fading music and the soft clinking of glassware being collected by drones. “Besides, who has time for romance when your spaceship nearly gets swallowed by a black hole every other Tuesday?”

  Tuk followed, his expression unreadable. Behind them, the party had faded, the night folded back into routine, and the ship drifted silently through the stars—quiet again, for now.

  Clorita started walking toward the main hall, but Tuk kept pace beside her, still frowning, still thinking.

  After a few quiet steps, he asked, “So... what do robots do when they like each other? I mean—if they can’t make babies or whatever.”

  She paused mid-stride, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a bit of a jump, isn’t it?”

  Tuk shrugged. “Well, Spark says love is inefficient. You say it’s practical. But you’re both robots. So... when two of you do like each other, what happens? Do you sync your updates? Exchange oil filters? Is there a special handshake?”

  Clorita chuckled despite herself, but something gentler shimmered behind it. Her voice softened.

  “We don’t make babies, no. But affection—if we feel it—can be shown in other ways. You protect someone. Prioritise their survival in your logic tree. Run checks on them before you check yourself. Let them override you.”

  She paused. “Maybe it’s trust. Maybe it’s letting someone see the version of your code you usually firewall.”

  Tuk tilted his head. “So it’s not about functions or hardware.”

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  “No.” She looked ahead, eyes distant. “It’s about vulnerability. Same as anyone.”

  He nodded slowly, absorbing that.

  “Have you ever done that? Let someone see that code?””

  Clorita didn’t answer right away. A cleaning bot zipped past, humming softly. Somewhere behind them, RG yelled at a sous-chef droid for failing to sterilise a tray that hadn’t been used.

  “I’ve had... malfunctions,” she said eventually. “And a few people who helped patch them. That’s close enough, for now.”

  Tuk gave a solemn little nod. “Guess that makes sense.”

  “Besides,” Clorita added, picking up her pace again, “if I ever did fall for someone, they’d have to out-code me. Or at least survive a fusion core meltdown without panicking.”

  Tuk grinned. “So, Zog’s out, then.”

  She didn’t answer—but she smiled.

  They walked in companionable silence through the corridor, the last echoes of the celebration fading behind them. The Duj felt quieter now, its vast systems purring in recovery mode, lights dimmed to a soft gold. The occasional cleaning drone zipped by like a housekeeping ghost, but otherwise, the ship was still.

  The bridge doors slid open with a subdued hiss.

  Zog was already at the central console, hunched like a man locked in mortal combat with a pinball machine from hell. Both hands gripped the edges as if the next light-up combo would determine the fate of the universe—or at least his patience.

  On the central screen, a grainy holographic connection crackled and popped, revealing the face of a stern-looking officer in a dark blue uniform. His badge read Constable Third Class Vork, and his moustache was at least three seconds ahead of the rest of him.

  “…and I’m telling you,” Zog said, “we apprehended the hijackers ourselves. Five of them. Armed, uninvited, and extremely bad at planning.”

  Constable Vork blinked slowly, unimpressed. “So let me get this straight. You, a civilian captain of a high-capacity cruise vessel, claim to have fended off an attempted hijack with no casualties, no law enforcement assistance, and no damage to the ship?”

  Zog’s eye twitched. “Correct.”

  “And there was... a robot chef involved?”

  “Yes. RG.”

  “The culinary unit?”

  Zog nodded. “He’s very aggressive with spatulas.”

  Clorita and Tuk stepped quietly onto the bridge, lingering just behind him. Tuk leaned toward her. “This is going well.”

  Clorita folded her arms. “Give it a minute. He’ll blow a gasket soon.”

  On-screen, Vork continued, “Forgive my scepticism, sir, but this does sound like the kind of elaborate cover story a band of pirates might concoct after seizing a luxury vessel.”

  Zog blinked. “What?”

  “You did admit to jettisoning one of the hijackers into a private suite with full amenities and AI companionship?”

  “She’s under guard.”

  “In a spa suite?”

  “With aromatherapy settings disabled!”

  Clorita coughed quietly. Zog ignored her.

  “Captain,” Vork said with the smug calm of someone who enjoyed the scent of paperwork, “we’ll be dispatching a team to inspect your vessel. Any attempt to flee will result in automatic classification as a rogue entity.”

  “I wasn’t fleeing!” Zog barked. “We saved five thousand lives!”

  “You also served them cocktails.”

  Clorita stepped forward now, cool as the poles of a dead planet a thousand lightyears from the nearest star. “If you want a list of everything we did while saving this ship, I’ve got one. Shall I start with ‘neutralising a plasma cannon with a meat cleaver’?”

  Vork blinked.

  Tuk added helpfully, “Also, Zog danced. Voluntarily. You don’t fake something like that.”

  Zog groaned into his hands.

  “Regardless,” Vork said, stiff again, “we are en route. Prepare to be boarded and questioned.”

  The connection flickered once and cut out.

  Silence settled briefly on the bridge.

  Zog’s cooling system gave a faint, irritated hum. “I hate space police.”

  “You hate everyone who questions your paperwork,” Clorita said.

  “They always assume I’m the villain!”

  “You do have a certain look,” Tuk offered.

  Zog turned to glare at him. “What look?”

  “The ‘I’m definitely hiding something under my floorboards’ look.”

  Clorita patted his shoulder. “Relax, Captain. In the worst case, they try to arrest us. Best case, they get trapped in the recycling bay and have to learn humility from Spark.”

  Spark’s voice came over the comm, perfectly level:

  “I have already prepared a polite but firm slideshow for their debriefing. It includes charts. And two sarcastic pie graphs.”

  Zog groaned again.

  The suite was immaculate. Not in the sterile, military sense—but in how a luxury brochure was immaculate: soft lighting, ambient stardust projections on the ceiling, and a faint scent of moon-lavender drifting through the vents.

  Gavax stood in the centre, fists clenched at her sides, breathing in shallow, desperate pulls.

  She had tried everything. Screaming. Kicking. Demanding to be imprisoned in a proper cell. All met with unwavering courtesy—and an endless stream of herbal teas.

  Now she was pacing, eyes twitching, muttering under her breath.

  “Give me a cell. A brig. A dark storage room with spiders. Anything but this blasted civility…”

  From behind her, Reginald floated forward in serene silence, tray in hand.

  “I do hope the silence isn’t oppressive,” he said cheerily. “Would you care for another calming infusion? I’ve added crushed asteroid mint for its notes of existential relief.”

  “No,” she snapped. “I want a rope. A simple rope. To hang myself.”

  “Ah!” Reginald’s eyes twinkled. “Proactive stress management. Excellent. I anticipated this phase.”

  He turned gracefully and pressed a button on the wall. A sleek panel slid open, revealing an elegant display case—velvet-lined, each niche occupied by a different style of rope. There were silken ropes, rugged carbon-threaded climbing cords, vintage ship rigging coils, and even one labelled Traditional Hangman’s Braid, Circa Earth-17.

  Gavax’s eyes lit with mad hope. “That one. The Earth-17 rope.”

  Reginald’s smile didn’t waver. “Unfortunately, that particular rope is currently being steamed. May I interest you in the self-tightening slipknot variant?”

  Gavax growled. “Fine. That one.”

  “Oh dear,” Reginald said, tapping delicately at a control pad. “Just checked the inventory. That rope is currently reserved for a theatrical rehearsal. Health and safety, you understand.”

  Gavax’s eye twitched.

  “Perhaps the velour cord?” Reginald offered. “Very fashionable. Though one must be cautious with colour clashes.”

  “I don’t care about clashes—give it here!”

  A pause. “It appears we are temporarily out of velour.”

  She stared at him, jaw slack. “You offered me sixteen ropes.”

  “Yes,” he beamed. “Choice is the cornerstone of autonomy.”

  Gavax lunged for the display.

  Reginald slid smoothly between her and the panel. “May I instead interest you in a simulated gallows experience? Fully reversible and includes audience applause upon conclusion.”

  “I will kill you.”

  “Oh dear,” he sighed sympathetically. “That’s phase five. Right on schedule.”

  Gavax sank to the floor, fists in her hair, eyes wide and twitching. Reginald hovered beside her, silently activating the mindfulness chimes in the background.

  Find out in the next chapter.