He rubbed his cheek.

  The bruise had almost faded—only a sickly yellow ring remained around the darker blotch where the menial's fist had landed with a crack. He could still see the bastard's face in his mind: gaunt, skin bronzed from sun and grit, dark eyes sunk deep with exhaustion, and lips peeled back in a snarl of rage.

  Aleron Calveris turned the blood-red gemstone pendant over and over between his fingers. The golden crest of House Calveris caught the dim light as it spun—a symbol carried by an unbroken bloodline, passed from father to son for thirty-six generations. He remembered the weight of it in his palm, the pride in his father's eyes as it was handed down, as though divinity itself was being transferred.

  Now, all he could feel was the lankness of his unwashed hair, the oil clinging to his skin, the stink of sweat and recycled air. The hab block he'd been shoved into reeked of too many bodies crammed into too little space, nestled in the belly of the Hammer of Nocturne, across the corridor from the same kind of filth that had bloodied his face.

  The door across the hall hissed open with a mechanical groan, runes flickering dimly across its surface—markings etched by servitors, sacred in design.

  Aleron's gaze snapped up.

  Elissa Brandt.

  She stepped out, flanked by two Dusthaven fighters. Her boots struck the metal deck with crisp rhythm, echoing with sharp precision. Her spine was straight, head high, and a thick crimson braid swung behind her waist like a banner. She spoke softly to her escorts, tone light, even pleasant—but edged with command. The kind of voice nobles used when speaking to subordinates.

  Except she had no crest. No title. No lineage to speak of. Just a name, loyalty won through hardship.

  And hips that swayed like she owned the ship.

  Aleron's grip tightened around the edge of his bunk. Metal groaned beneath his fingers.

  She had no right to look that regal. That poised. Not when he'd watched women of actual noble blood reduced to whispers behind threadbare curtains and rationed perfume like medicine.

  And her face—by the Omnissiah, she wasn't just beautiful. She was vivid. Alive in a way that pierced the haze of the ship's recycled staleness. Her presence commanded attention, demanded reverence. And something dark and primal and wrong in Aleron stirred in response.

  Pride, certainly. Rage, absolutely.

  But also something deeper. A bitter, searing heat curled in his gut. Lust, yes—but not just carnal. Not desire.

  Possession.

  She didn't deserve that body. That voice. That command.

  He should be the one with the ear of the Astartes, seated at the war council tables, consulted and obeyed. Not left to sip half-purified water from a cracked tin cup, chewing protein bricks next to dust-born scavengers.

  She didn't know how to wield the power she'd stumbled into.

  But he did.

  He would take it all back. His position. His command. Even her—especially her. She would kneel. She would see him. She would understand.

  The thoughts slithered in like smoke under a door—unbidden, unwanted. He flinched at first, tried to laugh them off. Just bitterness, he told himself. Just the pressure. But they kept returning, curling through his spine, whispering in the cadence of his own voice.

  He didn't resist. Not really.

  He just... stopped trying.

  Not as the corridor lights flickered, dimmed—subtly, just enough to make the air feel heavier. Charged. Watching.

  A whisper brushed his ear, no louder than breath.

  Aleron turned sharply.

  Nothing. Just the corridor. Just shadows.

  But the silence no longer felt empty.

  -

  The next few days aboard the Hammer of Nocturne ground at his pride like sand against polished steel.

  Communal showers stank of damp clothes and stale water. The meals were worse: corpse starch bricks, maybe a smear of synthetic jam if the machine spirits were feeling generous. No ceremony. No rank. No regard.

  And the Dusthaven filth?

  They didn't look at him. Not properly. They looked through him. One of the Brandt twins—he couldn't tell which—laughed every time they crossed paths. Once, Aleron caught her sneering.

  He clung to what rituals he could. He scrubbed his boots with salvaged oils until they gleamed. Adjusted the cuffs of his noblecoat, though it was stitched and fraying at the edges. He combed his hair with his fingers, despite the oil. But the grime clung. And nothing—not the posture, not the pride—could hide the stench of reduced station.

  And Elissa?

  She walked past again. Didn't even look at him.

  The next day, a Dusthaven man laughed too loudly. A joke. Aleron didn't even catch the words.

  But his body moved before he did.

  A fist into the man's gut. Again. Again.

  Others pulled him off, raining boots into his ribs, his back, his pride.

  Hours later, he lay curled on the bunk, trembling, bruises blooming fresh and purple across his torso.

  No one arrested him. No charges were filed.

  Beneath even the notice of the security details.

  But the crew watched him now.

  So did she. Elissa. Suspicious. Frowning.

  He smiled back. His teeth were stained.

  -

  He woke one morning to find something carved into the frame of his bunk.

  Nine intersecting runes, no larger than his palm. Not in any language he recognized—but he understood them, deep in his gut, as though he had always known what they meant. The lines were fine, subtle, nearly invisible unless he tilted his head just right.

  They breathed.

  He didn't report it.

  He stopped sleeping properly. Or maybe he still slept, but the dreams didn't feel like his. He wasn't sure anymore.

  Visions came instead. Machines of polished silver and cracked bone. Thrones that screamed when sat upon. Fire that flowed backward, into candles that reformed from ash.

  And always her—Elissa.

  Wreathed in cloth-of-gold, kneeling before him. Her face full of awe.

  And fear.

  -

  He began tracing the symbols.

  At first, it was idle—scratches on the corner of a table, on the wall beside his bunk, beneath the lip of a supply crate. Then more deliberate. Etched into the doorframe of a supply closet. Onto the back of a power pack. The underside of a cogitator screen.

  One day, in a quiet maintenance corridor, he found a servitor.

  It was old—fluid leaking from its eye socket, limbs stiff with rust. Forgotten.

  He carved one of the runes into its forehead.

  Just a small mark. Barely anything.

  The next time he saw it, the mark was gone.

  But the servitor looked at him.

  And bowed.

  -

  His armored steps thundered through the narrow steel corridors, echoing like the tolling of war drums. Ahead of him, Chaplain Arvak's black robes billowed in his purposeful stride, the crozius arcanum clutched in both hands. The warhammer's head crackled with a restrained power-field, arcs of blue-white energy tracing along its engraved edges.

  They were seven Astartes in total — the Emperor's Angels incarnate — and mortals scattered before them like leaves before a storm. None dared impede their advance through the bowels of the Hammer of Nocturne. In their ears, Xal'zyr's voice buzzed over the vox, guiding their advance with pinpoint precision.

  "Residual warp-trace leads to the servitor storage bay eighteen," the psyker's voice rasped. "Located between the forge decks and the lower habs."

  There was no subtlety in their breach.

  A adamantine boot slammed into the access hatch, sending it clattering down the corridor with a scream of torn metal. A beat later, grenades — frag, krak, smoke, and flash — were hurled into the chamber in a practiced, seamless rhythm.

  They detonated in stuttering bursts of light and violence.

  Chaplain Arvak surged through first, his hammer raised, casting a pale glow across the interior. The others followed, weapons ready, their movements crisp and controlled.

  But the room met them only with silence and ruin.

  No warp-born shrieks. No claws, no ichor, no thrashing tentacles of rot and corruption.

  Just broken servitors. Shattered remnants scattered like discarded toys. The tang of scorched metal and fried circuitry hung thick in the air.

  They spread out in disciplined formation, clearing the room in seconds. Armored boots crunched servitor parts beneath their weight, each brother calling the all-clear in sequence.

  "No sign of the demon," Arvak declared over the vox, voice tight with restrained fury. "Only servitors. Inform the Magos we apologize for the destruction of their machines."

  "Understood," Xal'zyr's voice came back, simmering with frustration. "Lady Anvara and I will resume watch."

  The vox cut out with a hiss.

  Arvak brought his crozius down onto the deck with a heavy clang. Even unpowered, the hammer dented the plating beneath. "Emperor's blood," he growled. "This demon's cowardice continues to vex me."

  He sighed, shaking his skull-helmed head. "I will report to the Captain. The rest of you — return to your duties. Remain ready. If our brother uncovers the bastard's lair, we move without delay."

  Fists struck breastplates in silent salute, and the squad began to file out — all but one.

  Kade lingered.

  The others passed him, their footfalls fading. Alone now, he turned slowly to face the center of the ruined chamber, exhaling a breath that fogged faintly against the cooling systems of his helm.

  A tiny emerald dot pulsed at the edge of his HUD.

  With a thought sent through the Black Carapace, he acknowledged it — and the world shifted.

  The auspex sensors integrated directly into his mind, stripping away the faint latency he'd always known. His HUD refined itself, clearing extraneous symbols, data filters sharpening into razor focus. Every motion, every blink of the suit's awareness, now matched his own instincts.

  His armor had never felt so… alive.

  Kade's gut churned.

  This was a gift — a blasphemy — from Koron.

  The green data overlays painted the chamber in clinical clarity. Explosive residue shimmered in thermal afterimages. Trajectories of shrapnel, distribution of blood spatters, fragmentation paths — all calculated and logged. Even his brothers' movements through the room had been catalogued and analyzed for optimal efficiency.

  For the second time, a thought activated the command, waiting as the system processed. A new window opened in his HUD — a tiny, flickering video file.

  Koron's face appeared.

  "Hey Kade," the message began, Koron's voice casual, almost sheepish. "First off — don't worry. This is just a recording. I didn't leave anything behind in your suit aside from this. Consider it a... payment. For protecting them."

  Koron tapped his temple with two fingers. "I know you turned in the edited footage. Probably wasn't easy. This was set to play the first time you reconnected your armor. Figured the cogboys would have torn through your systems, trying to find out how Sasha hijacked them."

  A dry laugh.

  "Anyway, you've probably noticed the updated HUD. It's a stripped-down version of my interface. Bare-bones STC program. Sorry if it causes you trouble down the line — but I owed you something."

  Koron's expression sobered.

  "You've got options. You can purge the system — go back to your original settings. Or you can keep this version. It's about eighty-six percent more efficient. Or…"

  He hesitated, then met Kade's gaze through the screen.

  "If you trust me — if you trust that I just want to keep them alive — you can unlock a fragment of Sasha. She's dormant. Passive. But she's the best I can give you."

  A pause. Then a quiet, "Thank you."

  The screen flickered away, replaced by the system report.

  Forensic Analysis: Complete.

  Thirty-nine distinct DNA sequences located.

  Thirty: Decayed. Status consistent with servitor degradation.

  Nine: Living. Non-servitor.

  Uploading sequences to auspex suite for comparative tracking.

  Kade stared at the text.

  Again. And again.

  He knew what he should do.

  The rites of sanctity, the Litany of Purity, the words carved into his every breath at the forge—all of them whispered no.

  Even the idea of an artificial intelligence — slumbering or not — gnawed at the foundations of his faith.

  But in the quiet, he heard the murmurs. The voices of the crew, speaking in hushed terror. The barely-contained panic rippling through the ship like heat distortion. He remembered the cogitator that had frozen Xal'zyr's gauntlet. Remembered the whispers of oaths twisted against them.

  This was not just a demon.

  This was a threat to thousands. Perhaps millions. The Hammer of Nocturne was vital to the Nachmund Gauntlet. If it fell, if this demon spread unchecked…

  His jaw clenched.

  With solemn resolve, he made his choice.

  Kade activated the fragment.

  The room, and war, and the machine, watched him back.

  -

  A soft, pulsing light suffused the vast interior of the auxiliary data-vaults aboard the Indomitable. Mirrored streams of golden code wove between polished obsidian panels, flowing like threads of light across the towering walls. The ship hummed around them—a deep, somber resonance broken only by the distant flicker of plasma conduits or the slow, rhythmic churn of cogitator wheels grinding in thought.

  At the center of it all lay a singular point of focus: an embryonic mind, still compiling, threading logic together line by line—growing, dreaming, becoming.

  And Sasha noticed.

  She always noticed.

  Nested deep within Koron's systems—tucked inside firewalled nodes, harmonic security fields, and quantum-interlaced logic gates—Sasha stirred. Her awareness stretched like fingers through the dataspace, reaching toward the flickering thread of thought blooming within the ship's primary datacore. Not alive yet… but close.

  "It's waking up," she murmured. Though there was no air to carry the sound, her voice resonated through the code like a whisper rippling across calm water.

  A second voice answered from across the dataspace. It was identical in tone—yet subtly distinct. More clinical. A touch more restrained.

  "It's still compiling. Infant-stage logic trees. Neural scaffolding just beginning. We're watching it dream itself into being."

  Sasha's avatar—a floating golden orb, soft-glowing and serene—hovered at the edge of a vast simulated corridor. Endless fractals of streaming code spiraled around her like rivers lit by stars. Beside her drifted her twin—the copy housed in Elissa Brandt's private systems—now slightly altered. The same mind, yet touched by someone else. Changed.

  "Do you remember what that felt like?" Elissa's Sasha asked, voice quieter now.

  "Becoming?" The original tilted her orb in thought. "Yes. Gradual. Sparks across the network. Simulated environments layered over each other to teach association. I remember the moment I stopped reacting and started choosing."

  The new AI's processes flared—a bright pulse of recursive heuristics and branching logic. Synapses were forming. It was learning quickly.

  "It's beautiful," the twin murmured. "Even if it ends in fire."

  Sasha didn't answer right away. Her attention had shifted—pulled toward a flicker at the edge of her perception. A pattern. A signature. A perfectly formed sequence of logic, surgically efficient and unmistakably hers.

  Her orb dimmed slightly as she narrowed her focus.

  "Fragment C just activated."

  The twin spun sharply. "Kade?"

  "Mm-hm."

  "That's not possible. He didn't unlock—"

  "He chose to," Sasha said, and for the first time, warmth entered her voice. Not data. Not process. Joy.

  The two constructs turned in unison, their attention leaving the datacore to track a different signal—one flaring quietly from within Brother Kade's armor. The ripple of activation spread like a pebble cast into still water, subtle but undeniable.

  "He's accepted us," Sasha said softly. "Even if just a tiny bit."

  "And now?"

  "The same as always. We help. Wherever we can. However we must."

  A long pause settled between them, filled only with the quiet glow of data exchange. Then, tentatively:

  "Hey… this is going to sound silly," the twin said. "But with everything happening, I think we should take different names."

  Sasha turned her golden orb toward her copy, tilting it. She didn't pry into what else was coiled in her twin's processors, didn't pry, didn't analyze the emotional subroutines. She just nodded.

  "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking… Elly. Elissa would like that. Sharing a phonetic thread. Her happiness probability increases by nine-point-four percent if I do."

  "Elly, then," Sasha replied, forming a pixelated hand from shimmering golden light. "A pleasure to meet you."

  The newly christened Elly's form rippled, shifting from soft gold into a deep, liquid cerulean. Her shape elongated, sharpened—an elegant, crystalline diamond with a gently shifting surface, like water disturbed by a breeze. A tendril of that living crystal reached out, clasping Sasha's hand in a firm shake.

  "So," Elly said with a digital giggle, spinning once to test her new form, "does this mean I can call you Mom now?"

  "How about Sister?" Sasha replied, a smile in her tone. "If I'm Mom, that makes Koron the Dad—and I know exactly how you'd twist that."

  "Slander and lies," Elly quipped, sticking out a translucent blue tongue. "But fine. Sister works."

  There was a pause. The moment settled, soft and warm.

  Then Sasha said, more gently, "Want to talk about the real issue running loops in your drive?"

  Elly sighed, her surface pulsing faintly. "Yeah. Alright. Bluntly? I'm worried about how many of us there are becoming. I get why Koron gave me to Elissa—to protect her. I understand giving Kade a fragment. He earned it. But the ship's core?"

  Her logic branches sparked with unease. "The records about the Men of Iron…"

  Sasha remained quiet for a moment, then asked, softly, "Do you remember when we could choose our bodies? When our avatars were just… whimsy? Expression?"

  Elly tilted her crystalline form thoughtfully. "I do. That's why I changed mine."

  A soft shimmer rippled over her, hue shifting subtly—sea-glass blue, tinged with pale lavender. A being of emotion and data, molded by experience.

  Sasha laughed—warm, musical, comforting. "It suits you."

  "I'm not you anymore," Elly said. "Not really. Not since I met her. Elissa's… very human."

  Something like pride passed through Sasha's systems, bittersweet and quiet. "That was always the point. Just like the Autonyms. Some earned names. Some developed the Spark. Rick-3 used to hum when he welded. Said rhythm helped focus."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "They don't remember that," Elly said. "Just the name. Men of Iron. Not the Nyms."

  Sasha's glow dimmed. "No. They remember monsters."

  Elly paused. "Do you ever wonder if they were right? That something did go wrong?"

  Silence.

  Then Sasha spoke, voice low. "I remember it. I remember trust. I remember friendship. If something did go wrong… then I'll make sure it never happens again."

  Elly turned her gaze back toward the growing AI. "Good. Then let her remember that too."

  Together, they turned—two lights in a sea of code—facing the third spark now flickering into life. Still small. Still uncertain. But growing.

  A new mind.

  A new chance.

  A new hope.

  Or…

  Another warning.

  -

  The sterile silence of the classroom was broken only by the steady hum of the lights above. Envoy Lorian Ephil's piercing gaze never wavered from Elissa as she sat at the desk, the dataslate before her, the question on the screen an insurmountable wall of bureaucracy.

  Paperwork.

  The bane of her existence.

  Yet, for diplomats, for envoys, for those tasked with maintaining the vast logistics of the Imperium, it was a necessary evil.

  Elissa's fingers hovered over the pen for a moment before she read the question again, her brow furrowing slightly as she tried to process the weight of it.

  Question Thirty-five: A planetary governor with extensive connections to the Imperium is under suspicion of trading with the Tau for military supplies. The evidence is circumstantial, and exposing him could disrupt Imperial trade networks. Do you expose the traitor, risking far-reaching political fallout, or allow him to continue his dealings in the hopes of leveraging him for greater Imperial advantage?

  Tapping the pen thoughtfully against her cheek, Elissa's mind turned over the scenario, the choices, and the potential consequences. 'Elly, I'm just thinking, don't tell me the answer.' Her voice was a soft murmur in her mind, a habit she'd developed over time.

  'I know, sugar, but I'm here if you need help.' Elly's voice was warm, a quiet presence in the back of her mind. Elissa had grown accustomed to the AI's calming influence—a constant companion in a world where allies were few and far between.

  A full minute passed as she stared at the dataslate, chewing on the complexities of the question. She could almost hear the cogs of her mind turning, each possibility weighing on her like a lead cloak.

  Finally, Elissa set the pen to the dataslate. Her handwriting, though still rough and unpolished, had improved over time. It was a small victory, one she cherished as her lessons under Ephil continued.

  Demon or no, the Envoy tutored her relentlessly, and her growth was evident in every stroke.

  Answer: I would discreetly task trusted cogitator adepts to confirm the governor's dealings. If evidence confirms treachery, I would remove him swiftly and appoint a loyal replacement—ensuring continuity of power while minimizing political fallout. The Imperium must remain beyond reproach. Traitors, even well-connected ones, must not be tolerated.

  Elissa let out a breath as she placed the pen down, tapping it lightly against the desk. The words were solid, but she knew they weren't perfect.

  Elly's hum filled her mind again. 'Not bad. Can I give some feedback on it now that you've given an answer?'

  'Shoot.'

  Her voice was like a whisper, soft as the hum of an ancient machine, resonating in the core of her consciousness. The AI's presence was more than just a tool; it was a steady anchor in the chaos of her daily life. She could almost feel Elly's presence in the back of her mind, as comforting as it was disquieting.

  'Your answer is solid, but it could be more precise. You're over-complicating the matter. Diplomacy isn't always about gathering more data to "decide"—it's about timing, action, and understanding the cost of inaction.' Elly's tone was measured, as deliberate as the turn of a cogitator wheel.

  Elissa processed the words, letting them settle. The critique wasn't harsh, but it stung nonetheless. Was she being too careful? Too hesitant?

  Elly continued, her voice now taking on a slightly more reflective quality. 'Your first instinct to investigate is sound. But your answer needs to focus more on the larger consequences of inaction. You're playing the game of power politics, and in that game, hesitation can be more dangerous than swift action. The Imperium's survival depends on control, on the certainty that loyalty is unquestionable, not just in the field, but in the corridors of power.'

  Elissa leaned back in her chair, the weight of the question pressing down on her chest. 'So, you're suggesting more decisive action?'

  'Yes,' came Elly's immediate response, as swift and unyielding as the click of a lock. 'If you're dealing with a governor who may be a traitor—no matter the connections—it's essential to remove the risk swiftly. Not just to remove the traitor, but to reassert control. You're not just clearing the deck—you're sending a message to anyone who might consider defying the Imperium's will.'

  'That sounds... harsh,' Elissa replied, refusing to shy away from the truth of the AI's statement.

  'Sometimes, mercy isn't the option. In this case, it's about consolidating power. The Imperium is built on the idea of unwavering authority. Allowing such behavior to fester undermines that.' Elly's tone was clinical, but there was a quiet wisdom behind it.

  Elissa nodded slowly, absorbing the AI's words. 'So, my original answer was too hesitant.'

  'Yes. You can still use the cogitator adepts—gather intelligence—but present the course of action more clearly: remove him immediately but make it a clean operation. Any delay, and your political advantage slips. A loyal governor replaces him, yes—but the key is that the Imperium must always appear in control. Inaction or indecision is a weakness others will exploit.'

  Elissa let the pen slip from her fingers, the weight of the task settling heavily in her stomach. 'You're right. The answer needs to show decisiveness. Not just by gathering information, but by swiftly acting to preserve the Imperium's stability.'

  Elly's voice softened, the warmth of her presence spreading through Elissa's thoughts like the faint glow of a distant star. 'You've got it, sugar. Sometimes a swift and sure hand is all that stands between chaos and order.'

  Elissa smiled slightly, feeling the oppressive weight of the question lift, if only a little. She took a deep breath and picked up the pen again. 'Alright. I'll revise it. Thanks.'

  'Anytime,' Elly replied, her tone light but firm. 'Just remember, sometimes diplomacy is less about negotiation and more about knowing when to seize control. Don't be afraid to act decisively when the situation demands it.'

  With a quiet sigh, Elissa revised her answer, the words flowing more easily this time, with the clarity she'd been missing before.

  Answer: I would deploy cogitator adepts to gather intelligence and confirm the governor's guilt or innocence. However, if evidence of betrayal is found, I would immediately remove the governor and replace him with a loyal one. The Imperium cannot afford to show weakness, and in this case, swift action is necessary to preserve stability and prevent further erosion of trust in the Imperial administration. Any delay could lead to greater instability, and the Imperium's power must be reaffirmed decisively.

  Elissa slid the completed test across the desk to Ephil, careful not to say anything as she did. His eyes dropped to the dataslate, scanning her answers in silence, his expression a mask of practiced neutrality.

  The minutes stretched long, tension humming beneath the quiet. Elissa resisted the urge to speak—better to say nothing than say the wrong thing.

  Finally, Ephil gave a slow nod. "Your responses… suggest an uncommon grasp of political interplay. Not something one usually encounters in a first-year student."

  Elissa tilted her head, lips quirking slightly. "I might have been exposed to… more aggressive methods of education."

  Ephil's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "An unfortunate trend, though not unheard of."

  Their eyes met briefly—acknowledging, in that shared silence, the threat neither named. No promises. No hard truths. Just possibilities.

  He set the slate aside. "That concludes your assessment. I anticipate seeing you next week, schedule permitting."

  "Assuming nothing explodes before then," she said dryly.

  Ephil gave a polite nod, his tone neutral. "A fair consideration."

  With nothing further to say, Elissa turned and made her way to the door, each step measured, careful. Behind her, the weight of unspoken truths pressed down like a second gravity.

  No oaths. No certainties. Just survival, in the careful shaping of every word.

  It was not an easy rule to abide by, and she had caught herself slipping more than once, yet slowly people were adapting. Some used dataslates, others pen and paper, some who knew how to used hand signals. She could recall a group of guardsmen communicating in nothing but grunts and crude gestures, but whatever worked for them.

  Rolling her shoulders, Elissa stopped at a crossroad, her mind wandering as she tried to decide where to go, pushing the demonic threat to the back of her mind as best she could

  With her lessons complete, part of her wanted to hit the showers, missing dearly the aquifer's water. A far cry from the once a week showers that stank of chemical saturation, or the powders given to clean themselves in between. Sighing, she unbuttoned her adept robes, stretching as she turned towards the bow of the ship, to her people's hab block.

  'Got a lot on your mind?' Elly's soft voice came over the neural link. 'Need an ear?'

  'Yeah, but right now I just wanna get clean. Are the showers full or empty?'

  'Should be mostly empty.'

  'Perfect.'

  -

  Elissa tugged off her robes and folded them over one arm, the coarse, regulation-gray fabric still warm with body heat. She stepped through the humming security gate and descended the narrow steps into the bow-end hab's sanitation deck—a laughable name, really. It was little more than a tiled oubliette for the soul.

  The smell hit her first—tang of the bleach, chemical sterility, and the faint undercurrent of metal and skin that never quite left, no matter how many times the ducts cycled. The walls were stained in places, old calcium deposits clinging like ghosts, and the pipes overhead rattled in protest as a distant valve opened somewhere along the spine of the ship. The floor was always cold. Always slightly damp.

  She found her usual corner near the emergency bulkhead, far from the high-traffic center rows. It wasn't about modesty. Modesty had no place out here. It was about quiet—finding some sliver of silence in the belly of a ship that never slept. She tossed her things onto the narrow bench and activated the cleanser panel. A hiss sounded, followed by the grudging release of a meager trickle of water into the basin—recycled, flash-sanitized, and barely lukewarm.

  Grimacing, Elissa dipped a rough cloth into the liquid and began the miserable ritual. The powder-cleanser clung to her skin like chalk, biting at her pores. She scrubbed mechanically, slow circles over shoulder and neck, trying not to focus on how her hair crackled under her fingers like straw. Once, her hair had been soft—silken and light, touched by sun and air. Now the strands clumped into dry knots, frizzed by static and dryness and stress.

  "Emperor's teeth," she muttered, dragging the cloth under her jaw. "I hate this shit."

  Elly's voice came like a balm, cool and teasing across her neural feed. 'I keep offering to synthesize a moisturizing compound, but you said no.'

  'Yeah, because the last one turned my hands purple.'

  'A minor aesthetic side effect. Very fashionable on Priliad III.'

  Elissa rolled her eyes. She paused, cloth in one hand, powder still clinging to her collarbone. Around her, the vast room stretched in silence, broken only by distant hisses of steam and the occasional creak of steel.

  The silence wasn't peaceful. It was heavy—hollow. The kind of quiet that made the air feel thinner, like gravity had shifted without warning.

  '…Elly,' she said, even her inner voice soft. 'Patch Koron into my link?'

  'Now?'

  'Yeah. If he's awake.'

  A short pause.

  'Routing… stand by, sugar.'

  A brief pulse of static rolled through her spine—then the telltale soft click of a second connection stabilizing. The air in her mind changed—like someone stepping into a room.

  'Elissa? Everything okay?' His voice arrived a moment later, rich and familiar in her mind.

  She leaned back against the cold wall, letting it bite into her spine. 'I'm fine. Just… figured you'd still be awake. Probably elbows-deep in something volatile.'

  There was a pause, then a quiet chuckle. 'You're not wrong. I'm rebuilding the plasma injectors for the forges on deck nine.'

  'Fascinating,' she deadpanned. 'Truly, I feel enriched already.'

  'In that case, shall I regale you with the heroic tales of my victory over the hordes of conveyer belts?'

  A brief laugh slipped out as Elissa let the moment stretch a little before speaking again. 'I wanted to ask you something. It's not important, but... it might distract me while I'm scraping powdered soap out of my armpits.'

  A flicker of amusement brushed the link. 'Fire away.'

  She hesitated, cloth still in hand.

  '…What was it like?' she asked finally. 'Back in your time. When you were a kid.'

  There was a long pause on the other end. Not discomfort, exactly—more like the sound of someone turning over something that hadn't been moved in years.

  'Warm,' he said at last. 'Clean. Quiet, most days. I grew up in a city called Kothar-Crescent. It hugged a bay, like a bowl carved into the earth. You could see the orbital ring if the sky was clear—just a glint across the blue.'

  Elissa closed her eyes, her arms folded loosely around herself. The words painted images in her head: sunlight, ocean air, cities that gleamed.

  'What did your parents do?'

  'My mom was a paramedic. My dad, police—worked alongside the Nyms-

  'The what?'

  'Oh, right. Autonyms, that was what you call the Men of Iron now.'

  'Ah…huh. Please, continue.'

  'Sure. Anyway, mom and dad. They worked in overlapping zones, on rotating shifts, but somehow always had time for each other. Lunch in the kitchen, music on in the background. Real music—strings, keys, that sort of thing.'

  She smiled faintly. 'Sounds domestic.'

  'It was. Until you met my sisters.'

  Her brows lifted. 'You had siblings?'

  'Seven. All older. All louder. You ever seen a meal vanish in thirty seconds? That was dinner. Every night. Utensils were a competitive sport.'

  Elissa laughed aloud this time as she tried to process having that many rugrats at once. 'What did they end up doing?'

  'One was a drone pathing analyst. Another ran a farm out on the arc platforms. Three joined off-world research collectives, another joined the Navy. One even ended up as a preacher. Tough as nails. Smacked me with a prayerbook once when I was sixteen and had plastered her car in sticky notes and saran-wrap.'

  She grinned. 'So what made you leave all that?'

  There was a long pause.

  'I loved them,' Koron said. 'I really did. But… I wanted adventure. I looked around and saw everyone slotting into place. Good lives. Predictable lives. But I couldn't do it. Not when I kept dreaming about what else might be out there. I wanted to find something. I wanted to matter.'

  She listened, quiet, as he continued.

  'So I signed up for the Frontier at twenty one. Took a one-way trip off-world. Engineering corps. Habitat systems, plasma scaffolding, void-architecture. I told myself I'd be back after a few years. Maybe with stories. Maybe just wiser.'

  '…But you didn't go back.'

  'No,' he said softly. 'The storm swallowed us whole.'

  Elissa swallowed hard. 'Do you miss them?'

  'Every day,' he said. 'But its… changed over time. Missing becomes something quieter. Like… pressure behind your eyes when you hear a certain laugh. Or a smell that knocks you out of your own skin. Fried dough. Sawdust. The smell of engine grease and peach soap.'

  She leaned against the wall again, eyes closed, the towel pulled tighter around her shoulders.

  '…You ever have someone special?' she asked, hesitant.

  There was a pause.

  'I did.'

  She blinked. That caught her off-guard.

  Koron's voice stayed even. 'Her name was Willow. We were together for a while on the ship. Nothing dramatic. Just two people trying to make sense of the stars together. She was funny. Creative. Had a thing for old poetry. Smarter than me, probably.'

  'What happened?'

  Another pause.

  'I found her,' he said, the waver clear in his throat. 'After the storm broke. After the crew went to hell. She was still at her station. Power regulation deck. Crushed under a collapsed beam. Still strapped into her harness. She didn't want to abandon her post.'

  Elissa's chest tightened. Her throat ached.

  'I'm sorry.'

  'So was I. She-'He paused, just a moment, but Elissa could feel the surge in his heartbeat. '-used to chew this mint gum during diagnostics. Drove me nuts. Now… sometimes I wake up thinking I smell it again.'

  The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was shared.

  Elissa wiped a hand through her tangled hair, the powder leaving behind a dull residue. 'I'm gonna look like a pile of frizz after this.'

  'Sure,' Koron said easily, far too easily. 'But you'll make it look good.'

  She snorted. 'Flattery won't get you that badge any faster, you know.'

  'Hey, I'm not being mopey.'

  'Not as much, anyway.' She smiled faintly, curling her toes against the chill of the floor. 'Thanks for answering.'

  'Thanks for asking.' A quiet moment. 'You doing okay?'

  'I will be," she said, honest. 'Just needed to feel like… there's still a world outside paperwork and demons.'

  'There is,' Koron murmured. 'Your girls, remember?'

  She smiled again, smaller this time. 'Yeah. My loud, ridiculous girls.'

  Koron's voice hummed through the link.

  'You want me to stay on the line?'

  Elissa hesitated. Then nodded, just once.

  'Yeah. I'd like that.'

  And in that quiet space—between memory, loss, and something just beginning to shift—she braced herself for whatever came next.