Zog leaned back in his chair on the bridge, boots propped up on the console, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written in the metalwork.
Across from him, Clorita sat cross-legged on the floor, rolling a stray servomotor between her fingers, deep in thought.
For once, they weren’t arguing.
Because Tuk was a problem.
Not the set-the-ship-on-fire kind. Not even the hide-in-the-vents kind.
No, Tuk was a how-the-hell-does-a-kid-who’s-lived-in-a-metal-cave-for-most-of-his-life-know-how-to-repair-high-grade-machinery kind of problem.
Zog rubbed a hand down his face. “Let’s go over it again. He’s old as hell. But he’s also a kid. Somehow. And despite living in a damn crawlspace eating expired protein bars, he can rebuild state-of-the-art servos like it’s a weekend hobby.”
Clorita tossed the motor in the air and caught it mid-spin. “Yeah. Doesn’t add up.”
Zog gestured vaguely, irritated. “No formal training. No AI tutors. No access to a database. We didn’t even know he existed until he dropped out of a vent. And he’s operating at a level that takes most specialists years to reach.”
Clorita leaned back against the wall, tapping the motor against her knee. “Could be instinct.”
Zog gave her a flat look. “Instinct?”
She shrugged. “Some species just… pick things up. Maybe his kind are natural builders. Birds don’t have to be taught how to make a nest. Or how predators just know what to hunt.”
Zog snorted. “Yeah, and birds aren’t upgrading servo arrays or calibrating high-density power cores while they’re at it.”
Clorita rolled the motor between her fingers. “Still. If his whole species evolved with that kind of technical reflex built in, maybe this is his version of nest-building.”
Zog grunted. “Well, I don’t like it. It’s unnatural.”
Clorita smirked. “You’re just upset he’s better at it than you.”
Zog scowled. “I’m not upset. I’m... cautious.”
She tossed him the motor. “You’re cautious with everything. No idea how he does it. But you know who might?”
Zog nearly fumbled it—caught it just in time to save his dignity.
“…Who?”.
Clorita’s grin widened.
“Spark.”
Zog sat forward, hands scrubbing over his face. “Alright. Let’s stop guessing and start thinking.”
Clorita snorted. “That’d be a first.”
He ignored her. “Spark, get over here.”
HALAT, who had been silently running data diagnostics, turned toward them with smooth precision. “Clarify your request.”
Zog waved a hand. “The kid. Tuk. Explain him.”
HALAT tilted her head. “That is a broad query.”
Clorita leaned in, elbows on her knees. “We’re saying it doesn’t make sense. No training, no education programs, no interface time. He grew up in a half-dead ship, surviving in air vents and fixing broken systems like he was born to it.”
Zog crossed his arms. “So, how’s he pulling it off?”
HALAT was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, with unnerving clarity: “Because his species is far beyond us.”
Zog blinked. Clorita sat up straighter.
HALAT continued, already pulling data onto the holoscreen. “Humanoid intelligence evolves to meet environmental pressures. On Earth, children begin with basic constructs—wooden blocks, LEGO, Fisher Technic, and eventually robotics. Their minds progress in layers. One step at a time.”
She called up a pair of cognitive models, side by side: human and… Tuk.
“Tuk’s species does not begin with blocks. His neurological baseline starts at system logic. His play is programming. His instinct is architecture.”
Clorita whistled softly. “So... they’re born engineers.”
“Correct. What others learn over decades, his kind develops naturally. Given tools, he is capable of exponential self-teaching.”
Zog leaned back. “That’s… horrifying.”
Clorita nudged him with her foot. “Told you. You’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” Zog growled. “I just don’t trust child prodigies who build nuclear reactors for fun.”
Clorita turned back to HALAT. “Alright then, where’s he from?”
HALAT hesitated.
Zog’s brow furrowed. “…What?”
HALAT’s voice softened by a degree. “I do not know.”
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Clorita’s eyes narrowed. “You checked the Repository, right? Genetic archives, cultural logs—”
“Extensively.” HALAT brought up another screen filled with cross-referenced data. “No matches. Not even partial.”
Zog rubbed his jaw. “…So what does that mean?”
HALAT looked at them both.
“It means Tuk is either from a species lost to history…”
She paused.
“Or he is the last one.”
A deafening silence filled the bridge.
Even the ship seemed to hold its breath.
Clorita looked down, voice quiet. “Well, that’s sufficiently depressing.”
Zog drummed his fingers against the console. “We don’t tell him.”
Clorita gave him a sidelong look. “You think he doesn’t already suspect?”
HALAT folded her hands neatly. “Unlikely. Not fully. But isolation, memory gaps, and environmental trauma may be leading him toward that conclusion.”
Zog sighed. “Yeah, well... let’s not be the ones to confirm it.”
Another pause.
Clorita stretched out her legs, glancing toward the hallway.
“So. What do we do?”
HALAT looked in the same direction—toward the lower deck where Tuk was likely elbows-deep in some open panel, wires everywhere, blissfully unaware of the quiet conversation unravelling above him.
Her voice was soft.
“For now…”
A pause.
“…we let him build.”
BOB had been suspiciously quiet throughout the conversation.
Which was never a good sign.
Zog frowned up at the ceiling. “Alright, BOB. You’ve been listening this whole time. Got something to add, or just letting us spiral into existential dread?”
BOB’s voice hummed to life, tone infuriatingly casual.
“Captain, have you considered the possibility that Tuk’s people are not gone... but simply gone too far?”
Clorita squinted. “The hell does that mean?”
A new holographic projection flickered into the air above the console—a map of the known universe—and then zoomed out.
Further.
Further still.
Until even their galaxy was a speck in the dark.
BOB continued smoothly, “All current astrophysical models support the theory of cosmic expansion. The farther one travels toward the edge of the universe, the less we know.”
Zog crossed his arms. “And?”
“And,” BOB said, now zooming in on a distant, blinking region labelled Uncharted, “it is statistically possible that Tuk’s species is still alive. Simply... out of reach.”
Clorita folded her arms. “So you’re saying his people moved to some cosmic suburb where nobody visits?”
“Correct,” BOB replied, voice bordering on smug. “Some civilisations do not disappear. They simply leave.”
Zog leaned forward slightly. “You think they just moved out?”
“A plausible theory,” BOB said. “Perhaps they chose isolation. Or... something convinced them to go.”
Clorita rolled her eyes. “Oh great. Now I’m picturing some ancient horror chasing them out into the void.”
Zog stared at the map, the blinking stars at the edges.
“...Do we tell him?”
BOB’s voice dropped just enough to sound almost gentle.
“That depends. Would you prefer he believe he’s the last of his kind… or give him a reason to look up?”
Another long pause, and then Clorita groaned, stretching. “Well, damn. Now we gotta find a lost civilisation.”
Zog muttered, “I hate this job.”
BOB beeped. “Correction: You hate everything.”
“Shut up, BOB.”
The Duj pulsed with pre-celebration chaos.
Carrier droids zipped through the corridors, their arms overloaded with holographic banners, gourmet ingredients, and at least one suspiciously unmarked crate. The main hall was in the midst of a transformation—grand, gleaming, and so lavish it made Zog's head hurt.
He stood in the centre of it all, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with the weary patience of a man waiting for the universe to explode. Again.
"This is a disaster waiting to happen," he muttered.
Clorita breezed past, flicking a flickering banner into proper alignment. “Oh, lighten up, Captain Fun. It’s the biggest event of the year!”
Zog rubbed his temples. “I hate this job.”
“Correction,” BOB chimed helpfully from the ceiling speakers. “You hate everything.”
“Shut up, BOB.”
Across the room, RG was a blur of culinary fury, orchestrating a minor war in the kitchen.
"FASTER, YOU PATHETIC METAL PEASANTS!" he shouted, wielding a ladle like a war banner. "WE ARE CRAFTING CULINARY ELEGANCE, NOT REHEATED SLUDGE! IF I SEE ONE MORE BURNT CANAPé, I WILL PERSONALLY REASSEMBLE YOU INTO A TOASTER."
Zog sighed, watching a garnish bot scuttle for its life.
“We can still cancel this,” he offered weakly.
Clorita grinned without looking up. “Too late. The guest list’s locked. Ships are already in orbit. Welcome to your personal apocalypse.”
While the rest of the crew prepared for elegance and spectacle, Tuk and HALAT were working in secret.
Tuk leaned over the console in the back of the engineering bay, sweat streaking his temple, eyes flicking across the schematic. “This is... a lot.”
HALAT stood nearby, perfectly still. “It is optimal.”
Tuk gave her a look. “Yeah, but optimal for what, exactly?”
He already knew.
This wasn’t just about efficiency anymore. HALAT was pushing herself—faster, stronger, sharper. Enough to catch Clorita off-guard.
Enough to win.
And maybe… more than that.
Tuk hesitated, his hand hovering over the hidden code he’d written into the core.
A failsafe. Just in case.
He didn’t say anything. Just swallowed, turned back to the panel, and sighed.
“Alright. Let’s make you a monster.”
HALAT blinked. “Acceptable parameters.”
By the time the first guest shuttles began docking, the Duj had gleamed like a luxury cruiser on parade.
Zog stood at the entrance to the main hall, arms folded, expression grim as BOB pulled up the guest registry on the screen.
Species. Rank. Questionable affiliations. A few names even Zog didn’t want to pronounce out loud.
He sighed. “Alright. Everyone in position. Let’s try to survive this without a galactic incident.”
Lights dimmed. Music queued.
And somewhere, out in the sea of stardust and velvet decor, trouble was already stretching its limbs.
The Big Bang Celebration was about to begin.
