The Aubrey dropped out of FTL above Selene with all the drama of a tired man sitting down carefully.
No alarms.
No hostile contacts.
No ancient war machines silently judging Blake's life choices.
Just a planet. Green. Calm. Doing planet things—rotating, reflecting sunlight, quietly pretending it wasn't an industrial-adjacent colony world with enough regulations to weaponise boredom.
Blake stared at it from the captain's chair for a long moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It didn't.
"…We're really back," he said.
"Yes, Captain," Aubrey replied. "The planet remains Selene. It has not moved."
Blake squinted like the planet was a suspicious invoice. "Are you sure?"
"I have checked twice."
"Good. After the week I've had, I half-expected it to be on fire."
"Selene is not currently on fire," Aubrey said. "However, I can widen the thermal scan if you would like reassurance."
"No. No widening. Widening is how we find new problems. We are not widening anything. We are narrowing. We are aggressively narrowing."
Gunny leaned back, boots on a bulkhead he absolutely wasn't supposed to put boots on. He looked like a man who considered "rules" to be an exotic spice best sampled in tiny amounts and then ignored. "If it was on fire, I'd feel more at home."
"No," Blake said instantly. "No fires. No guns. No murder. We are taking a break."
Gunny opened his mouth.
Blake pointed at him. "I swear to God, if you finish that sentence—"
Gunny closed his mouth, grinning. "Roger that. Recreational non-violence."
Booth exhaled so hard he nearly deflated. "Thank you."
They docked without incident.
No port alerts. No suspicious scans. No curious officials asking why their cargo ship had the silhouette of something that occasionally ate pirates for breakfast and then asked for seconds like it was being polite.
Selene's orbital platforms were exactly what Blake remembered: industrial grey, corporate beige, and that special kind of architectural optimism where everything looked temporary even if it had been bolted there for a century. Freight traffic moved in tidy lanes. Tug drones buzzed around like anxious insects with clipboards. Docking lights blinked in precise timing, like the station was trying to hypnotise incoming ships into obeying posted speed limits.
Aubrey handled paperwork invisibly and efficiently, which Blake had decided was the correct and only way paperwork should ever be handled.
"Docking clearances filed," Aubrey said. "Customs manifests synchronised. Cargo declarations submitted."
Blake blinked. "When did we declare cargo?"
"Four minutes ago."
"What did we declare?"
"'Mixed salvage, non-hazardous, non-biological,'" Aubrey said. "Which, given your recent experiences, is the closest statement to truth we can achieve without tempting the universe."
Gunny snorted. "Smart."
Booth muttered, "Can we declare ourselves as 'emotionally fragile'?"
The moment the ramp lowered, Selene's dry, processed air hit them—and Blake felt his shoulders drop about three inches. It smelled like warm dust, faint metal, and the kind of disinfectant that was legally required to be called "fresh."
"We're not running," Elenor observed.
"No," Blake said. "We're… stopping."
"That's new."
"Don't get used to it."
They took a week.
An actual, honest-to-god week.
The kind Blake's old life had promised and then replaced with emails and existential dread. The kind of week that had "rest" on the schedule and actually meant it, instead of being a trap disguised as a calendar entry.
The kids discovered parks.
Real ones. With grass. And strange, long-necked grazing animals that looked like someone had combined a cow with a badly thought-out crane and then decided the legs should be emotionally unsettling.
William named one immediately.
"That one's Steve."
Luna squinted. "Why Steve."
"He looks like a Steve."
Gunny nodded. "Solid reasoning."
Blake sat on a bench nearby, coffee in hand, watching the kids run without helmets, without gravity warnings, without the constant background awareness that a single bad decision could get them spaced.
It felt… illegal.
Not morally. Bureaucratically.
Like somewhere a clerk was already preparing a form titled UNAUTHORISED CALM: INCIDENT REPORT.
Elenor sat beside him, boots off, uniform jacket discarded like she was daring the universe to say something about it. Her hair was down. Her shoulders weren't tense. It was disconcerting.
"You're twitching," she said.
"I am not."
"You are vibrating."
Blake sighed. "I don't trust peace."
"Peace isn't doing anything to you," she said. "You're doing this to yourself."
"Also fair."
The park was… too normal. Families walked paths with little shopping bags. Vendors sold grilled skewers and sweet bread from carts with cheerful hazard signage—CAUTION: HOT FOOD. DO NOT EAT METAL. There were fountains. There were birds. There were children laughing, which sounded like a trick noise you played to lure someone into a dark corridor.
Booth did not relax.
He attempted to. Briefly.
Then spent the rest of the week hiding in increasingly improbable places.
Blake found him once in a laundromat, disassembling a dryer.
"Booth," Blake said gently. "You don't live here."
Booth flinched. "I—right. Sorry. Habit."
"You're allowed to rest."
Booth stared at him like Blake had suggested time travel. "That feels like a trap."
"It's not."
"…That feels like something a trap would say."
Blake nodded. "Okay. Counterpoint: no one is shooting at you."
Booth paused. "Yet."
"Please stop adding 'yet' to sentences."
Booth considered this. "I will try."
He did not succeed.
Gunny, on the other hand, relaxed aggressively.
He discovered a local gym.
Then broke three pieces of equipment.
Then helped fix them.
Then became a minor local legend among the factory workers, who appreciated a man who could lift an engine block while shouting encouragement that sounded suspiciously like verbal assault.
Blake walked in once, took one look at the scene, and walked back out.
"Nope," he muttered. "That's not my ecosystem."
Inside, Gunny was spotting two dockworkers who were attempting to bench-press something that could've qualified as an architectural support beam. He shouted, "BREATHE, YOU COWARDS," which Blake suspected was not covered by standard gym etiquette.
Aubrey remained aboard.
Watching.
Processing.
Monitoring Selene's port chatter like it was a soap opera comprised entirely of shipping delays and passive-aggressive invoices.
One evening, as Blake lay on his bunk staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers, Aubrey spoke.
"Captain," he said, "your stress indicators have reduced by thirty-one percent."
Blake snorted. "Still too high?"
"Yes."
"Figures."
"This environment is beneficial."
Blake rolled onto his side. "We can't stay."
"I am aware."
"But for now?"
A brief pause.
"For now," Aubrey agreed.
The week passed slowly.
Deliberately.
No emergencies. No Systems pushing boundaries. No decisions that decided who lived or died.
Blake ate real food. Slept without waking up convinced something was wrong. Let the kids argue about which animal on Selene would win in a fight and didn't feel the need to intervene.
(William insisted Steve would win because Steve "had long legs."
Luna argued Steve would lose because Steve "looked like he'd apologise mid-fight."
Gunny proposed they test it by introducing a predator, and Blake banned him from contributing to hypothetical ecology for forty-eight hours.)
On the seventh day, as the sun dipped low over Ersa City and the lights flickered on across the industrial sprawl—rows of amber streetlamps and neon signage, the city glowing like a circuit board with delusions of grandeur—Blake stood on the docking ramp and looked out over the planet.
He felt lighter.
Not healed.
Not fixed.
But… steadier.
Which was new.
"Aubrey," he said quietly. "Tomorrow, we plan the next move."
"Of course, Captain."
Blake nodded to himself.
For tonight?
Tonight, he was just a man standing on solid ground, with a ship that wasn't haunted, a crew that was alive, and absolutely no one trying to kill him.
And honestly?
That was more than enough.
Someone Says "Abandoned Mining Station" Like That's a Normal Thing
The idea came up over breakfast.
Which, in hindsight, should have been Blake's first warning.
They were in the mess, the kids arguing over something deeply important (pancake texture), Gunny eating like the food might escape, Booth hovering nervously near the coffee dispenser like it had personally offended him, and Blake enjoying the rare luxury of not having a crisis scheduled for the next ten minutes.
That's when Bates cleared his throat.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to be heard.
Blake looked up immediately. He'd learned the hard way that when ex-Marines cleared their throats, something expensive, dangerous, or morally complicated usually followed. Sometimes all three, like a terrible value combo.
"Captain," Bates said carefully, hands folded on the table. "I might have a suggestion. Long-term."
Blake squinted. "I don't like the way you said that."
Elenor leaned back in her chair. "Let him finish."
Gunny grinned. "I like the way he said that."
Booth made a small noise that might've been a whimper. He had the haunted stare of someone who'd just watched the word "suggestion" turn into a weapon.
Bates nodded once, bracing himself like a man about to step on a landmine he'd personally pointed out.
"There's an old site," he said. "Naderia Mining Station."
Blake blinked. "…That sounds fake."
"It's not," Bates replied. "It's just old."
"How old," Blake asked, already suspicious.
"Roughly two hundred years abandoned."
The room went quiet.
Even the kids paused mid-argument, like their instincts recognised "two hundred years abandoned" as a phrase that never ended well.
William looked up from his plate. "Why was it abandoned?"
Blake pointed at the kid. "That's an excellent question and I'm already afraid of the answer."
Bates exhaled. "Swarm Beetles."
Gunny stopped chewing.
Booth froze.
Elenor raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
Blake rubbed his temples. "I'm not."
Bates continued anyway.
"They were originally bioengineered," he said, tone flat, professional. "Mining support organisms. Oxygen production. Waste processing. Environmental stabilisation."
Blake nodded slowly. "Let me guess. Someone got clever."
"Yes, sir."
"They always do," Blake muttered. "It's like a universal law. Gravity. Entropy. And some idiot getting clever."
"They were designed to be resilient," Bates went on. "Self-sustaining. Fast breeders. Adaptable."
Gunny leaned forward. "And then?"
"They adapted."
There it was.
Booth swallowed. "Adapted how."
Bates didn't look at him. "Carnivorous. Aggressive. Territorial."
"How aggressive," Blake asked.
"Cat-sized," Bates replied. "Fast. Armoured. Can go dormant for decades. Sometimes centuries."
The kids stared.
William's eyes widened. "Like… sleeping monsters?"
"Yes," Bates said gently. "Exactly like that."
Luna frowned. "Can they climb?"
Bates hesitated, then nodded once. "Yes."
Luna nodded solemnly, as if that had confirmed a theory. "Rude."
Blake closed his eyes.
"Okay," he said. "And let me guess the rest. Jaws?"
"Can bite through bone," Bates confirmed.
Gunny let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Now that's a beetle."
"No," Blake snapped. "That's a nightmare with legs."
Elenor crossed her arms. "If it's that bad, why hasn't anyone reclaimed it?"
Bates met her gaze. "They've tried. Three corporate attempts. One military evaluation."
"And?" Blake asked.
"And none of them made it past the lower habitation rings."
Booth finally found his voice. "So it's been abandoned for two hundred years… because it eats people."
"Yes."
Silence.
Blake stared at the table.
Then laughed.
It started quiet. A breathy, hysterical thing that startled everyone else.
"Oh of course," he said. "Of course the first long-term base suggestion is a haunted murder station full of bone-eating space beetles."
Gunny grinned wider. "You gotta admit, Skipper. It's on-brand."
"I have never wanted a brand," Blake said weakly. "I want a nice neutral identity. Like 'man who quietly files forms'."
Booth nodded vigorously. "Yes. Like 'guy who owns a chair'."
Bates held up a hand. "Sir. I'm not saying we go there now. Or unprepared. But strategically—"
"It's isolated," Elenor said slowly. "Off major lanes."
"Structurally sound," Bates added. "Mining stations are built to take punishment."
"Free," Gunny said cheerfully.
Booth looked like he might faint. "It's full of beetles."
Blake exhaled hard.
"Okay," he said. "Let's list pros and cons."
Gunny raised a finger. "Pro: lots of bugs to kill."
"Con," Blake shot back, "they kill us."
Gunny shrugged. "Mutual exchange."
Blake looked at Bates. "Why are you suggesting this."
Bates didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was quieter.
"Because it's still there," he said. "Because it's stayed abandoned not due to decay, but fear. And because if you did clear it…" He paused. "It would be yours. No one would challenge that claim."
Blake felt a familiar knot tighten in his chest.
A base.
Not a graveyard.
Not borrowed docks.
Not running from place to place.
A place that stayed put.
Elenor watched him carefully. "You don't have to decide now."
"I know," Blake said.
The kids were whispering excitedly now—half terrified, half fascinated.
"Do beetles have teeth?" Luna asked.
"Yes," William said solemnly. "Bad ones."
Blake rubbed his face again.
"Okay," he said finally. "We're not doing anything stupid."
Gunny raised an eyebrow.
"…More stupid than usual," Blake clarified.
"That narrows it," Gunny admitted.
Blake looked at Aubrey's interface light glowing softly at the edge of the room.
"Aubrey," he said. "Put Naderia Mining Station on the maybe list. Far future. Big warning labels. Lots of skulls."
"Noted, Captain," Aubrey replied. "I will annotate the entry as 'Extremely Hostile Fauna Present.'"
"Underline that," Blake said. "In red."
Booth raised a trembling hand. "Just—just to be clear. We're not going there soon, right?"
Blake met his eyes.
"…We're not going anywhere today."
Booth sagged with relief.
Gunny grinned like Christmas had been delayed, not cancelled.
Blake leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
A haunted station.
Mutant beetles.
Dormant monsters with bone-crushing jaws.
A future base.
He sighed.
"Why," he asked the universe quietly, "is it never just a nice empty warehouse."
The universe, as usual, did not answer.
But Blake had the sinking feeling it was listening.
Critical Details, Omitted for No Good Reason Whatsoever
Blake learned the missing detail approximately twelve seconds after The Aubrey dropped out of FTL.
Not during the briefing.
Not during planning.
Not during the very long, very detailed conversation about carnivorous beetles.
No.
He learned it when the forward viewport cleared—and the station came into view.
"…Why," Blake said slowly, "is it in the middle of an asteroid field."
No one answered immediately.
Because everyone else had already processed this information as obvious.
The station drifted ahead of them—massive, cylindrical, scarred by centuries of micrometeor impacts. It looked like a metal spine someone had left out in the rain for two hundred years and then been surprised it developed opinions. Faint Dominion-era hazard striping still clung to some exterior panels, faded into the colour of old bruises. Mining rigs and long-dead collection arms were still visible along the station's exterior, frozen in the posture of unfinished work—like the station had been interrupted mid-shift and never got the memo it was allowed to go home.
It was surrounded by a loose belt of asteroids, some small enough to be gravel, others the size of office buildings. A few of the larger rocks turned slowly, glittering with exposed metal veins—ore that had never been claimed because the last people who tried got eaten by beetles and the universe does not do refunds.
Blake stared.
"…It's a mining station," he said.
"Yes, Captain," Aubrey replied calmly.
"Mining stations," Blake continued, "mine asteroids."
"Yes."
"And asteroids," Blake pressed on, "are… generally located in asteroid fields."
"Yes."
Blake leaned back in his chair and covered his face with both hands.
"I knew that," he said muffled. "I know that. That's basic information. I don't know why my brain just decided to skip that step."
Gunny snorted. "In your defense, Skipper, most haunted murder facilities don't come with context."
Booth made a very small noise. "I thought it was… stationary."
"It is stationary," Bates said carefully. "Relative to the field."
Blake peeked through his fingers. "That sentence didn't help."
The station wasn't maneuvering. It wasn't hiding. It wasn't doing anything at all.
It was just… there.
A dead industrial relic, drifting along predictable orbital paths with the rocks it had once fed on. No engines. No course corrections. No intent.
Just physics.
And physics, Blake had learned, was often the opening act before something tried to bite him.
Blake let his hands drop.
"Okay," he said. "Clarifying for the record: the station is not alive. It is not sentient. It is not plotting against me."
"That is correct," Aubrey confirmed.
"It is simply," Blake went on, "a two-hundred-year-old industrial facility full of dormant bone-crushing beetles."
"Yes."
Blake nodded. "Great. Love that for us."
They coasted closer, The Aubrey threading carefully through the outer debris. The asteroid field was quiet in that unnerving, wrong way—no sound, but constant motion. Rocks drifted past like slow bullets. Dust clouds hung in faint, shimmering sheets where some ancient collision had happened and never finished apologising. Every now and then, a chunk of ice flashed past like a pale ghost and Blake's brain helpfully supplied, That could have been water. Now it's a reminder.
Aubrey handled it with infuriating smoothness—minor thruster adjustments, predictive pathing, the kind of flight that made it very clear this wasn't even remotely challenging.
Blake folded his arms, watching the station grow larger.
"…How long have you known about the asteroid field," he asked Aubrey.
"Since the initial data pull," Aubrey replied evenly.
Blake sighed. "And you didn't think to emphasize it."
"Captain, you are aware that mining stations are typically located within asteroid fields."
"Yes," Blake snapped. "Intellectually. Apparently not emotionally."
Gunny laughed. "Your brain's still catching up, Skipper. Give it time."
"I don't want to give it time," Blake muttered. "Time is how we end up inside bug hell."
Gunny shifted in his seat, suddenly far too cheerful.
"Oh," he said casually. "Speaking of hell."
Blake tensed. "No."
Gunny grinned. "Good news."
"No," Blake repeated, firmer.
Gunny ignored him completely. "While we were in FTL—about a week, give or take—I stayed busy."
Blake turned slowly. "Busy how."
Aubrey answered before Gunny could, his tone maddeningly neutral.
"Captain, during transit I constructed two autonomous defensive platforms utilizing the medium repair bots previously restored."
Blake blinked. "…You what."
The holoprojector activated.
Two familiar silhouettes appeared—medium repair bots, once utilitarian and vaguely beetle-shaped.
Now they were very much not that.
Their original manipulator pincer jaws had been cleanly removed, replaced with reinforced plating and power routing. Each bot's main body had been integrated into a hardened mobile mount, its chassis forming the core of a rotating base.
Mounted atop each bot's back was a compact turret assembly—low-profile, stabilized, and distinctly predatory. Twin converted laser rifles were integrated into the turret housing, not arms—fed directly by the bot's internal power systems.
Variable output.
Independent tracking.
Full rotational coverage.
They looked less like tools now and more like decisions someone regretted making after the fact.
Blake stared.
"…You built turret-mounted Battle Bots."
Gunny nodded proudly. "Yes, sir."
Booth squeaked. "When."
"Quiet hours," Gunny said cheerfully.
Blake turned to Aubrey. "You helped him."
"I constructed them," Aubrey corrected. "Gunny provided enthusiastic design input."
Gunny puffed up. "Team effort."
Blake dragged a hand down his face. "Why."
Gunny shrugged. "Because we're going to a station full of murder beetles?"
"That's not—"
"And," Gunny continued, "because they're beautiful."
The projection zoomed in. The small dorsal turrets rotated smoothly, targeting reticles snapping between imaginary threats. Power settings adjusted with precise mechanical grace.
The bots' chassis plating had even been painted—crudely, but with conviction. One had a lopsided hazard stripe pattern like someone had tried to draw "danger" from memory. The other had what looked suspiciously like a smiley face, if a smiley face was designed by someone who'd seen war.
Aubrey added, "Their power draw is within acceptable limits. Structural integrity is sound. Combat effectiveness is high."
Booth stared at the image. "You weaponized the robots while we were asleep."
"Yes," Aubrey said.
"They beep when happy," Gunny added.
On cue, the Battle Bots emitted a cheerful series of electronic chirps.
Blake closed his eyes.
"Of course they do."
Elenor studied the projection thoughtfully. "They'd be useful inside the station."
"Yes," Aubrey agreed.
"No," Blake said immediately. "We are not deciding that right now."
Gunny leaned back, satisfied. "Just sayin'. They're ready."
Blake opened his eyes and looked out at the drifting station again—silent, massive, utterly indifferent.
A mining station.
In an asteroid field.
Exactly where it was supposed to be.
Exactly where he should have expected it to be.
He exhaled slowly.
"Okay," Blake said. "We are not rushing this. We are not charging in. We are not waking up beetles just because we brought guns."
Gunny raised an eyebrow. "What if the beetles wake up on their own?"
"Then," Blake said tiredly, "we will deal with that later."
Booth looked like he might cry. "I liked Selene."
"So did I," Blake muttered.
Outside, the dead station drifted on, uncaring, surrounded by the rocks it had once consumed. Its external lights were dark. Its sensor arrays looked like blind eyes. It was a tomb with docking ports.
Inside The Aubrey, two Battle Bots beeped happily, their manipulator jaws gone, small turret assemblies mounted neatly on their backs—fully armed, fully autonomous, and far too eager.
And Blake had the sinking realization that even when he understood the context—
The universe still found new ways to surprise him.
Usually with teeth.