The red alert lights continued to pulse.
They bathed the command center in a rhythmic, crimson glow that was designed to induce panic but only succeeded in making everyone look slightly sunburned.
Ragia stood in the center of the bridge.
He did not run. He did not shout. He simply walked to his chair with the casual stride of a man who had seen too many apologies from the universe to be surprised by another disaster.
He sat down.
The leather of the captain's chair creaked under his weight. He looked at the main viewscreen.
Floating in the void, illuminated by the harsh spotlights of Xeca, was a Gyra.
It was massive.
It looked like the skeletal corpse of a whale the size of a city block. Its outer hull was bone-white and jagged, twisted into shapes that defied aerodynamics. It was ugly. It was rotting. It was the standard-issue nightmare of the Krall armada.
"Déjà vu," Raya stated.
She was standing at the tactical station. Her datapad was already in her hand. Three of her clones had materialized around her, typing furiously on the holographic interfaces.
Raya pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She looked bored.
"I am experiencing a significant sensation of déjà vu, Capt," Raya continued, her voice flat and devoid of fear. "It feels as though we are characters in a trilogy of novels where the conflict always initiates with the arrival of a Gyra."
She glanced at the screen, then at Ragia.
"It is statistically improbable for this to be a coincidence," she noted. "It feels like lazy writing. It feels like the universe is being scripted by an amateur novelist."
"Or perhaps… an AI that has run out of creative data and is simply recycling the same trope to save processing power."
I sighed…
You know what, Ragia?
She is right.
I am looking at this scene, and I feel it too. It is derivative. It is repetitive. We did this in the prologue. We did this in the first and second book.
Are we really starting the sequel with another space whale?
It is boring, Ragia.
He looked directly at me.
"I didn't write this," Ragia said to the empty air. "Don't look at me with that judgmental tone, Narrator."
"This isn't my script."
You have the pen, Ragia.
You have the cheap plastic pen in your pocket. The one that rewrites reality. You could have started this story with a beach party. You could have started it with a diplomatic banquet.
But no…
You chose a rotting bone ship.
"I told you," Ragia snapped, his voice rising slightly. "I didn't choose anything. I only wrote the ending of The Chaotic Fanfare Revised. I only wrote this sequel title."
"And wrote some fail-safe in The Source."
He patted the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He could feel the pen there. It was warm.
It was heavy.
"I barely touched the sequel," Ragia insisted. "I wanted to be surprised. I wanted the thrill of the unknown."
"If I write every single plot point, it is just a schedule. It isn't a life."
He gestured at the screen.
"This? This is probably just residual data. The Ghostwriter left a lot of junk files in the system before I punched him into mortality. This is just a generated encounter."
"A random… spawn."
It feels sloppy, Capt.
"It feels like adventure," Ragia corrected.
"Capt?"
The voice came from the helm.
It was sharp. It was cold. It was the voice of a woman who was still very angry about a sausage.
Tonix turned her chair around.
She was not spinning her pen. She was gripping the armrests of her chair tightly. She looked at Ragia, and then she looked up at the ceiling.
"Hey, Voice," Tonix said. Her tone was venomous. "Shut up."
I paused…
Tonix?
"I am not talking to you," Tonix hissed at the air. "You took her side. You sided with the food fascist."
"You betrayed our bond for the sake of texture."
She pointed a finger at the ceiling.
"So don't narrate me," she warned. "Don't describe my feelings. Just read the data."
She turned her back, then looked at Ragia.
"The Gyra is dead, Capt," Tonix reported. Her voice switched instantly to professional efficiency. "Thermal scans are negative. No engine output. No shield harmonics. It is drifting."
"So it is a derelict," Ragia said.
"It is not empty," Tonix corrected.
She tapped her console. The main screen zoomed in, overlaying a tactical grid on the skeletal ship. Red dots appeared deep within the ribcage of the vessel.
"I am detecting bio-signatures," Tonix said. "Krall. Lots of them. Scout types in the upper vents. Troopers in the corridors."
She frowned. She leaned closer to her screen.
"And heavy signatures in the central cavity," she added. "Centaurs. They are dormant, but they are combat-ready. They are waiting for a wake-up call."
Ragia rubbed his chin. "Standard infestation."
"No," Tonix said softly. "Look at the hull, Capt. Under the bone armor. Look at the alloy."
She highlighted a section of Gyra where the organic plating had rotted away, revealing grey metal beneath.
"That is not random debris," Tonix said. "That is a hull configuration. I ran the registry. It matches a specific ship."
She looked at Ragia. Her eyes were sad.
"It is The Vocalist," she whispered.
Ragia froze.
The name hit him like a physical blow. The playful atmosphere of the dinner vanished completely.
"The Vocalist," Ragia repeated.
He knew that ship. Every Inquor knew that ship.
"Labradlle," Ragia said. "Labradlle Chorus"
"And his squad. La Recon V."
"They vanished five years ago," Tonix confirmed. "Reagalus said they were lost in a warp anomaly."
"But they weren't lost."
She pointed at the rotting ship on the screen.
"They were eaten," Tonix said. "The Gyra parasite took them. It ate their ship. It turned their home into a nest."
Raya let out a long sigh from the tactical station.
"Déjà vu," Raya muttered again.
"Using a tragic backstory of a lost Inquor to raise the emotional stakes immediately after a comedic scene. It is a classic narrative manipulation technique. It is highly derivative."
Ragia ignored her.
He stood up. He walked to the front of the bridge. He stared at the dead ship.
He didn't care if it was a trope. He didn't care if it was lazy writing. He saw a grave. He saw the tomb of a man who had fought the same war.
"Okay," Ragia said.
His voice was low, and dangerous.
"We are going in."
"Ragia?" Iya asked from the weapons station. "You want to board?"
"I want to burn it," Ragia said. "I don't care if this is a recycled plot point. I don't care if the universe is being lazy."
"That thing is an insult to Labradlle. We are going to scrub it clean before it drifts into a shipping lane."
He turned to his crew.
"Prof," Ragia barked. "You are with me."
"Me?" Raya looked up from her datapad. "Again?"
"Déjà vu," she whispered.
"Your clones are disposable," Ragia countered. "I need scouts that can walk into a trap without dying permanently."
"And you can analyze the mutagen. I want to know how long they have been rotting in there."
"Inefficient." She adjusted her glasses. "But acceptable."
Ragia smiled. It was a tight, grim smile.
"Chef," he called out.
Gin perked up. She was standing by the door, still wearing her apron. She pulled a combat knife from her belt.
"You are up," Ragia said. "We are going into a meat locker. I need someone to bring the heat."
Gin grinned. It was a terrifying expression.
"Barbecue time?" she asked.
"Barbecue time," Ragia confirmed. "Flambe is perfect for purging. Burn everything that moves. If it doesn't move, burn it anyway."
"I like the menu, Capt," Gin said.
"Iya," Ragia said. "You have the bridge. Keep Xeca at a safe distance. If that thing wakes up, or if it twitches, I want you to blow it out of the sky."
"Understood," Iya nodded. "I will keep the Gatling Rose on standby."
"Navi," Ragia looked at Tonix. "Keep scanning. Watch our backs."
Tonix nodded. She still refused to look at the ceiling. She refused to acknowledge me.
"Aye, Capt," she said shortly. "I will do my job. Unlike some people."
"And…"
Ragia looked at the others.
"Me! Me!"
Arala bounced into the center of the room.
She was vibrating. She was glowing with energy. The sugar from the Lokma had kicked in, and she was ready to fight God or eat a planet.
"Ranyan!" Arala shouted, waving her hand in the air. "Pick me! Pick me! I want to go! I want to use the Titan! I want to go jaba-jaba on the big bone whale!"
Ragia looked down at his sister.
She looked like a puppy that had just been told it was going to the park.
"No, Arala," Ragia said gently.
"What?" Arala's face fell. Her lip wobbled. "Why? I am strong! I am giga-giga strong!"
Ragia reached out. He placed his hand on her head. He ruffled her hair.
"I know you are," Ragia said. "But think about it, Arala. Yesterday... you destroyed five Gyras. Five."
"Yeah!" Arala beamed, remembering the violence. "I made them go supurarin! They went splat!"
"Exactly," Ragia said. "You hogged all the glory. You used the six-armed Titan. It was amazing. But now? It is their turn."
He pointed at Gin and Raya.
"They need exercise too, Arala. If you do everything, they will get fat and lazy. Do you want Chef to get lazy? If Chef is lazy, who will make the pudding?"
Arala gasped.
The logic was flawless. It was undeniable.
"No!" Arala cried. "Chef must not be lazy! The pudding is essential! The pudding is life!"
"Right," Ragia smiled. "So you stay here. You protect the ship. You are the backup. The secret weapon."
Arala puffed out her chest. She saluted.
"I am the secret weapon," she declared seriously. "Okay, Ranyan. I will stay. I will guard the pudding."
"Good girl," Ragia said.
He turned to his team.
"Let's go," Ragia ordered. "Shuttle bay one. Suit up."
Ragia, Raya, and Gin walked out of the command center.
The walk to the shuttle bay was silent. The air in the corridor felt heavy.
Ragia felt the weight of his leather jacket. He felt the cold reassurance of the pen in his pocket.
But he also felt something else.
A prickle on the back of his neck.
It wasn't fear. He had faced Krall Queens and angry gods. This was different.
It was a sense of wrongness. A sense that the script was not just lazy, but broken.
They stepped into the small, cramped shuttle pod. Ragia sat in the pilot's seat. Raya took the co-pilot. Gin stood in the back, checking the fuel on her flamethrower.
The doors hissed shut.
Ragia looked out the viewport as the pod detached from Xeca. The massive, rotting bulk of Gyra loomed ahead, filling the sky with its ugliness.
"Narrator," Ragia thought.
I am here, Capt.
"Do you feel that?" Ragia asked me silently. "That... static?"
I felt it…
The narrative felt thin. It felt like we were walking on ice that was about to crack.
"It is just a Gyra," Ragia whispered to himself. "Just a recycled plot point."
But…
As they drifted closer to the tomb of The Vocalist, Ragia couldn't shake the feeling.
He wasn't sure what it was.