The shuttle docked smoothly with the Duj, the familiar hum of the ship’s systems washing over them as they stepped aboard. Zog stretched, rolling his shoulders as the marketplace tension bled away.

  “Well, that was an adventure,” Clorita muttered, tossing the satchel of Zentra Sparks onto the nearest console. “Next time, I vote for a planet that doesn’t involve swords, pirates, slaves or auctions.”

  “I second that,” Zog grumbled, eyeing the satchel. “But before we do anything else, I think we all deserve a proper cup of coffee.”

  HALAT precisely picked up the satchel, her optics scanning its contents. “Correction: A proper cup of coffee is currently impossible. The Zentra Sparks must be combined with the remaining ingredients before the VitalVolt formula can be completed.”

  Zog’s circuits buzzed with disappointment. “So, what, we’re just storing them?”

  HALAT nodded. “Until all components are obtained, the process cannot be optimised.”

  Zog slumped into his chair. “Figures. The first good thing we find, and I can’t even drink it.”

  He turned toward RG, who was running routine diagnostics at a nearby console. “RG, back me up. Can’t we just try it?”

  RG’s mechanical arms whirred as he rotated toward them, his voice as steady as ever. “HALAT is correct. Without the full list of ingredients, the properties of the Zentra Sparks remain unstable. However...”

  Zog perked up. “However?”

  RG’s optics glowed faintly. “I could modify the LubriCoffee to extract a more concentrated, espresso-style variant. It would not be VitalVolt, but it would be... stronger.”

  Zog grinned. “Now you’re talking. Let’s do it.”

  Clorita groaned. “Do we have to?”

  “Yes,” Zog said firmly. “We do.”

  Minutes later, RG presented a small, dark cup filled with a thick, inky liquid. The aroma was industrial like motor oil mixed with burnt toast.

  Clorita eyed it warily. “That looks... hazardous.”

  HALAT, ever analytical, scanned it. “Lubripresso. A condensed variant of LubriCoffee. Potential side effects: mild system strain, excessive circuit stimulation, and possible overheating.”

  Zog took a sip. His circuits hummed. His systems buzzed. His optics flickered.

  “That’s... actually not bad,” he admitted.

  Clorita sniffed hers cautiously before taking the tiniest sip. A sharp metallic squeak escaped from her audio receptors.

  HALAT tilted her head and took a measured sip. Her servos emitted a faint whirr before settling.

  Clorita winced. “Yup. That’s an error code in a cup.”

  Zog downed the rest of his Lubripresso, putting the cup down with a satisfied sigh. “You two just don’t appreciate fine engineering.”

  Before Clorita could argue, the Duj’s communication panel flickered. A steady, repeating distress signal broke through the bridge’s quiet hum.

  “This is the freighter SS Morpheus. We have lost all primary systems. Life support failing. Requesting immediate assistance.”

  BOB’s hum filled the bridge as it ran a deep-space registry check. “Confirmed: SS Morpheus, privately owned freighter. Last recorded departure: ten years ago, en route to the Cygnara Cluster. Status: vanished without a trace.”

  Zog leaned forward, his circuits buzzing with intrigue. “Ten years? And it’s just showing up now?”

  Clorita crossed her arms. “I don’t like this.”

  HALAT’s optics flickered. “Assessing the probability of deception...”

  BOB’s voice deepened. “Captain, we have a ghost ship on our hands.”

  Zog’s cooling vents let out a slow, mechanical hiss. “Finish your coffee. We’re about to meet the dead.”

  BOB ran a deep-space registry check, its hum filling the bridge. “Confirmed: SS Morpheus, privately owned freighter. Last recorded departure: ten years ago, en route to the Cygnara Cluster. Status: vanished without a trace.”

  Clorita frowned. “Ten years? And it’s still broadcasting?”

  Zog crossed his arms, circuits buzzing faintly with unease. “Ships don’t just sit around in dead space waiting for help. Either this thing’s long empty, or it’s a trap.”

  HALAT’s optics flickered as she scanned deeper. “No propulsion, no active life signs. Just… there.”

  BOB’s voice remained neutral. “However… residual energy detected in the cargo hold. The distress beacon signal is too stable for a derelict ship. Either it has been manually maintained… or it never lost power in the first place.”

  Zog muttered, “That’s worse.”

  As the Duj continued its slow approach toward the drifting freighter, BOB’s processors whirred softly, running deep scans across multiple spectrums. The distress signal repeated in rhythmic bursts, a relic of a call for help that had been echoing through space for years—unanswered, unaging.

  HALAT’s visor flickered as she analysed the incoming data. “Additional registry records recovered. The SS Morpheus was classified as a diplomatic transport vessel. However… its cargo logs are inconsistent.”

  Zog, arms crossed, leaned back in his chair. “Define inconsistent.”

  BOB’s voice carried its usual dry detachment. “The ship was officially designated for high-priority diplomatic dispatch. However, its last five recorded shipments contained… nothing.”

  Clorita raised an eyebrow. “An empty diplomatic freighter? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Correct,” HALAT agreed. “Before these empty manifests, the ship regularly transported high-value goods—art, rare minerals, classified research components.”

  Zog’s circuits buzzed faintly as he processed that. “So, what? It was a legit operation until someone decided to cook the books?”

  BOB hummed. “Or… it was repurposed for activities requiring discretion.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Clorita smirked. “Say it, BOB. The fancy word for crime.”

  “…Smuggling,” BOB conceded.

  Zog exhaled sharply. “Fantastic. So we’re heading for a ghost ship or a floating den of old secrets. You know what that smells like?”

  Clorita leaned back, boots propped up on the console. “Death and destruction?”

  “Death and destruction,” Zog confirmed with a nod. “And a trap. Always a trap.”

  HALAT tilted her head. “Your tendency to assume the worst has been statistically justified in only 42% of recorded encounters.”

  “Not helping, Spark,” Zog muttered.

  Clorita shrugged. “Look at it this way, Captain Gloom—either it’s a trap, and we get to shoot something, or it’s abandoned, and we might find something valuable.”

  Zog grumbled but set a course to intercept. “If we get ambushed by pirates, I’m blaming you.”

  Clorita grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  As the Duj drew closer, the looming freighter filled the viewscreen—silent, still, and far too pristine for a ship that had supposedly been lost for ten years. The distress beacon pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and waiting.

  Zog stared at it, his circuits buzzing again. “I don’t like this.”

  BOB’s hum deepened. “Good. That means you’re paying attention.”

  The airlock resisted, groaning like it hadn’t been opened in years. A final hiss of pressure release, then—thunk. The doors slid apart, revealing a dim corridor stretching into the unknown.

  Cold, sterile air drifted out to meet them.

  Zog took the lead, weapon raised. “Alright. Slow and careful.”

  Clorita followed, her optics sweeping the corridor. “This place is too clean. A decade adrift and not a single speck of dust?”

  HALAT’s visor adjusted, scanning the walls and floor. “Oxygen levels low but stable. No bio-signs.”

  BOB’s sensors hummed, almost thoughtfully. “No microbial growth. No organic deterioration. Conclusion: something has prevented natural decay.”

  A silence settled over the team. The ship felt… preserved. It felt wrong.

  Then, a sound echoed down the hallway.

  A rhythmic whirring. Faint, steady—growing louder.

  Weapons came up.

  Something was moving.

  Clorita tensed, gripping her weapon. “Movement. Two o’clock.”

  The noise wasn’t fast—whatever it was moved with purpose. A steady mechanical hum, mixed with a faint whoosh.

  Zog peered around the corner. “Get ready.”

  One step forward—weapon raised—

  And came face to face with…

  …a high-tech cleaning droid.

  The sleek sanitation bot rolled smoothly down the corridor, sensors scanning, and brushes spinning with meticulous precision.

  Clorita blinked. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  The droid chirped, swerved around them and kept going, dutifully buffing the floor to a perfect shine.

  Zog slowly lowered his weapon. “…We almost shot a Roomba.”

  HALAT tilted her head. “Correction: an advanced sanitation drone. Capable of dust removal, microbial sterilisation, and surface polishing.”

  BOB hummed. “This explains the pristine environment. The ship’s automated maintenance systems are still operational.”

  Clorita smirked. “So, we’re not haunted—we just boarded the cleanest ghost ship in the galaxy.”

  The droid beeped cheerfully, spun as if pleased with itself, and rolled away.

  Zog exhaled, shaking his head. “Let’s move before we run into a self-aware dishwasher.”

  The bridge doors slid open with unsettling smoothness, revealing an eerily intact control room—and the crew.

  They were still at their stations.

  The captain’s skeletal remains lay slumped over the distress console, fingers still curled over the controls. Others sat strapped into their seats, their forms long decayed, heads tilted slightly toward their monitors as if waiting for an update that never came.

  Clorita’s internal sensors registered a faint warning buzz—her annoyance reflex struggling against something colder, something closer to unease. “Damn.”

  BOB’s analysis was immediate. “Cause of death: oxygen depletion. No struggle. No trauma. They did not attempt to escape.”

  HALAT’s visor adjusted, scanning the remains. “They didn’t fight for survival. They just… waited.”

  The ship’s displays still flickered softly. One screen showed a looping systems report—Critical Failure. Awaiting Orders.

  Zog exhaled, his circuits buzzing faintly. “Well. That’s officially worse.”

  BOB continued. “The ship’s core systems should have failed long ago. The environmental conditions should have deteriorated. They have not.”

  Clorita checked the distress beacon, but it was still looping the same desperate message. “They called for help, knowing no one was coming.”

  A silence settled over them.

  Zog turned away first. “Let’s check the cargo hold.”

  Their boots echoed as they descended into the lower decks. The emergency lighting cast long shadows, stretching across the walls.

  HALAT’s voice cut through the stillness. “Power signatures are strongest here. The automated systems are prioritising this section.”

  BOB hummed. “Likely due to environmental controls. Cargo may have required temperature stability. The probability of encountering organic hazards is low. Probability of valuable salvage: high.”

  Clorita grinned. “I like those odds.”

  The final security doors were still sealed.

  Zog frowned. “How the hell did this place stay untouched? Pirates would've cracked this open in a second.”

  HALAT scanned the lock. “It is DNA-restricted.”

  Clorita sighed. “Let me guess. To people who are all dead.”

  She fried the biometric scanner with a precise laser shot. The doors hissed open—

  And they stared.

  Neatly stacked crates filled the hold, the air crisp and sterile, preserving everything inside as if the ship had only been docked yesterday.

  Fuel pods, untouched and fully stocked.

  Weapon caches, sealed with military-grade locks.

  Medical supplies , which were in pristine condition.

  Rations—actual, edible food, not just processed nutrient bricks.

  Clorita ran a hand over a crate labeled Experimental Agricultural Exports – Handle with Care. She pried it open—

  Inside, rows of sealed nutrient pods glowed softly, containing rare cultivated plant extracts.

  HALAT scanned the contents. A data link flickered.

  She froze.

  “This… this is one of the missing components.”

  Zog blinked. “For what?”

  Clorita grinned. “The best coffee in the galaxy.”

  HALAT confirmed. “This compound is an ancient stimulant source, nearly impossible to synthesise artificially.”

  BOB chimed in. “Correction. You have exclusive access to a near-mythical ingredient.”

  Zog rubbed his hands together. “That means we either make history… or sell it and buy an entire moon.”

  Clorita patted the crate. “First, let’s brew it. Then we can worry about galactic coffee domination.”

  Satisfied, they secured their findings and made their way back.

  BOB inquired, “Shall I disable the distress beacon?”

  Zog hesitated. The ship was still out there, broadcasting its silent plea for help.

  Clorita spoke first. “No. Leave it.”

  Zog frowned. “Why?”

  Tthe warning chime inside Clorita’s frame buzzing faintly again. “Because someone else might come looking. If we turn it off, it’s like they never existed.”

  BOB’s system acknowledged. “Beacon remains active.”

  Zog muttered, “So now it’s just… waiting. Forever.”

  Clorita smirked faintly. “Better than disappearing completely.”

  As they departed, the Morpheus remained, its lonely signal still echoing into the stars.