Opening the cargo hatch always did the same thing to Blake.
Didn't matter how many times he'd done it. Didn't matter how much he braced, breathed, or lied to himself about being fine with space now. The instant the hatch disengaged, the universe leaned in real close and went:
Absolutely not.
The pressure differential snapped outward like a starving animal. Air screamed past his helmet in a metallic shriek that felt like it was filing his teeth from the inside. The sound stretched thinner, higher, sharper—
—and then it stopped.
Not faded.
Not softened.
Stopped.
Gone.
The silence that replaced it wasn't calm. It was aggressively judgmental. It pressed against his suit, leaned into his bones, and radiated the overwhelming vibe of you should not be here, sir.
Blake hated it. Every time.
Silence out here wasn't just a lack of sound. It was an environment. A hostile one. A reminder that air, warmth, and life itself only existed because technology was fighting reality on his behalf with duct tape and optimism.
He doubted anyone ever got used to it.
Maybe deep-sea divers felt the same thing. That same bone-level certainty that the place you were in would happily erase you if your gear failed.
You are tolerated. Barely.
The hatch slid fully open. Blake didn't hear it, but he felt the vibration through his boots.
He stepped through first.
Click.
Click.
Mag boots locked him to the deck.
Elenor followed behind him, boots clunking in the same rhythm—though she paused halfway through the hatch, hesitated, and very deliberately looked anywhere except the open void.
"…So," she said, voice very calm, "this is normal, right?"
Blake glanced back. "What, the screaming air or the part where space tries to eat you?"
"Yes."
"That's fair."
She took another step, boots clicking into place. "I've technically done EVA drills."
Blake snorted. "Technically?"
"They were simulations. On a station. With rails. And a safety instructor. And no actual death."
"Ah," Blake said. "So you're basically a professional."
"Hey," she said defensively, "I passed the written exam."
The cargo bay stretched out before them—still cluttered, still messy. Crates floated lazily. Tools drifted like bored ghosts. A wrench slowly spun end over end, contributing absolutely nothing.
Elenor watched it spin.
"…Is it supposed to do that?"
"Yes."
"…Everything?"
"Yes."
"That feels unsafe."
"It is."
Blake headed straight for the buckled cargo door, because if he didn't fix it now it would live rent-free in his head forever. His Repairman ability stirred—an itchy, electric pull behind his eyes that translated roughly to that's fucked and I can fix it.
"Alright," he muttered, resting a hand on the warped metal. "Round two, asshole."
His ability flowed. Plates slid into place. Seams sealed. Hinges thickened. Supports layered until the door went from cargo access to suggestion-resistant.
Elenor hovered nearby, one boot magnetized, the other lifted slightly as she tried to look graceful while absolutely not being.
"So," she said, watching the metal reshape itself, "this is the part where I pretend this makes sense."
Blake smirked. "Good instinct."
Thirty minutes later, both cargo doors gleamed.
Not repaired.
Upgraded.
Blake stepped back, admiring his work.
"Aubrey," he said, tapping his comm, "pressurize the bay. And if you notice anything thinking about leaking, maybe don't keep it a secret."
"Of course, Captain," Aubrey replied. "Restoring atmosphere now."
Air rushed back in. Pressure returned. Blake felt his shoulders drop as the world gained weight again.
Elenor checked her visor, then frowned.
"…That's it?" she asked. "I thought there'd be more… sparks. Or alarms. Or heroic music."
Blake shrugged. "I save the drama for when things explode."
"Oh," she said. "So later."
"Much later. Ideally."
She eyed the doors again. "So you're just… upgrading everything?"
"That's the plan."
Her eyebrows rose. "Including weapons?"
Blake glanced up. "Aubrey, cargo ships carry weapons legally, right?"
"Most do," Aubrey replied. "Anti-piracy defense. Weapons must remain offline during docking."
Elenor nodded sagely. "Good. I would like the option to shoot pirates eventually. Not immediately. Just… emotionally."
"Same."
Blake dove back into the bay.
Panels.
Deck plating.
Support mounts.
Equipment housings.
Repair. Reinforce. Upgrade. Repeat.
Time vanished. Two hours disappeared like they'd been eaten by something smug.
When Blake finally stopped, rations empty and water half gone, the cargo bay looked wrong.
Wrong in a good way.
It didn't look like a worn freighter anymore. It looked confident. Solid. Like it could take a hit and insult the attacker afterward.
Elenor floated slowly around, inspecting the place.
"…This is nicer than the training sims," she admitted. "Those didn't even have matching panels."
Blake grinned. "High praise."
Then he looked at the interior hull.
"…Fuck it."
His ability surged eagerly. Within an hour, a quarter of the ship's interior plating had turned battleship-grey.
From the outside, the ship probably looked like two vessels had been fused together during a disagreement.
"One thing at a time," Blake muttered. "One thing at a time."
Behind him, Elenor used a grav sled to collect debris—though she fumbled the controls twice and accidentally sent a crate drifting into a wall.
"…I swear it responded differently in the simulator."
"Sure it did."
When Blake finally ran out of excuses to keep upgrading, he turned toward Engineering—
—and stopped.
"…Aubrey," he said slowly, "can I upgrade you?"
Elenor froze.
"…You can do that?"
"Apparently."
She stared at the ceiling. "That feels illegal."
"It is merely inadvisable," Aubrey replied. "With safeguards."
Blake raised an eyebrow. "So that's a yes?"
"Yes."
Elenor crossed her arms. "I would like it officially noted that if you break the AI, I am blaming you."
"That's fair."
They headed for the bridge.
The corridors still looked tired—patched bulkheads, flickering lights, exposed wiring.
Elenor glanced around. "So this is what a 'mostly functional' ship looks like."
"Yep."
"…I hate it."
On the bridge, Blake approached the AI core.
"Ready?"
"Initiating temporary migration," Aubrey replied.
Lights dimmed. Shifted. Stabilized.
Blake placed his palms on the console.
The glow surged.
Circuits reorganized. Crystals hummed. Code untangled itself like it had been waiting for permission.
Blake had no idea what he was doing.
He just meant it very hard.
When the glow faded, he stepped back.
"…Aubrey?"
Silence.
Elenor leaned forward. "If he's dead, I'm transferring back to stasis."
Blake swallowed.
Then—
"I am here, Captain."
Same voice.
More weight.
Blake sagged. "Jesus Christ, don't do that."
"I was adjusting."
"So… better?" Blake asked.
"I have been upgraded from a Class 4 AI to Class 3."
Elenor squinted. "Is that… good?"
"Military-grade operational intelligence," Aubrey replied.
"…Oh," she said. "So you upgraded the ship brain from 'truck' to 'war crime'."
Blake winced. "When you put it like that—"
"Your phrasing is inaccurate but amusing," Aubrey said.
Elenor sighed. "If you two are done emotionally bonding, can we look at Engineering? I'd like to see if the reactor explodes now."
"Still doesn't," Blake said. "Checked."
As they walked, Blake muttered, "Biggest flaw of my power? I can't create. Only fix."
Elenor perked up. "That sounds like a you problem."
"I may have a solution," Aubrey said. "There is a ship graveyard less than one week away. Old battle. Lots of wreckage."
Elenor's eyes lit up. "Wreckage I can't break?"
"Correct."
"…I'm in."
Blake stopped mid-step.
"…Set course."
Four days after setting course, The Aubrey slid out of FTL and into darkness.
Not dramatic darkness. Not cinematic darkness.
Just… nothing.
Blake stared out through the viewport and felt his brain stall like an old computer hitting a file it definitely was not meant to open.
His first thought was: Why is there so much… stuff?His second was: Oh. Oh no. That's not stuff. That's ships.
He had never seen a shipwreck before. Not in real life. Not even in whatever counted as "normal" for this universe. His previous experience with space vessels topped out at one half-dead cargo ship he had woken up on after dying horribly elsewhere.
This was not that.
This was… wrong on a scale his brain was actively refusing to process.
Hundreds of ships drifted ahead of them. Maybe thousands. Blake honestly couldn't tell—his sense of scale had given up and gone to hide behind his anxiety.
They hung there, slow and silent, rotating lazily like forgotten toys in zero gravity. Some were torn open, jagged metal frozen mid-rip like someone had clawed them apart. Others looked almost intact, just… empty. Dead in the quietest way possible.
Blake swallowed.
This wasn't a scrapyard.
This was a massacre that had gotten bored and wandered off.
"Uh," he said intelligently. "Aubrey?"
"Yes, Captain."
"…Is it normal for space to look like this?"
"No."
Good. Excellent. Fantastic. Love that for him.
Elenor leaned forward in the co-pilot's chair, visor almost touching the glass. "Wow," she breathed. "I've read about battle sites, but seeing one? This is—"
She stopped, clearly lacking a word that didn't undersell it.
Blake nodded slowly. "Yeah. Same. Except I haven't even read about them."
His chest felt tight. Not panic. Not yet. Just that creeping sensation of standing somewhere humans were never meant to stand.
Ships drifted past—small ones first. Fighters, he guessed. Compact, angular things with broken wings and missing engines. Some were split clean in half. Others looked… peeled.
Then came the bigger ones.
Freighters. Frigates. Shapes so large his brain kept trying to interpret them as asteroids before realizing, nope, that's a ship, that's a ship, why is it that big.
And then—
"Capital ships," Aubrey said calmly, like he wasn't casually narrating Blake's impending existential crisis.
Blake stared.
Those weren't ships.
Those were cities.
Vast slabs of metal kilometers long, bristling with structures that might once have been weapons, docks, or entire neighborhoods. Some were broken. Some were just… drifting. Silent. Empty.
Blake felt very, very small.
"If we can't find what we need here," he said quietly, "then I don't think we're finding it anywhere."
Elenor nodded, her earlier bravado gone. "This place feels… haunted."
Blake snorted weakly. "That implies ghosts. I think it's worse. This is just reality after it's done caring."
A pause.
"So," Blake said, because his brain desperately wanted something practical to hold onto, "what's the plan, Aubrey?"
Aubrey answered instantly, calm as ever. "Service and repair bots, Captain. Capital ships offer the highest probability of intact units. Additionally, weapon systems, personal arms, and supplies may be recovered."
Blake blinked. "Weapons?"
"Yes."
Just yes. No buildup. No drama.
Blake huffed a laugh. "I really miss the version of me from last week who thought cargo hauling was the most dangerous thing I'd ever do."
"You were incorrect then as well," Aubrey replied helpfully.
They drifted deeper into the graveyard. Shapes loomed closer. The shadows between wrecks felt thicker, heavier, like the void itself was paying attention now.
The target emerged.
"A Dominion Dreadnought," Aubrey announced.
Blake squinted at it.
To him, it looked like a floating industrial nightmare.
"How big is that?" he asked.
"One-point-three kilometers in length."
Blake closed his eyes. "I hate space."
Elenor glanced at him. "You sure you want to board that thing?"
"No," Blake said immediately. "Absolutely not. But I am going to anyway, because apparently I make bad life choices now."
As they approached, details resolved. What he'd thought were bumps turned into massive turret housings. What he'd thought were seams turned into corridors.
Then they saw the breach.
A huge hole blown outward from the hull.
Blake leaned forward. "Something exploded inside."
"Ammunition detonation or reactor bleedoff," Aubrey replied.
Blake nodded slowly. "Cool. Cool cool cool. Definitely where I want to be."
The breach opened into a launch bay so massive Blake briefly thought it was another ship inside the ship.
The ruined craft within were bigger than The Aubrey.
"Oh," Blake said faintly. "That's… that's not okay."
"This entry point minimizes traversal of unstable corridors," Aubrey explained.
"And minimizes us dying horribly," Blake added.
"Correct."
The ship settled gently into the wreckage.
They moved out through the cargo bay, EVA lights cutting through drifting debris. Everything felt too quiet.
Elenor whistled. "So. No pressure."
"There is nothing but pressure," Blake replied. "It's just emotional now."
They reached a sealed airlock.
Blake frowned immediately.
The control panel wasn't shattered.
It was melted.
"That's deliberate," Elenor said. "Handheld lasers."
Blake's stomach sank. "Someone didn't want this door opened."
Aubrey's voice came through their comms. "Captain. I am detecting two human lifesigns beyond the airlock. Stable."
Blake froze.
"…I'm sorry, what?"
"Two humans."
Elenor stiffened. "Any contamination?"
"None detected."
Blake exhaled slowly.
Of course. Of course there are people. Of course I can't walk away.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Opening it."
The door cycled.
And two children stood there.
Actual children.
Blake's brain blue-screened.
A girl, maybe twelve, stood in front of a smaller boy. Both wore patched-up IVA suits held together with tape and stubbornness.
"What," Blake whispered, "is happening."
Elenor dropped to a knee immediately. "Hey. You're okay. We've got you."
The girl looked up. "We were waiting."
"For who?" Blake asked.
"Our uncle," she said. "And the men. They went looking for treasure."
"How long ago?" Blake asked, already knowing he wouldn't like it.
"A long time," the boy said softly.
Something cold settled in Blake's chest.
They fitted the kids with better suits. Gently. Carefully.
"Aubrey," Blake said quietly, "please tell me you can handle kids."
"I can," Aubrey replied. "Their names are Luna and William. I will ensure their care."
As the children stepped onto The Aubrey, the ship's lights shifted—warmer, softer. Blake pretended he didn't notice the way his throat tightened.
When the cargo bay sealed, Blake stood alone for a moment.
Then he turned back toward the dreadnought.
"Well," he muttered, voice flat, "guess I'm not just salvaging anymore."
"A prudent assessment," Aubrey replied. "Proceed with caution, Captain."
Blake's boots locked onto the deck as he stepped back into the dead ship.
"Oh, I will," he said.
Somewhere in this floating graveyard, someone had abandoned children.
And Blake had questions.