Given what was coming, the Duj’s bridge was quieter than it should have been.

  Zog stood at the central console, arms folded, jaw tight. Clorita lounged in the captain’s chair sideways, legs slung over the arm, clearly not taking the impending arrival seriously enough for Zog’s liking. Spark stood at her usual station, posture exact, as though awaiting a formal military inspection—not a team of officers with low-grade suspicion and high-grade forms.

  Tuk had already found a stool and was working on a device he claimed would determine if someone was lying based on ear temperature.

  “They’ll try to catch us off guard,” Zog muttered, pacing. “Accuse us of tampering. Obstruction. Micro-hijacking—or whatever new law they’ve invented this week.”

  “They’re just cops, Zog,” Clorita said. “They show up, ask questions, get overwhelmed, and leave.”

  “They think I hijacked the ship.”

  “To be fair, you do have that look.”

  “I have a responsible look!”

  “You look like you smuggled caffeine past a customs checkpoint.”

  Spark interjected calmly, “They are docking now.”

  Zog inhaled sharply and straightened. “Everyone be polite. Just answer the questions. Don’t antagonise them.”

  Clorita smirked. “So... opposite day?”

  The officers boarded in crisp, blue-grey uniforms. Constable Vork led the charge, flanked by two assistants who looked like they hadn’t smiled since atmospheric compression became standard. Vork took one glance around the bridge and muttered, “A little ostentatious for a ‘civilian ship,’ wouldn’t you say?”

  Zog opened his mouth. Clorita raised a hand.

  “Let me,” she said sweetly. “We didn’t build her. We just try to keep her from falling into spaceholes.”

  Vork was unmoved. The interrogation began.

  They questioned Zog first—pressing him on inconsistencies in his log, the suspicious number of “emergency” actions he’d taken without prior approval, and his decision to allow civilians into command corridors. His responses were precise but increasingly irritated.

  Next, Clorita veered between sarcastic and uncooperative, just enough to sow doubt. When asked why she hadn’t notified the authorities earlier, she responded, “We were a little busy not dying.”

  Technically an unregistered stowaway, Tuk didn’t help matters by claiming he’d been in charge of most of the ship’s tactical defence and may have implied he rewrote the Duj’s protocols “for fun.”

  Although polite and painfully thorough, HALAT answered with such analytical precision that one officer asked if she was “covering for her biological superior.”

  “No,” HALAT replied without blinking. “I am simply better at documentation.”

  When the questioning concluded, Vork looked thoroughly unconvinced.

  “Your crew exhibits evasive behaviour, conflicting testimony, and questionable command hierarchy. The only consistent thread is your apparent fondness for chaos.”

  Zog’s jaw dropped. “Are you accusing us?”

  “I am considering detainment.”

  That’s when the doors swished open behind them.

  Reginald entered, floating with grace, wearing a perfectly pressed sash. Beside him, Gavax walked with slow, deliberate steps. Her hair was frizzed from over-grooming, her eyes wide and oddly serene—like someone who had made peace with entropy.

  “I brought your guest,” Reginald said. “She’s very refreshed.”

  Gavax stepped forward, clasping her hands as if about to begin a sermon.

  “I hijacked the ship.”

  Everyone turned.

  Zog blinked. “Excuse me?”

  She nodded solemnly. “Yes. I did. I orchestrated the plan. Recruited the others. Lied my way aboard. Faked a registration badge. Set the timing. I even tampered with the dessert menu to induce crew fatigue.”

  “You tampered with the menu?” RG exclaimed from a distant speaker.

  “I surrender entirely,” Gavax said, still smiling that unnerving, post-mindfulness smile. “They were my prisoners. These... noble people fought me off. The robot with the wine list is a torture artist.”

  Reginald gave a modest nod.

  Constable Vork opened his mouth, closed it, and then turned to his team. “Take her into custody. Verify her confession. If it checks out, we’ll reassess our conclusions.”

  Two officers moved to escort Gavax out. She waved at the crew, oddly cheerful.

  “Thanks for not spacing me.”

  Zog stared jaw halfway to the floor.

  Clorita leaned toward him. “You’re going to need another Lubricoffee.”

  Zog didn’t move. “I might need to bathe in it.”

  As the officers departed, HALAT’s voice crackled gently from her station.

  “Would you like me to update your public image profile, Captain?”

  He closed his eyes. “Just add ‘miraculously exonerated.’”

  Zog made an executive decision after the crew had survived pirates, parties, interrogations, and the lingering scent of synthetic truffle oil in the Duj’s ventilation system.

  “We’re taking a break,” he announced to no one in particular, standing on the bridge, bleary-eyed and clutching a mug of half-congealed Lubricoffee. “A proper one. No crises. No rogue spice cults. Just... hammocks. Peace. Something beige.”

  Clorita didn’t look up from the diagnostic panel she was rewiring. “You say that every time something explodes.”

  HALAT said nothing but marked the moment with a soft, sceptical whir.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Zog ignored them and turned to the helm. “STELA,” he called out, “I need a resort. Quiet. Peaceful. No pirate history. Nothing with tentacles. Somewhere, I can forget we nearly died saving a floating city of cocktail enthusiasts.”

  The console lit up in a soft aquamarine glow. STELA’s voice chimed in—syrupy, smooth and suspiciously cheerful, like a sentient travel agent with stock in sunscreen futures.

  “Greetings, Captain Zog. Based on your emotional cadence and caffeine levels, I recommend the following destination for optimal rest and existential recalibration.”

  There was a sparkle of digital fanfare, and then a bright logo unfurled across the screen:

  Welcome to Krr’Loova-5: The Galaxy’s #1 WhisperSpa Moon?!

  Zog frowned. “That sounds... moist.”

  STELA continued undeterred, her voice rising into full marketing mode.

  “Nestled within the tranquil rings of the Cressida Cascade, Krr’Loova-5 offers guests a transcendent relaxation experience. Enjoy geothermal mist baths, sap-therapy chambers, and zero-gravity nap grottos—all curated under the gentle hum of semi-intelligent wind chimes.”

  Tuk wandered mid-pitch, chewing something halfway between jerky and memory foam.

  “What’s a nap grotto?”

  Clorita muttered, “Probably something that eats you if you snore.”

  “Your stay includes daily hydro-rebalancing rituals,” STELA continued, “complimentary robes, and guided thought-eclipsing meditations with our sapient sloth monks.”

  Zog blinked. “Sapient... sloth... monks?”

  “And for those with enhanced exo-neural systems,” STELA added brightly, “we offer lubricant-infused massage pods, coolant teas, and the famed Chamber of Absolute Stillness where not even thought is permitted.”

  There was a silence.

  Clorita looked up. “Okay, that last one actually sounds tempting.”

  Zog took a deep breath. “Set a course, STELA.”

  “Plotting tranquil trajectory to Krr’Loova-5.”

  As the Duj’s engines hummed into a gentle pre-jump sequence, Clorita leaned toward Spark and whispered, “How long do you think until it all goes spectacularly wrong?”

  Spark replied in her usual analytic tone. “Approximately 6.2 hours after arrival. Adjusting for monk interaction variables.”

  The stars blurred into their stretched-light cruise state, and the Duj was officially en route to the whispered serenity of Krr’Loova-5—fifteen stellar days away, according to STELA’s maddeningly cheerful estimate.

  Zog had already started building a mental spreadsheet titled “Things I Will Not Be Doing During This Trip.” It began with “emergency repairs,” “diplomatic hostage situations,” and “nearly dying” and continued from there.

  Meanwhile, deeper in the ship, Clorita, HALAT, and Tuk had taken the opportunity to poke through one of the lesser-known storage bays. So far down the corridor network, it required three turns, two override codes, and a light argument with a snarky bulkhead scanner.

  The lights flickered reluctantly to life, revealing dust motes and the quiet buzz of long-idle crates. The room smelled faintly of insulation and forgotten ambition.

  “I love these rooms,” Clorita said, hands on hips. “They’re like the ship’s attic. Full of stuff someone once thought they’d need but never did.”

  “Or stuff someone really didn’t want to be found,” Tuk offered brightly.

  HALAT’s optics swept across the space with methodical precision. “Warning: Room is at 78% unclassified inventory density. Initiating hazard mapping.”

  “Relax, Spark,” Clorita said. “Worst-case scenario, we uncover a box of haunted socks.”

  “Or cursed yoghurt,” Tuk added. “We did once find cursed yoghurt.”

  Clorita cracked open the nearest crate, revealing a stack of rust-streaked solar fans and what looked like a half-melted parasol drone. She sighed. “Junk.”

  Tuk had already zeroed in on something more promising a few meters away. Nestled in the corner, behind a tangle of emergency hose tubing and what looked like an unused party tent, was a small box wrapped in a strange black material. It was rubber-like, but its surface shimmered faintly when his fingers brushed it.

  He crouched beside it, brushing his hand over the strange rubbery fabric. It was cool at first but warmed under his touch—like it was alive—not warm like electronics, but like something that knew it was being held.

  “It’s... soft,” he murmured. “Like memory rubber. But there’s a charge in it. Faint, like it’s waiting.”

  Clorita leaned in, inspecting it without touching it. “Could be a reactive coating. Or experimental plating. I’ve seen old stealth units use stuff like this—but nothing this clean.”

  Find out in the next chapter.