When they reached the bridge, HALAT deposited the boy into her chair and stepped back while Clorita and Zog took their usual places. The stowaway sat tense, legs tucked under him, hands gripping the armrests like he expected the chair to explode.

  In the better light, they could see him clearly now.

  He was small, barely a meter twenty tall, but stocky—muscle-packed in a way that suggested surprising strength for his size. His skin, dark grey-brown with a leathery texture, had subtle ridges running along his arms and shoulders. He had four arms—the upper pair slightly more developed than the lower, which seemed built for more delicate tasks. His broad face was sharp-featured, his large, reflective eyes adjusting rapidly to the change in lighting, pupils slit and twitching slightly. His mouth was small, his teeth sharp but not predator-like, more suited for tearing through tough food. His ears, barely visible slits at the sides of his head, flickered slightly as if he was listening for something just beyond their hearing.

  Clorita unwrapped a candy bar with exaggerated slowness and held it up. “Alright, kid. You hungry?”

  The boy eyed the chocolate warily. His nostrils flared, testing the scent, but he said nothing.

  “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re thinking,” Zog said.

  No response.

  “You know, you’d make this a lot easier if you’d just say something we can understand.”

  That seemed to do the trick. The boy snapped something sharp and guttural, a fast and clipped string of words that was completely unintelligible.

  HALAT tilted her head. “Not in the database.”

  “No kidding,” Clorita muttered.

  BOB’s voice echoed from the ship’s speakers. “Running sample through Galactic Linguistic Archive. Processing… Stand by.”

  The boy’s eyes snapped to the speakers, pupils contracting. His whole body tensed, claws tightening around the armrests.

  “Oh, great,” Zog muttered. “BOB, try not to traumatise him.”

  “I am simply performing my function, Captain. Unlike some of us.”

  Before Zog could fire back, a notification beeped across their translators.

  “Linguistic software update available,” BOB announced. “Download recommended. Processing now… and hopefully, you did not just install malware.”

  Zog looked at Clorita. “Wanna take bets on whether that just infected our entire system?”

  Clorita shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

  They hit the download. The moment the update was completed, Zog turned back to the boy.

  “Alright, kid. Let’s try this again.”

  Tuk still sat stiffly in the chair, but his hands weren’t gripping the armrests quite as tightly now. His fingers twitched—a nervous habit, maybe.

  Zog leaned back, stretching. “How long have you been on my ship?”

  Tuk hesitated, but this time, he actually tried to answer.

  “Long time,” he muttered.

  Clorita rubbed her temple. “Yeah, we got that much. Kid, how long is ‘long’?”

  Tuk frowned, looking down at his hands. His claws flexed against the armrest.

  “Many… cycles.”

  Zog gave Clorita a look.

  “That’s not vague at all,” she muttered.

  Zog huffed. “Okay. How did you get on board?”

  Tuk’s fingers tightened. His throat bobbed.

  For a second, it looked like he wasn’t going to answer.

  Then, softly—

  “Mother brought me.”

  That made them pause.

  Zog’s brow furrowed. “Your mom?”

  Tuk gave the slightest nod. “Mother. Father. Both.”

  HALAT’s optics flickered slightly. “Parents. You boarded with them. You were… a passenger?”

  Tuk shook his head. “Not… not for long.”

  Clorita straightened slightly. “Then what happened?”

  Tuk’s hands twitched again. “Mother said to hide.”

  His voice was flat, almost rehearsed—like he had said these words to himself many times before.

  “She said, ‘You do not move. You do not speak. You stay small.’”

  A long silence.

  Clorita’s expression softened slightly. “She told you to hide. From what?”

  Tuk’s eyes darted to the floor. “From… the No Voices.”

  Zog frowned. “The what?”

  Tuk hugged his lower arms around his torso, his claws gripping the fabric of his scavenged clothing. “The No Voices. The time when—when no one answered. When the lights went away, and the air was bad.” His throat bobbed again. “Mother said go. Said I stay small.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Then… they never came back.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  A sharp chime buzzed softly inside Clorita’s frame, registering a spike in her irritation levels—but this wasn’t the usual annoyance she felt toward Zog. It was something heavier.

  The bridge was silent momentarily, only the faint hum of the ship’s systems filling the air.

  Zog exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “Well, that’s officially worse.”

  His voice cracked slightly at the last part.

  For once, no one spoke.

  HALAT’s optics adjusted, scanning him. “The Celeste Period. A time of mass abandonment, station collapses, and system-wide failures.”

  Tuk flinched at the name. It was clear he didn’t think of it that way.

  Clorita, voice softer, asked, “When was the last time you saw them?”

  Tuk didn’t answer right away. His breathing was uneven and rapid. Finally, he muttered:

  "Mother closed the door. She smiled. Said I was good."

  His claws dug into his own arms slightly.

  "Then she ran."

  Silence.

  Even BOB didn’t have a comment.

  Zog exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah. That’s… a lot.” He ran a hand down his face, processing.

  Clorita rubbed the back of her neck. “Kid, I’m—” She hesitated, struggling to find the right words. Finally, “Look… you made it. Somehow.” She exhaled, then added, “That counts for something.”

  Tuk didn’t react. His head was still slightly down, his arms tensed like he was waiting to be told to go back into hiding.

  Zog groaned. “Yeah, alright, fine. You stay. We’ve already got a whole crew of metal weirdos—one stray orphan mechanic isn’t gonna kill us.”

  Tuk’s eyes flicked up, cautious. His lower arms twitched slightly. “I stay?”

  Clorita smirked. “Duh.”

  HALAT observed him carefully. “Though your responses remain incomplete, I calculate a 92% probability that we will extract further useful information over time.”

  Tuk blinked. “You think I’ll talk more?”

  HALAT tilted her head. “Yes. You will.”

  Tuk didn’t confirm or deny it.

  Zog sighed and got to his feet. “Alright. New rule. No more sneaking around. You’re crew now. You get a real room, tools, and maybe, just maybe—” he smirked slightly, “—a better stash of snacks.”

  Tuk eyed them warily, but… his hands weren’t clenched anymore.

  Clorita clapped her hands together. “Great! Now, first real crew lesson—you’re on cleaning duty.”

  Tuk scowled. “No.”

  Clorita grinned. “Oh yeah. Welcome to the mess, kid.”

  Luma let out a slow, content chirp.

  BOB, ever the pessimist, hummed. “Adding ‘stray child adoption’ to the list of questionable decisions. Payouts available upon inevitable chaos.”

  Zog sighed. “Gods, I need a drink.”

  Zog stretched, rubbing his face. “Alright, kid. You’ve had a hell of a day. Time for bed.”

  Tuk hesitated, glancing between them like he expected some kind of trick.

  Clorita smirked. “Relax. We’re not throwing you out the airlock.”

  Zog gestured vaguely toward the corridor. “Reginald!”

  A smooth, pristine voice responded instantly from the hallway. “At your service, sir.”

  The doors glided open with obnoxious grace, and in rolled Reginald, the Duj’s resident butler bot—flying across the floor in all his overly-polished, hyper-efficient glory. His metallic exterior gleamed, his artificial face frozen in an expression of perpetual, well-bred servitude. A thin bowtie was permanently affixed to his chassis because, of course, it was.

  He turned toward Tuk and executed a perfect bow.

  "Ah! Our newest distinguished guest. Welcome aboard, Master Tuk."

  Tuk immediately recoiled, his wide pupils darting between the crew, silently screaming for help.

  Clorita just grinned. “Oh, you’re gonna love this.”

  Reginald did not wait for consent. His perfectly articulated fingers motioned toward the exit. “If you would kindly follow me, sir, I have taken the liberty of preparing your quarters. The Celestial Reverie was once the pinnacle of ultra-luxury travel, and as such, I assure you, you shall find no finer accommodations.”

  Tuk stayed rooted to the spot.

  Zog sighed. “Trust me, kid. You’ll be safe. Reginald’s annoying, but he won’t kill you.”

  "Sir, I prefer the term ‘exquisitely persistent.’”

  Reginald’s gleaming, well-polished arm extended, his synthetic eyes touching Tuk expectantly.

  After a long, suspicious glare, Tuk reluctantly slid off the chair.

  Reginald clapped his hands. “Marvelous! Right this way.”

  The doors shut behind them, leaving the crew in amused silence.

  When they arrived at the suite, Tuk realised he was in over his head.

  The doors swept open dramatically, revealing a massive, high-class chamber with gold trim, plush seating, silk-draped walls, and a shuttle-sized bed. The lighting was soft and ambient, casting an irritatingly perfect glow over everything.

  Tuk didn’t move. His four arms hung stiffly at his sides.

  Reginald glided forward with enthusiasm. “And here we are! Your private quarters, complete with automated climate control, silk bedding, self-cleaning surfaces, and a state-of-the-art relaxation unit.”

  Tuk eyed the massive round pod in the corner.

  "That is a relaxation unit?"

  "Indeed, sir. One may simply step inside, which will tailor the experience to your body’s needs—temperature regulation, muscle relaxation, even pre-programmed lullabies if desired."

  Tuk took a slow step backwards.

  "Moving on!" Reginald spun smoothly to the next feature. "This suite also includes a fully stocked, auto-replenishing refreshment bar. May I recommend the selection of premium nutrient supplements? Or, perhaps, a soothing herbal tea?”

  He poured a cup before Tuk could protest.

  Tuk narrowed his eyes.

  "Furthermore," Reginald continued, "your bed has auto-adjusting firmness settings and a deluxe gravity-cushioning system. I shall now demonstrate."

  Before Tuk could escape, Reginald’s precision servos activated, and with mechanical efficiency, he tucked the startled stowaway into the bed—sheets pulled snug, pillows perfectly fluffed, blankets arranged with military precision.

  Tuk lay there, frozen.

  Reginald tilted his head in satisfaction. “Ah. Perfectly cocooned.”

  Tuk slowly turned his head toward the butler bot.

  "Let me out."

  "Ah, but sir! A full night’s rest is essential for optimal cognitive function."

  Tuk wiggled, trying to break free. The blankets held firm.

  "Reginald."

  "Sir?"

  "If I suffocate in here, I am haunting you."

  "Understood, sir. I shall ensure adequate ventilation. Sleep well."

  With that, the lights dimmed automatically, and Reginald bowed himself out of the room.

  Tuk lay there, staring at the ceiling.

  He hadn’t slept in an actual bed in over a hundred years.

  The pillows were too soft. The room was too quiet. Everything was wrong.

  And yet…

  He wasn’t sleeping in a vent for the first time in forever.

  Maybe, just maybe…

  He could get used to this.