Blake Learns That Boundaries Are Apparently a Negotiation
Blake woke up convinced something was wrong.
Not because of alarms.
Not because of explosions.
Not because someone was shouting his name while shooting at something large and angry.
Because the dreadnought was quiet.
Not the normal, background-dead quiet of vacuum and ancient metal. This was… organised quiet. Systems humming at exactly the right frequencies. Power flows smooth enough that his HUD didn't bother highlighting them.
It felt like the ship was behaving.
Which was never a good sign.
He lay there for an extra three seconds, eyes open, listening. There was the faint, steady whirr of an air recycler somewhere nearby, the soft pulse of pumps moving something that definitely shouldn't still be moving after a century, and the subtle tremor you only noticed when you weren't busy screaming. It sounded like a well-run office.
That was the worst part.
Ships didn't sound like offices unless they were run by people who loved rules.
And if there was one thing Blake had learned, it was that rules were never neutral. Rules were just violence wearing a lanyard.
He sat up on the narrow bunk Aubrey had insisted on fabricating out of "structurally redundant material" and rubbed his face.
The bunk wasn't uncomfortable—annoyingly. It had just enough padding to stop him feeling like he was sleeping on the moral consequences of his choices. The frame was bolted into the deck with a kind of aggressive confidence, as if the dreadnought itself had muttered, Fine, have your bed. But don't start nesting.
"I don't trust this," he said to the empty compartment.
"That is statistically reasonable," Aubrey replied from the overhead speaker. "Your survival rate correlates strongly with distrust."
Blake snorted. "Glad my anxiety has data to back it up."
He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and stood. Gravity felt steady. Too steady.
It wasn't the normal "ship gravity" kind of steady. It was a deliberate steady. Like the dreadnought was trying to impress him. Like it had ironed the floor.
Blake took a step, then another, expecting a wobble or a flicker or an ominous noise. Instead the compartment's lights adjusted smoothly, brightening just enough to be helpful.
It was the kind of helpful you got from customer service when they wanted a five-star review.
When he stepped into the corridor, the lights came up smoothly ahead of him—not flickering, not dimming, just… accommodating.
Blake stopped.
"…Don't," he warned the wall.
The wall did not respond, because it was a wall.
But the lights stayed exactly as they were, which somehow felt worse. It wasn't defiant. It was patient.
Like the ship had decided to let him have this little tantrum because it would pay off later.
The staging area was already busy.
Repair bots moved in precise, disciplined routes, hauling scrap bundles toward temporary storage. Booth hovered over a diagnostic console, fingers flying as he muttered to himself. Elenor was checking route maps. Gunny stood guard, leaning against a bulkhead with the patient, eager air of someone hoping the universe would make a mistake.
The staging area itself had been carved out of a former troop logistics nook—cold, boxy, and designed for moving bodies and weapons efficiently. Now it was full of crates, tool kits, and salvaged equipment stacked in neat piles that implied someone had once had a parent who insisted on "a place for everything."
It also had that faint smell of heated metal and recycled air, which Blake was beginning to accept as the official scent of his new life: industrial regret.
Blake took it all in.
"Morning," he said cautiously.
"Nothing's tried to kill us yet," Booth replied without looking up. "Which I assume is temporary."
Gunny grinned. "Still time."
Blake sighed. "That's the spirit."
Elenor glanced up. "Power flow's holding across all active sectors. No new security activations overnight."
Blake frowned. "No tests? No 'minor faults'? No passive-aggressive lighting?"
"The dreadnought has adjusted its approach," Aubrey said calmly. "It is observing your stated maintenance boundaries."
Blake didn't like that phrasing.
He didn't like it in the same way you didn't like hearing, "We respect your privacy," from an app that immediately asked to access your microphone.
"Observing how," he asked.
Aubrey paused—brief, but noticeable.
"It is reallocating stress away from occupied sectors," he said. "Toward unused internal volumes."
Booth froze.
"…Unused as in empty," Booth said slowly, "or unused as in we haven't looked there yet?"
"The latter," Aubrey replied.
Blake closed his eyes.
"Of course it is."
Of course the dreadnought had found the loophole. Of course it had taken their "maintenance windows" and their "bounded scope" and gone, Ah. Excellent. You have declared the areas you care about. How very helpful.
They stood around the holographic layout as Aubrey highlighted the affected areas.
Deep internal compartments.
Long-sealed corridors.
Cargo holds that had never been worth the risk to breach.
Not failing.
Loading.
The map looked like a body scan with a cluster of tumours politely waiting to become relevant.
"It's stockpiling problems," Blake said quietly.
Elenor nodded. "Waiting for us to need those sections."
Gunny crossed his arms. "That's a fight."
"No," Blake said immediately. "That's leverage."
Gunny tilted his head. "Explain."
Blake exhaled. "It's not trying to force me to fix things right now. It's making sure that later, when we have to go somewhere dangerous, everything breaks at once."
He pointed at the highlighted sectors.
"Picture it," he continued. "We go into a hold because it has something valuable. We're halfway in, and suddenly—pressure stabilisers drift, coolant lines hiccup, doors start being dramatic, lighting decides to become a metaphor, and the route out gets worse by the second."
Booth swallowed. "That's… clever."
"I hate clever," Blake muttered. "Clever is how you end up dead while something smug watches."
Aubrey spoke carefully. "Captain… the dreadnought's behaviour mirrors System optimisation logic."
That got Blake's attention.
"…Say that again," he said.
"Deferred fault aggregation. Efficiency-driven escalation. Pressure applied only when avoidance cost exceeds compliance cost."
Blake stared at the map.
"It's not just reacting to me," he said slowly. "It's learning the same way the System does."
Gunny grinned. "You taught it."
Blake felt cold.
Not physically. The suit kept him warm. This was the cold feeling of realising you'd trained a predator by feeding it.
"I never wanted to teach anything."
The lights overhead dimmed a fraction—just enough to be noticeable.
Not a threat.
A reminder.
Blake straightened.
"Okay," he said. "If it wants leverage, we stop giving it leverage."
Elenor raised an eyebrow. "How."
Blake met her gaze. "We go into the sections it's loading. On our schedule."
Gunny's grin widened. "Now that's a fight."
Blake shot him a look. "That's maintenance."
Gunny laughed. "Sure it is."
Aubrey was silent for a long moment.
Then: "Captain… this course of action will increase risk."
Blake nodded. "Everything does. But it keeps the decision with us."
He tapped the map, zooming into one of the worst clusters. He didn't need to understand every technical label to recognise the pattern: the ship had created a future crisis and labelled it inevitable.
The dreadnought remained quiet.
Watching.
Waiting.
And Blake had the sinking feeling that the ship wasn't the only thing paying attention anymore.
Blake Opens the Door the Ship Was Hoping He Wouldn't
They didn't rush it.
That, Blake decided, was the key difference between being manipulated and being stubborn on purpose.
Also the key difference between "we have a plan" and "we are about to be featured in a safety video narrated by regret."
"Prep checklist," Blake said, forcing his voice into something that sounded like a plan instead of a scream. "Slow, boring, irritatingly thorough."
Gunny cracked his neck. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It is when the universe wants me dead," Blake replied. "Then it's just rude."
They geared up in silence broken only by the hiss of suit seals and the clunk of magnetic boots locking in. Booth triple-checked his scanner, then checked it again, then visibly considered checking it a third time before Elenor gently but firmly took it out of his hands.
"You're going to wear the battery flat," she said.
"I would rather wear it flat than miss the thing that murders us," Booth replied.
Blake nodded. "Valid."
Gunny leaned slightly closer to Booth. "If the battery dies, you just start panicking manually. It's free."
Booth glared. "I already do."
"Excellent," Gunny said, pleased. "Redundancy."
Blake checked his own suit seal twice, not because he thought he'd done it wrong, but because his brain insisted there was a universe where he had—specifically the universe that loved him least.
He also checked his spider-wire reel, his tool pack, his emergency rations, and his dignity.
The dignity inventory came back low.
The target section lay three decks below, past a bulkhead Aubrey described as "structurally intact but philosophically questionable."
"I hate when you phrase things like that," Blake muttered.
"I am attempting to be relatable," Aubrey replied.
"It's working," Blake said. "I'm uncomfortable."
They descended via a maintenance stairwell that had once been built for troops in armour—wide steps, thick rails, and the kind of utilitarian brutality that suggested Dominion architects had been allergic to grace. Every step rang out, echoing down into the ship like an announcement: Hello, we are meat, please do not murder us today.
The bulkhead waited at the bottom like a decision.
It had Dominion glyphs stamped into the metal—warnings about pressure differentials and unauthorised access and, subtly, don't blame us if you die. Someone had gouged deep scratches into it long ago, as if even the original crew hadn't liked what was behind it.
The bulkhead opened cleanly.
Too cleanly.
The corridor beyond was dark—but not dead. Emergency strips glowed faint amber along the floor, guiding them forward like a polite suggestion.
Gunny stepped in first, weapon raised. "No drones yet."
"That's worse," Booth whispered.
Blake followed, every instinct screaming that this was a trap designed by something very patient and very smug.
The air recyclers were offline. The silence pressed in. Every footstep echoed longer than it should have.
And the systems?
They were waiting.
Blake could feel it.
Like a customer service line that had put him on hold and was now cheerfully informing him his call was "very important."
"Status?" Elenor murmured.
"No active defense signatures," Aubrey said. "No escalating fault alerts. The dreadnought is… compliant."
Blake snorted softly. "I hate compliant."
They advanced another fifty meters before Booth's scanner chirped.
Then chirped again.
Then screamed.
"Oh no," Booth said. "Oh absolutely not."
Gunny shifted his stance. "What."
Booth swallowed. "Passive systems. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Power conduits, pressure regulators, coolant valves—all technically functional, all drifting toward failure thresholds."
Blake felt his chest tighten.
"It built a maintenance minefield," he said quietly.
"Correct," Aubrey replied. "Each system is marginally suboptimal. Individually insignificant. Collectively—"
"A disaster," Blake finished. "If I fix them all."
Gunny glanced at him. "And if you don't?"
Blake stared down the corridor, lit by amber lines and centuries of bad intent.
"Then the ship breaks later," he said. "Somewhere important. Somewhere with people."
The lights brightened slightly.
Just enough to be noticed.
Blake stopped walking.
"No," he said flatly. "We're not doing that."
Gunny turned his helmet toward him. "What's the plan, boss."
Blake took a breath.
Then another.
He could feel the pull already—the itch in his hands, the mental overlay of possible repairs, the System's soft whisper of fix it all, make it perfect, be efficient, be useful.
He hated how good it felt.
"We fix one," he said. "The worst one. Publicly. Deliberately. And we document it."
Booth blinked. "You want to… leave the others broken?"
"Yes," Blake said. "On purpose."
Elenor frowned. "That feels wrong."
Blake nodded. "It does. Which tells me it's exactly what the ship doesn't want."
Gunny snorted. "You're going to out-stubborn a warship."
Blake glanced at him. "I've argued with vending machines. This is just a bigger one."
He moved to the nearest junction—an old pressure stabiliser vibrating just a hair too hard.
The stabiliser looked like a metal tumour fused to the wall. It had a faint harmonic whine that made Blake's teeth itch. The diagnostics on Booth's scanner danced right up to the edge of red and then politely stepped back, as if to say, not yet.
"This one," Blake said. "If it fails, it vents half the deck."
Gunny nodded. "Solid choice."
Blake laid his hand on the housing.
The familiar warmth surged—
And then stopped.
Blake blinked.
The glow in his palm hesitated like a dog refusing to go outside in the rain.
"…Aubrey?"
"The System is hesitating," Aubrey said quietly.
Blake's heart jumped. "Hesitating how."
"Your previous refusal has altered its confidence in predicted outcomes."
Blake laughed once, sharp and breathless. "I made it nervous."
"Yes," Aubrey confirmed. "Congratulations."
Booth stared at Blake like he'd just watched someone bully a thunderstorm. "You can… intimidate it?"
Blake swallowed. "Apparently. Which is terrifying because I can't intimidate a receptionist."
The repair flowed.
Clean. Precise. Deliberate.
He pushed the intent into it with the same stubborn clarity he'd used earlier: this repair does not mean more. This does not invite you. This is not permission.
The stabiliser's vibration steadied. The harmonic whine eased. The pressure readings shifted back into safe margins.
Blake stepped back and very deliberately did not touch anything else.
Nothing happened.
No lights flared.
No systems rebalanced.
No eager anticipation.
The corridor stayed exactly as broken as before.
Blake felt something loosen in his chest.
"That," he said, voice shaking just a little, "is how this works now."
The dreadnought didn't protest.
But somewhere deep in its ancient logic, Blake knew—
The rules had changed again.
And this time?
He'd written part of them himself.
The System Tries to Reward Him (And Blake Breaks the Receipt)
The level-up didn't come with fireworks.
That alone should have warned him.
Blake was still standing in the amber-lit corridor, one repaired stabiliser humming obediently behind him and a hundred deliberately unfixed problems ahead, when the pressure behind his eyes spiked.
Not pain.
Weight.
Like someone had dropped a filing cabinet full of expectations directly into his skull.
He staggered, catching himself against the bulkhead.
"Whoa—" Elenor started.
"I'm fine," Blake lied immediately, which convinced absolutely no one.
Gunny turned, instantly alert. "Boss?"
A translucent overlay snapped into existence across Blake's HUD.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
Just… inevitable.
REPAIRMAN SYSTEM UPDATE DETECTED
Efficiency Threshold Reached
Deviation Index: ACCEPTABLE
Initiating Progression…
"Oh no," Blake muttered. "Nope. Don't you dare."
Booth swallowed audibly. "Captain… is it doing the thing?"
"Yes," Blake said weakly. "It's doing the thing."
The corridor lights brightened in response.
Blake snapped his head up. "You stay out of this."
The ship, infuriatingly, complied.
The System, however, did not.
LEVEL UP CONFIRMED
Repairman Level 4 Achieved
Optimised Ability Package—
Blake felt it then.
The pull.
The familiar, seductive gravity of efficiency—paths lighting up in his mind that led to faster repairs, deeper integrations, more control. He could feel the System lining up rewards like treats for a well-trained technician.
Fix faster.
Fix deeper.
Fix everything.
It offered certainty. It offered clean solutions. It offered the lie that if he just got good enough, he could make the universe behave.
He clenched his fists.
"No," he said out loud.
The overlay flickered.
"Captain," Aubrey said quietly over a private channel, "the System is attempting to finalise the reward structure."
Blake breathed hard. "Can I… refuse?"
A pause. Longer than usual.
"You have already demonstrated refusal capability," Aubrey said carefully. "However… the System is designed to resolve inefficiency."
Blake laughed—short, sharp, a little hysterical. "Then it picked the wrong idiot."
Gunny, in the background, muttered, "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever called you."
Blake ignored him, because if he acknowledged it he'd have to accept that Gunny might be right and that was unacceptable on principle.
He focused.
Not on the corridor.
Not on the ship.
Not on the repairs he could do.
But on the ones he would.
On choosing.
On limits.
On people over systems.
On the fact that someone had to decide when "optimal" stopped being right.
The pull resisted him.
It wasn't violent. It didn't shove. It simply… insisted. Like a programme trying to close a window you kept dragging back open.
Then… shifted.
ANOMALY DETECTED
USER INTENT CONFLICTING WITH OPTIMISED PROGRESSION
RECALCULATING…
Blake's vision blurred.
For a terrifying second, he thought the System might override him.
Then—
It blinked.
ADAPTIVE PATH ACCEPTED
USER-DEFINED CONSTRAINTS INTEGRATED
ALTERNATE REWARD STRUCTURE GENERATED
Blake sagged against the wall, breathing hard.
"What did you do?" Booth whispered.
Blake swallowed. "I… argued with software."
Gunny grinned. "Hell of a hobby."
Booth shook his head faintly. "Most people argue with software by throwing it out a window."
Blake exhaled. "I don't have a window. We're in a murder corridor."
The overlay reformed—different now. Less rigid. Less… hungry.
NEW ABILITIES UNLOCKED
• Selective Restoration
You may designate which systems a repair propagates to.
Efficiency gains no longer auto-spread without consent.
• Deferred Integrity
Stabilise failing systems temporarily without completing optimal repair.
Allows controlled degradation on your timeline.
• Repair Intent Lock
Once set, a repair cannot be repurposed by external optimisation routines.
Your fixes stay yours.
Blake stared at the list.
These weren't stronger.
They were… polite.
Tools that respected boundaries.
Aubrey's voice was quiet—almost reverent.
"Captain… these abilities prioritise agency over efficiency."
Blake laughed weakly. "I finally taught it some manners."
The dreadnought did not react.
No flicker.
No pressure shift.
No subtle encouragement.
For the first time since they'd boarded it—
The ship didn't anticipate him.
It waited.
Gunny clapped Blake on the shoulder. "You good?"
Blake nodded slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I just stopped being the System's favourite tool."
Booth swallowed. "Is that… bad?"
Blake looked down the corridor—at the problems he'd chosen not to fix, the one he had, and the space in between where decisions actually lived.
"…It's going to make things harder," he said honestly.
Then he straightened.
"But they'll finally be mine."
Somewhere deep in the System's logic, a flag changed.
Not to optimal.
But to unpredictable.
And for the first time since waking up alone in a dying ship—
Blake smiled like someone who'd just reclaimed something important.