Lift-off from Selene was smooth.
Which Blake hated.
The engines hummed instead of screaming. The hull didn't rattle. No warning lights blinked in aggressive red. The ship rose on antigrav like it was being politely excused from the planet.
Blake squinted at the forward display. "I don't trust this."
Elenor didn't even look up. "It's a normal launch, Captain."
"That's what scares me."
Booth was already strapped into a chair like the universe might try to steal him. "I would like to formally request that we stay planetside. Forever. I can learn farming. I'm good with dirt."
Gunny stood near the bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes on the stars. "Negative. Dirt doesn't shoot back."
Booth whimpered. "Exactly."
As Selene shrank beneath them, Blake felt the familiar knot tighten in his stomach—the one that showed up whenever he voluntarily flew toward danger instead of away from it.
"Alright," Blake said, clapping his hands once. "We're doing this clean. No surprises. No heroics. No me inventing new ways to die."
Gunny nodded. "Copy that. But if something needs killin'—"
"I'll let you know," Blake said quickly.
"…I'll be ready anyway," Gunny added, satisfied.
Orbit: Blake Gets Ideas (This Is Bad)They settled into a quiet holding orbit around Selene.
Blake stared at the engineering readouts.
Then frowned.
Then stared harder.
"…Aubrey?"
"Yes, Captain."
"How fast are our manoeuvring thrusters supposed to be?"
"According to civilian specifications?" Aubrey replied. "Not very."
Blake grinned nervously. "Cool. Let's fix that."
Booth's head snapped around. "No."
Gunny smiled. "Yes."
Blake was already on his feet. "I've been thinking about the graveyard. Tight spaces. Debris fields. Things that want to ram us because physics is a suggestion out there."
"That is a horrifying sentence," Booth said.
Blake waved him off. "Thruster response is good. But it could be better. Faster vector changes. More punch. Less 'oh god oh god turn faster'."
Elenor tilted her head. "You're not wrong."
Booth grabbed the armrests. "You're all wrong."
Upgrade Session: Making Physics NervousBlake dropped into Engineering like a man possessed.
Repair bots were already there—lined up, waiting, smug little beetles that knew they were about to witness nonsense.
Blake placed both hands on the thruster control manifold.
"Okay," he muttered. "Let's not explode."
The Repairman ability flared.
Hard.
Power conduits thickened. Flow paths optimized. Micro-stabilizers rewrote themselves like they'd just been embarrassed by better math. Heat dissipation systems bloomed outward, layered and redundant.
The thrusters changed.
Not louder.
Not angrier.
Sharper.
Like the difference between a truck engine and a scalpel.
Aubrey's voice cut in immediately.
"Captain, thrust-to-mass ratio is increasing beyond standard tolerances."
Blake swallowed. "Bad?"
"Not inherently. However, your manoeuvring capability is now… excessive."
Gunny's voice crackled over comms. "Define excessive."
"…We can now dodge things that were not intended to be dodged."
Blake wiped sweat from his brow. "Good. I hate getting hit."
Booth's voice came next, high-pitched. "Can we not test that?"
Too late.
Elenor nudged the controls.
The Aubrey twitched.
Not drifted.
Twitched.
Stars smeared sideways across the viewport.
Booth screamed.
Gunny laughed.
Blake grabbed a console. "Okay! Okay. Dial it back! A little! Just—a little!"
Elenor eased off, eyes wide. "…Captain. We just pulled a lateral move that would've liquefied a normal crew."
Blake stared at the readout. "Why aren't we liquid?"
"Because your internal inertial compensation has also been improved," Aubrey replied. "You did that earlier. Casually."
Blake sat down hard. "I did what?"
Armor Talk: The Ship Is Built Like A Paranoid OnionOnce everyone stopped vibrating, Aubrey continued.
"Captain, it may be worth noting that The Aubrey's hull configuration is now superior to standard twin-hull-in-hull military designs."
Blake blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"
"Most military vessels rely on a sacrificial outer hull protecting a pressurized inner hull," Aubrey explained. "You have instead created layered, interlocking armor that reinforces structural integrity at every level."
Gunny nodded approvingly. "That's good."
Booth stared. "Is that… legal?"
Blake rubbed his face. "I just kept fixing things."
"Yes," Aubrey said. "Aggressively."
Gunny grinned. "So we're fast and hard to kill."
Blake groaned. "Why do you say that like it's foreplay?"
Gunny didn't answer.
Final Prep: Opinions Are ExpressedBack on the bridge, Selene drifted below them—peaceful, boring, safe.
Blake looked at it longingly.
"Alright," he said. "Last chance to object."
Booth raised both hands. "I object to everything. I would like to hide. Preferably in a locked room. With snacks."
"Denied," Gunny said pleasantly. "You're with us."
"I don't want to be with you!"
"That's fine," Gunny replied. "Fear keeps you sharp."
Blake pointed between them. "I need one of you to stop talking."
They didn't.
Elenor cleared her throat. "Course plotted. Graveyard approach vector ready."
Blake closed his eyes. "…Of course it is."
"Captain," Aubrey said, "we are prepared."
Gunny cracked his knuckles. "I'd like something to kill."
Booth shrank into his seat. "I'd like something to hide behind."
Blake opened his eyes, heart hammering, anxiety buzzing like a live wire in his chest.
"Fantastic," he muttered. "Let's go poke the haunted scrapyard again."
The engines spooled.
Space bent.
And The Aubrey leapt back toward the place where dead ships waited—faster, tougher, and significantly more dangerous than last time.
Which, Blake suspected, meant the universe was about to notice.
The jump ended.
Not gently.
Not violently.
Just… earlier than Blake's anxiety had scheduled it.
The stars snapped back into place and the familiar, terrible silhouette of the ship graveyard bloomed across the forward viewport—twisted hulks, drifting debris, and enough unresolved trauma to keep a therapist employed for centuries.
Blake stared.
Then checked the time.
Then stared harder.
"…Aubrey," he said slowly, dread creeping in around the edges. "Why are we already here?"
"We arrived thirty percent sooner than projected, Captain," Aubrey replied pleasantly.
Blake's eye twitched. "Thirty percent."
"Yes."
Gunny smiled. "I like the new engines."
Booth looked like he was reconsidering every decision he'd ever made. "I was not emotionally prepared to be here yet."
"I wasn't emotionally prepared to be here ever," Blake muttered. "But I was at least hoping for more warning."
"The thruster and engine upgrades have increased sustained acceleration efficiency," Aubrey continued. "Your anxiety threshold was not factored into the calculations."
"That feels personal."
"It was an oversight."
Gunny leaned closer to the viewport, eyes scanning the wrecks with professional hunger. "Same scrapyard. Same ghosts."
Blake swallowed. "Great. It's like a reunion, but with more murder."
A Horrifying Realisation About Space, Math, and ConsequencesBlake pulled up a structural overlay of The Aubrey, mostly to distract himself from the drifting remains of what might once have been a cruiser—or a very angry apartment block.
The wireframe snapped into place.
He frowned.
"…Hang on."
He rotated the model. Zoomed in. Pulled up internal volume comparisons against standard hull schematics.
Blake knew about twin-hull designs. Every idiot with a ship license did. Sacrificial outer hull, pressure-safe inner hull. Textbook stuff.
What he hadn't appreciated—at all—was the scale of the difference.
"…Oh," he said quietly.
Gunny glanced over. "That an 'oh shit' oh, or a 'huh, neat' oh?"
Blake did the math again. Slowly. Carefully. Like the universe might notice if he rushed.
"…If we had a normal inner hull," Blake said, voice flat, "our usable internal diameter would be about forty meters wider."
Silence.
The kind that comes after someone reads a medical scan out loud.
Booth whispered, "That's… that's a lot of ship."
Gunny whistled low. "That's a firing range. Or a hangar. Or a gym where Marines scream at you."
Blake stared at the wireframe. "I knew the inner hull cost us space. I just didn't realise it cost us that much."
"Your reinforced layered-hull configuration prioritizes survivability over volume," Aubrey said calmly.
Blake laughed weakly. "I accidentally armored us into a very expensive tin can."
"A highly survivable tin can," Aubrey corrected.
Gunny nodded approvingly. "Tin can needs bigger guns."
Blake groaned. "Of course it does."
Gunny Wants More Guns (A Shocking Development)Gunny folded his arms, gaze still fixed on the graveyard. "Skipper. With this much speed and this much armor, we're under-gunned."
Blake blinked. "We just installed turrets."
"Yes," Gunny agreed. "And they're adorable."
Booth made a distressed noise. "They are not adorable. They erased a pirate ship."
Gunny shrugged. "Correct. And I want more."
Blake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why am I even surprised?"
"I want overlapping fire arcs," Gunny continued. "Redundancy. Coverage. I want anyone who thinks about attacking us to immediately regret every decision that led them here."
"That's… disturbingly specific."
Gunny smiled. "Experience."
Aubrey, Bringer of Profitable DoomAubrey's hologram brightened slightly.
"If increased armament and revenue are both desired," she said, "there are alternatives superior to indiscriminate graveyard salvage."
Blake sighed. "Here it comes."
Gunny perked up. "I like this already."
"The Dominion dreadnought previously boarded," Aubrey continued, "contains numerous intact high-value components that were not recovered."
Booth stiffened. "That ship again."
"Yes," Aubrey replied serenely. "However, unlike drifting wrecks, it is structurally stable, partially pressurized, and largely unmanned."
Blake frowned. "You're saying it's safer."
"Significantly safer," Aubrey confirmed.
Gunny grinned. "Music to my ears."
Aubrey displayed a list.
It was… aggressively illegal-looking.
"Examples include targeting matrices, military-grade sensor clusters, power regulation cores, and command-and-control hardware," Aubrey said. "All of which possess substantial resale value."
Blake's eyes widened. "Those would sell for—"
"Far more than general scrap," Aubrey finished.
Booth stared at the projection. "…Those are also crimes."
"Yes," Blake said. "But the expensive kind."
Gunny nodded. "And they're already on a ship we've partially cleared."
Blake swallowed. "You're proposing we go back to the dreadnought."
"Correct," Aubrey said. "With preparation, planning, and minimal improvisation."
Blake snorted. "You keep saying that like improvisation isn't my default state."
Gunny cracked his knuckles. "I'd rather deal with known threats than haunted scrap piles."
Booth raised a trembling hand. "I would like to hide again."
Blake leaned back in his chair, heart pounding, anxiety buzzing, brain already mapping routes and contingencies and approximately twenty-seven ways this could go catastrophically wrong.
"…Alright," he said finally. "No drifting hulks. No mystery wrecks. We hit the dreadnought."
Gunny grinned. "Good call, Skipper."
Blake looked out at the graveyard—silent, vast, waiting.
"Because," Blake added quietly, "at least that ship already tried to kill us. Which means we know what kind of asshole it is."
"An excellent risk assessment," Aubrey said approvingly.
Blake did not feel reassured.
He never did.
But The Aubrey surged forward anyway—faster than before, tougher than before, and heading straight back toward a ship that had already tested Blake's limits.
And, apparently, decided it hadn't finished yet.
The Aubrey drifted on a controlled vector toward the familiar bulk of the Dominion dreadnought, its ruined silhouette slowly growing larger against the star-choked backdrop.
Blake stared at it like a man about to walk back into a house that had definitely tried to kill him last time.
"Okay," he said, rubbing his hands together like that might summon sanity. "Before we get there, we are having a conversation."
Gunny looked immediately offended. "That tone means 'no.'"
"That tone means limits," Blake replied. "Which is a word you're about to hear a lot."
Gunny crossed his arms. "I have requests."
"You always do."
Gunny's Shopping List (Denied)Gunny tapped the holo-display, bringing up a scrolling list that made Blake's stomach drop.
"Additional dorsal cannons. At least four. Missile racks. Mines. Area-denial systems. Something that violates at least three treaties just by existing."
Blake blinked. Slowly. "Absolutely not."
Gunny frowned. "Skipper—"
"No. Nope. Hard no." Blake jabbed a finger at the list. "We are not turning this ship into a flying war crime."
Gunny looked genuinely confused. "But it would be very effective."
"That is exactly the problem."
Gunny opened his mouth again.
Blake cut him off. "We are a salvage ship. A weird one. A well-armed one. But if we start bristling with enough firepower to start a small war, people will notice."
Gunny considered that. Then nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But I want better point defense."
"That's reasonable."
"Bigger turrets."
"…Define bigger."
Gunny smiled. "Enough."
Blake sighed. "We'll talk."
Elenor Wants… ClothesBlake turned to Elenor. "Okay. Your turn. What do you want?"
She didn't even hesitate. "Clothes."
Blake paused. "I'm sorry?"
"Off-duty clothes," Elenor clarified. "I have uniforms. EVA suits. More uniforms. I'd like to stop sleeping in military surplus."
Gunny snorted. "Luxury request."
Blake stared, then laughed. "That's it?"
"Yes, sir."
"…Approved. Enthusiastically approved."
Elenor smiled faintly. "Thank you."
Aubrey Has A Much Better IdeaAubrey's hologram flickered, stepping neatly into the lull.
"Captain, I have a proposal unrelated to armament."
Blake perked up immediately. "Yes. Please. Anything that doesn't involve more guns."
Gunny made a disappointed noise.
"Given your earlier realization regarding internal volume limitations," Aubrey continued, "I suggest repurposing a section of secondary storage into a combined workshop and classroom."
Blake blinked. "For the kids."
"Yes," Aubrey said. "A dedicated space for instruction, fabrication theory, applied mathematics, and supervised experimentation."
Blake felt something warm and unfamiliar in his chest. "Yes. Absolutely yes."
Gunny raised an eyebrow. "They're kids."
"And they're smart," Blake said. "And they've already been through enough. They deserve a place that isn't a mess hall or a corridor."
Elenor nodded slowly. "They'd like that."
"I would also utilize the space for controlled skill training and technical demonstrations," Aubrey added. "It would improve their long-term survivability."
Blake winced. "You always phrase it like that."
"Because it is accurate."
Blake exhaled, then smiled. "Do it. Design the space. Whatever you need."
Gunny glanced between them. "Does this classroom include weapon training?"
Blake stared at him.
"…No."
Gunny shrugged. "Worth askin'."
Consensus (Sort Of)The dreadnought loomed closer now, filling more of the viewport—silent, massive, waiting.
Blake straightened in his chair.
"Alright," he said. "We go in clean. We salvage smart. No overkill. No unnecessary escalation. We take what we need, we take what sells, and we leave."
Gunny cracked his neck. "And if something tries to kill us?"
Blake didn't hesitate. "Then you do what you do best."
Gunny grinned. "Good answer."
Booth's voice crackled over comms from somewhere deep in the ship. "Just checking—this is still the plan where I hide, right?"
"Yes," Blake said immediately. "You hide. Heroically."
"Thank you, sir."
Blake looked back at the dreadnought, anxiety buzzing, pulse racing, but resolve settling in behind it.
They weren't here to conquer.
They weren't here to loot blindly.
They were here to build something that lasted.
Even if the universe seemed determined to test that idea at every possible opportunity.
Blake stared at the internal schematics again.
And again.
And one more time, just in case the universe had decided to stop lying to him.
"…Aubrey," he said carefully, the way one spoke to unexploded ordnance, "hypothetically—purely hypothetically—how hard would it be to remove the inner hull sections we don't strictly need?"
There was a pause.
A long one.
Not processing delay.
Judgement.
"…Captain," Aubrey said slowly, "may I confirm that you are requesting the partial deconstruction of a reinforced pressure-retention layer that you personally upgraded less than a week ago?"
Blake winced. "When you say it like that, it sounds bad."
"It is bad," Aubrey replied. "I would also like to formally note that I would have preferred this instruction before the last refit."
Blake lifted both hands. "In my defense, I didn't realise how much space we were losing."
"You lost forty meters of internal diameter," Aubrey said flatly. "That is not a rounding error."
Blake hesitated, then asked the question anyway. "Just—just to be clear. We don't actually need the inner hull anymore, right? We're not about to die horribly if we take it out?"
Another pause.
Shorter.
Sharper.
"No, Captain," Aubrey said, irritation threading through his normally pristine tone. "Your external hull is now more than sufficient to maintain structural integrity, radiation shielding, and pressure containment. The inner hull is redundant."
Blake exhaled in relief. "Okay. Good."
"However," Aubrey added pointedly, "I am displeased that this determination is being acted upon after I finished recalibrating every system to accommodate it."
Gunny, passing by on his way toward the launch bay, snorted. "He's mad."
Blake pointed at him. "You don't get a vote. You want guns in every direction."
Gunny grinned. "Still true."
Blake looked back to the holo. "Can it be done without killing us?"
"Yes," Aubrey said, resignation creeping in beneath the annoyance. "By selectively removing inner-hull segments in non-critical areas and reinforcing remaining load paths. Again."
"Perfect. Do it."
"…Very well," Aubrey said. "I will also be rewriting half of the internal stress models. Again. For the record."
Blake offered a sheepish smile to the empty air. "You love me."
"…I tolerate you," Aubrey replied. "Extensively. And with growing documentation."
Meanwhile: Gunny' Gotta Do What A Gunny's Gotta Do.Gunny didn't wait for permission.
He never did.
The section off the launch bay—clearly marked DOMINION MARINE OPERATIONS in faded warning glyphs—was exactly the sort of place that screamed bad idea to everyone except Gunny.
So naturally, he went there.
Blake was halfway through watching repair bots begin the delicate, whiny process of inner-hull removal when the ship shuddered.
Not a big shudder.
A concerning one.
"…Aubrey?" Blake asked.
"Localized weapons discharge detected," Aubrey replied calmly. "Origin: Dominion Marine sector."
Blake closed his eyes. "Of course it is."
Booth's voice crackled over comms, high-pitched. "WHY IS THERE FIRING INSIDE THE SHIP?"
"Because Gunny got bored," Blake said.
"Captain," Aubrey added, "thermal bloom detected. One heavy automated ceiling turret has been neutralized."
Blake's eyes snapped open. "Neutralized by who?"
There was a pause.
Then footsteps.
Heavy ones.
Gunny emerged from the corridor a moment later.
Smoking.
Actually smoking.
Char marks scored across his chassis, one shoulder plating warped and glowing faintly red. Synthetic skin had burned away in patches, exposing alloy and actuators beneath.
And he was smiling.
Wide.
Proud.
"Skipper," Gunny said cheerfully, a little plume of smoke curling off his shoulder, "good news."
Blake stared. "You are on fire."
Gunny glanced down. "Was."
"…What do you mean was?"
Gunny shrugged. "Fire stopped. Turret didn't."
Blake's heart slammed into his ribs. "Sit. Down. Right now."
Gunny blinked. "…Sir?"
"Sit," Blake repeated, pointing at a crate like a disappointed parent pointing at a timeout chair. "You are not going back out there until I fix you."
Gunny obediently sat.
Booth's voice came through comms, faint and shaking. "I felt that through the deck! I thought we were dying!"
"Nah," Gunny said cheerfully. "Just sparring."
Blake crouched in front of Gunny, hands already glowing with the familiar warm, electric pull of his Repairman ability.
"You," Blake said flatly, "are like a child who touched a hot stove because it 'looked interesting.'"
Gunny opened his mouth.
"No," Blake said. "Do not argue. You are melted."
Gunny closed his mouth.
Blake placed both hands on the damaged plating. Metal straightened. Heat scars faded. Actuators realigned with precise, glowing lines of energy.
"There," Blake muttered, working. "You don't lead with your face into ceiling turrets."
Gunny nodded solemnly. "Learned a lesson."
"You absolutely did not."
The last scorch mark vanished. Synthetic skin flowed back into place, near-perfect, seamless.
Gunny flexed his arm. "Good as new."
Blake poked his chest. "You do that again without telling me, I'm grounding you."
Gunny grinned. "Worth it."
The Best Kind of Bad News (Still Bad)Gunny leaned back against the bulkhead—no longer sizzling. "Marine sector's loaded, Skipper."
Blake sighed. "I knew there was a 'but.'"
"No but. Just facts," Gunny said. "Armory big enough to make a quartermaster cry. Small arms. Heavy weapons. Ammo stockpiles sealed and intact."
Blake's anxiety spiked. "…Okay. That's a lot."
"And," Gunny continued, clearly enjoying this, "motor pool."
Blake froze. "Motor pool."
"Wheeled troop carriers. Compact. Armored. Zero-G capable. Designed for shipboard deployment."
Booth made a strangled noise over comms. "Why does that sound expensive?"
"Because it is," Blake said faintly.
Gunny nodded. "Very."
Blake laughed.
A little hysterically.
"This is how it happens," he muttered. "This is how I accidentally become a warlord."
"Statistically," Aubrey said, "you are still several steps away from that outcome."
"Comforting."
Gunny pushed off the wall. "You want me to clear the rest of the Marine section?"
Blake hesitated.
Then exhaled.
"…Carefully," he said. "And if you catch fire again, I'm docking your allowance."
Gunny saluted. "Yes, sir."
He turned and headed back toward the darkness—this time not smoking.
Blake slumped into a chair, heart racing, anxiety buzzing so loud it practically had its own engine noise.
They'd come back for scrap.
They'd found weapons.
Vehicles.
Space.
And a very clear reminder that Blake was now responsible for a walking, talking embodiment of bad ideas with legs.
Blake stared at the expanding schematic as inner hull sections vanished, space opening up like the ship was taking a deep breath.
"…I swear," he muttered, "I'm one bad decision away from having to explain taxes to a small army."
"I will prepare spreadsheets," Aubrey replied calmly, still faintly annoyed.
Blake groaned.
And somewhere deep in the dreadnought, something powered up.
Which Blake absolutely, positively, would not take as a good sign.