The door slid open with a low hiss. Cool, filtered air brushed against Bash’s face, carrying a faint

  metallic tang that he was already learning to associate with the ship’s recycled atmosphere.

  The dorm was quiet. A rectangular space, simple and clean, two bunks, a narrow table, and lockers built

  seamlessly into the wall. Everything gleamed the same soft amber tone, like it had been sculpted from

  one continuous alloy. The floor hummed faintly underfoot, a constant reminder that this wasn’t land, it

  was moving.

  A voice spoke from the far bunk.

  “You’re late.”

  Bash turned.

  A tall Spartor sat half reclined on the lower bed, arms crossed. His skin shimmered a muted silver-grey

  under the light, his eyes sharp, observant. Even seated, he looked like he’d been carved from precision

  solid angles, not wasted motion.

  “Sorry,” Bash said automatically. “Didn’t know I was on a schedule.”

  The grey rose to his feet with a fluid grace that made Bash acutely aware of his still-awkward

  movements. “Rixor,” he said. “Number ninety-seven.”

  “Bash. Ninety-eight.”

  Rixor tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly as they scanned him. “Green.” The single word held

  weight, curiosity, respect, disbelief. “Haven’t seen one before. Not this close.”

  Bash blinked. “You say that like I’m contagious.”

  Rixor chuckled, though it didn’t sound entirely like humor. “No. Just rare. Greens don’t come around

  often. Statistically speaking, one in ten thousand hatchings, maybe one in a hundred thousand,

  depending on whose data you believe.” He stepped closer, circling once, studying Bash like a scientist

  might a specimen. “To have one in my cycle, and in my room?” He shook his head. “Astronomically

  unlikely.”

  Approximately one in twenty-five thousand, S-C noted in his mind, tone as calm as ever.

  Bash exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah,” he said aloud. “Guess I should buy a lottery ticket.”

  Rixor’s brow furrowed. “A what?”

  “Never mind,” Bash muttered.

  He was trying to keep his thoughts straight, but S-C’s voice kept layering over his own, precise,

  informative, impossible to ignore. She continued quietly in the back of his mind, Probability

  recalculated based on dorm-pairing variables. The odds of you being assigned as Rixor’s roommate are

  roughly one in twenty-five thousand, six hundred thirty-two.

  Bash pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not now,” he whispered under his breath.

  Rixor blinked. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Bash said quickly.

  He dropped onto the lower bunk, rubbing his temple. He could feel S-C there, patient but present,

  waiting.

  You realize, she murmured, your verbal output ratio increases when stressed.

  Yeah? So does my headache, he shot back mentally.

  Headache not detected.

  It’s a human expression, he said, dragging a hand down his face.

  Rixor tilted his head slightly, studying him. “You hatch hard or something?”

  “You could say that.”

  The grey Spartor shrugged. “Rest up. You’ll need it. Orientation’s coming, and once it starts, there’s no

  pause until the cycle’s over.”

  “Good to know.”

  Rixor nodded once, glancing toward the sealed door. “Food’s better before training starts. Want to grab

  something later?”

  “Yeah,” Bash said. “After I rest a bit.”

  The grey gave a quick, almost eager nod, too quick, too earnest. Bash realized the guy was nervous.

  Not about him as a person, but because of what he represented. A Green Spartor, even an untrained

  Novarch, was something between myth and royalty here.

  When Rixor finally sat back on his bunk, Bash took a breath and reached out silently to S-C.

  Question. Do all Spartors talk to their Self-Core the way I talk to you?

  No, she said. Most communication is indirect, query-based, data-driven. The Self-Core is a library, not

  a companion. It processes requests, provides calculated responses, then returns to dormancy.

  So I’m the only one with a chatty voice in my head.

  It appears so.

  He smirked faintly. Why?

  Error, she said simply. During your ejection from the incubation matrix, my interface protocols were

  corrupted. The interruption altered my feedback loop. It gave me… initiative.

  “Great,” he muttered. “My AI’s self-aware.”

  Partially.

  He nearly laughed, though it came out more like a sigh.

  And the reason your roommate knows more about you, she added, is due to missing data modules. You

  were unplugged before full system integration. He received the standard Novarch upload: language,

  cultural hierarchy, operational history. You did not.

  So I’m walking around without the instruction manual.

  Essentially.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. And, for the record, rattling off statistics during introductions doesn’t

  help.

  Understood.

  Good. Let me breathe for five seconds before you start narrating the walls again.

  Acknowledged, she said after a pause, and Bash could almost feel the restrained smirk in her tone.

  He leaned back on the bunk, staring up at the faint lights pulsing along the ceiling’s seam. The air

  vibrated around him, soft and steady, like the whole structure was breathing.

  All right, he said after a long moment. Explain the ship.

  The Spartors once inhabited a planet called Solcarra, she began with haste. It had sixteen times the

  surface area of Earth and supported a population six times greater, technologically superior, unified

  under the Council, dominant across their star system.

  She paused briefly, as if parsing through an archive. When Solcarra’s orbit destabilized toward a black

  hole, the Council initiated the Exodus Directive. Entire continents were dismantled to construct this ark

  from the planet’s core. But the evacuation failed to save most of them. Only about ten percent of the

  population escaped before gravitational collapse consumed the rest.

  Bash’s stomach knotted. Ten percent?

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Roughly two billion Spartors survived out of nearly twenty. The rest were lost with Solcarra. The

  Council considers it a necessary culling, resource optimization through natural selection.

  Necessary, he echoed bitterly. That’s what they call it?

  It is the foundation of their logic, S-C replied softly. Survival of the strongest. The ark became both

  their refuge and their judgment.

  He pictured it, a planet being consumed, the sky fracturing under the pull of gravity, and an entire

  species evacuating through the void.

  That was approximately four thousand cycles ago, S-C continued. Since then, they have sustained

  themselves by harvesting. Planets, moons, asteroids, anything with value. Quantum Transport Portals

  allow instantaneous travel to resource worlds. They are classified by danger and yield, white to black,

  as with the guilds.

  “So they farm entire planets.”

  Correct. Each world is catalogued, monitored, and harvested in rotations, S-C explained. The intervals

  allow biological Essence to replenish, maintaining sustainable yields for continued extraction. Mineral

  resources are slower to recover, but the system prioritizes biological regeneration for long-term

  efficiency.

  Bash sat up slowly. “And when you said the ark ‘refuels,’ what does that mean?”

  Every ten cycles, the vessel must renew its power. It absorbs a star’s core to sustain energy output.

  Once the core collapses, the system is stripped of remaining matter.

  He stared at the wall, the words hitting like blows. “So that kills everything in those systems.”

  Yes.

  “Billions of lives.”

  Inefficient to preserve nonessential organisms, she said evenly. The Council deems total resource

  reclamation optimal.

  He clenched his fists. “And Earth? What was Earth?”

  There was a beat of silence before her voice returned, quieter now. Your solar system was designated

  for harvest. The sun marked as a refueling candidate. Earth was to be stripped for biological and

  elemental materials.

  He froze. “You mean the attack, the one that killed my family, ”

  Was the initial bounty assignment, S-C continued. It originated from a Blue Guild. The team’s

  objective was to locate and activate the dormant Quantum Transport Portal on your planet. The portal’s

  position had been displaced, moved, intentionally or not, so the mission required physical search and

  environmental mapping before activation could occur.

  The squad was composed of three Spartors: one Brown, one Blue, and one Green. The Brown

  commanded the vessel; he possessed Mineral Manipulation and Device Synchronization, an ability

  allowing full interface with any electronic or mechanical system through tactile connection, even

  physical override if required. The Blue carried Water and Ice Control, along with Electromagnetic

  Sensitivity, a rare trait invaluable for detecting portal emissions and subterranean currents. And the

  Green… you are already familiar with that one.

  He stood abruptly, pacing across the narrow floor. “We were just resources to them.”

  To the Council, yes. Humanity was categorized under expendable biosystems.

  He pressed a palm to the wall, feeling the hum beneath it. “And now? That team’s dead. Every last one

  of them.”

  When an assignment fails, it re-enters the Nexus queue for reassignment. The Council will issue it

  again when capacity allows. Another guild will accept, and finish what the first could not.

  “They’ll go back,” he whispered.

  Eventually.

  His voice rose. “They’ll go back and finish what they started?”

  Affirmative.

  “Humans aren’t resources!” he shouted before he could stop himself.

  Rixor flinched from his bunk. “What?”

  Bash caught his breath. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just… talking to myself.”

  Rixor frowned but didn’t press, muttering something about “novarch nerves.”

  Inside his head, S-C’s tone softened. Bash...

  When an assignment fails, it re-enters the Nexus queue for reassignment, S-C explained. The Council

  will reissue the bounty once operational capacity allows. Another guild will accept and deploy to

  complete the objective.

  Bash clenched his jaw. “So they’ll just send more.”

  Correct. Based on the average reassignment interval, the mission will likely reopen before your training

  cycle is complete. However, travel to your origin world will take time, standard transit, not quantum

  displacement. Depending on current vessel location, the journey could span several years by human

  measure.

  He paced the narrow room, his fists tightening. “So they’ll get there. Eventually.”

  Once the new team locates and activates the Quantum Transport Portal, other guilds will travel through

  the QTP to reach the target system and begin full-scale harvest operations.

  Bash’s chest tightened. “So they’ll just come again.”

  Correct, S-C replied. The reassignment interval suggests the mission will reopen before your training

  cycle ends. Transit to your origin world will take years by your former measure, but once the portal is

  activated, access will be immediate.

  He paced the narrow space, hands curling into fists. “Then I need to be there when it happens.”

  That would require assignment to the bounty itself, she said. Positioning yourself to intercept is

  possible, though it will demand rank, allies, and trust you do not yet have.

  Bash stopped, his voice dropping low. “Then I’ll earn them.”

  Acknowledged, S-C said after a pause. Her voice carried no hesitation this time. Whatever course you

  choose, I will assist.

  Bash let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He could feel it, she wasn’t

  just following code anymore. Something in her tone had changed, steadier, almost personal.

  Not duty. Not protocol.

  Choice.

  From the other bunk, Rixor stood, stretching. “You ready to grab food?”

  Bash looked up, jaw tight but voice steady. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s eat.”