[POV: Nardia]

  Tom stayed behind at the base—part-time workers don’t get to go on glamorous interstellar adventures, apparently—so it was just Ahmad, Genichiro, and me boarding the Shiratori.

  Which meant my first “real” mission began with the immediate realization that my emotional support kid was gone.

  Great.

  The Shiratori’s ramp swallowed us with a clean hiss of pressure seals. The hangar lights glinted off the hull, too pristine for something that was supposed to dive into unknown ruins and come back in one piece.

  I kept my mouth shut for exactly three seconds.

  “Tom really isn’t coming?” I asked.

  “He has a contract,” Ahmad replied, already walking. “Not a license.”

  “Right. Because the universe loves technicalities.”

  Genichiro tossed a duffel into the storage rack with a thud. “Be glad. Less screaming in the comms.”

  “I don’t scream.”

  Genichiro looked at me like he’d just witnessed a fish claim it could climb trees.

  Ahmad didn’t even flinch. “Strap in. We brief on the way out.”

  And that was the pattern with him: if you didn’t start moving immediately, you’d be left behind by his momentum.

  We weren’t in the cockpit proper. Behind it was a multipurpose room that tried to be a briefing room, passenger seating, and a cafeteria at the same time—like someone had asked, “What if we made a living room… but for space trauma?”

  Ahmad tapped a panel, and a holographic map bloomed into the air—an elegant cluster of orbits and labels.

  “Destination: Moon of Vesild, the sixth planet in the the Toomlam system. GDC requested an investigation. An Ancients artifact was detected.”

  “Yes!” I answered on reflex, spine straight, voice too loud.

  Genichiro winced like the volume physically hurt him.

  Ahmad’s eyes slid to me. “Trainee. Your role is observation. But if it becomes necessary, you’ll work.”

  “…Work?”

  “Exploration. Security. Negotiation. Transport.”

  I stared at him. “Isn’t that a lot? That’s not a trainee menu. That’s the ‘everything platter.’”

  “Adventurer training is learn-by-doing.”

  “It sounded like the ratio of ‘learn’ to ‘do’ is… heavily skewed.”

  Ahmad shrugged like I’d complained about the weather. “It’s fine. You won’t die.”

  My soul tried to leave my body. “That is a flag. I have watched so many simulations where someone says ‘You won’t die’ and then—”

  “Simulation is simulation.”

  “I mean reality is worse!”

  Genichiro coughed once, like he was trying not to laugh. “She’s not wrong.”

  Ahmad continued anyway, relentless.

  “GDC’s request is simple on paper: confirm the artifact, confirm the ruin’s condition, and transmit a preliminary report within twenty-four hours.”

  “Twenty-four hours?” My voice cracked. “That’s not a lot of time.”

  “It’s why the pay is decent,” Genichiro said, finally participating. “They’re buying speed.”

  “Pay?” My brain latched onto the one word that sounded like safety.

  Ahmad flicked another tab. Numbers appeared. Too many zeros, and the kind of bonus note that always hid teeth.

  BASE PAY: HIGHBONUS: CONDITIONALCLAUSE: NONDISCLOSURE****CLAUSE: RESTRICTED CONTACT

  “Restricted… contact?” I read aloud, and instantly regretted having eyes.

  Ahmad nodded once. “No outside comms once we enter the site. No broadcasting. No personal messages.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed. “That’s… normal?”

  “For Ancients finds,” he said. “Yes.”

  Genichiro leaned back, arms crossed. “Because if you leak coordinates, you get pirates. Or worse.”

  “Worse than pirates?”

  Genichiro pointed at the hologram. “Bureaucrats.”

  I made a small, strangled noise.

  Ahmad’s gaze sharpened. “Focus. Nardia, repeat your priority.”

  “…Observation,” I said. “And help if needed.”

  “And if something goes wrong?”

  I hesitated. The answer felt like a trap.

  “Then… I follow orders?”

  Ahmad’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not. “And you keep yourself alive. That’s not optional.”

  He said it so casually it landed harder.

  Then he tapped the panel off. Briefing complete. Conversation ended. Ahmad’s signature horror power: closure by momentum.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The ship launched cleanly—no drama, no alarms, nothing exploding (unfortunately). The hangar fell away, and the base became a bright, orderly patch of light swallowed by dark.

  We entered Striped-leap navigation and started chaining leaps.

  Stars stretched into thin lines outside the window, the universe turning into a long-exposure photograph. It looked like someone had taken a paintbrush made of light and dragged it through the void.

  It was more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen on any starship I’d been on.

  It was also absolutely not okay.

  Striped-leap was the kind of technology you accepted the same way you accepted gravity: by refusing to think too hard about it. The ship “slipped” into a thin, artificial subspace in space-time and let the current do the work—like riding a river you couldn’t see.

  Small ship. Big distance. Repeated jumps.

  When I’d been rescued on my home planet, I’d been too dazed to understand what kind of craft had even picked me up. Now that I did understand, a delayed fear crawled up my spine.

  Scary.

  Unfamiliar.

  I was going to heckle so much my throat would go raw—

  And yet.

  Everything was new, and my chest felt light, like it couldn’t contain itself.

  This was nothing like poking around ruins on my home world. This was space exploration, the kind my brother used to talk about like it was a bedtime myth.

  And now it was moving right in front of me.

  So close I almost felt like I could reach out and touch it.

  Genichiro’s voice interrupted my existential crisis. “If you’re done staring into space like it owes you money, come here.”

  “…What?”

  He jerked his thumb toward the maintenance bay. “You’re on observation duty, right? Then observe.”

  Ahmad didn’t object. Which meant it wasn’t optional.

  I stood, legs slightly unsteady from the ship’s vibration, and followed Genichiro.

  The moment the maintenance bay door slid open, I stopped breathing.

  Tools were piled like a junk mountain, cables ran in places cables had no right to be, and in the center of it all a smooth, mysterious sphere hovered—rising and sinking as if it were testing whether gravity could be negotiated with.

  “H-hi…? Wh-what is that?”

  “Test rig,” Genichiro said, as if this explained anything. “Self-repair nano. Don’t touch it.”

  I took one step back. “Why not?”

  “It’ll bite you.”

  “…Nanomachines bite people?”

  “‘Bite’ is… a metaphor.” He waved a hand. “It’ll dissolve part of your muscle. Probably.”

  My throat made a sound that shouldn’t exist. “That’s the worst metaphor!”

  “It’s accurate,” he replied. “Also, it’s not ‘nanomachines’ like magic dust. It’s a smart slurry. See the field ring?”

  He pointed at a narrow halo of emitters around the sphere—tiny nodes, each pulsing with a faint blue shimmer.

  “It keeps the self-repair swarm contained,” he said. “If it leaves the ring, it’ll look for the nearest thing to ‘repair.’”

  “…Which would be?”

  He looked at me. “Your arm.”

  I pulled my arm closer to my body like it was suddenly optional equipment.

  Genichiro continued, unfazed. “The Shiratori’s hull has microfractures after every mission. The swarm seals cracks. It’s faster than patchwork.”

  “That’s… amazing,” I admitted, then immediately recoiled. “Also terrifying.”

  “It’s both,” Genichiro said. “Welcome to Ancients-adjacent engineering.”

  I stared at the sphere as it bobbed gently in midair. It looked serene. It looked harmless. It looked like it had never eaten a trainee’s muscle in its life.

  “You said it regenerates,” I said.

  “It does,” he replied. “It also hurts a lot. Don’t test it.”

  “Regeneration is not the issue! The melting is the issue!”

  Genichiro made a vague sound of agreement. “That’s why you don’t touch it.”

  This room was absolutely not meant for trainees. Or humans. Or anything that valued keeping its flesh attached.

  Genichiro leaned against a tool cart, watching me with the tired patience of a man who’d already accepted the universe was absurd. “Still. Watch. You’ll be using this gear eventually.”

  “No. Absolutely not. I would like to keep my muscles where they are.”

  “It’s Ahmad’s order.”

  I spun toward the doorway like a trapped animal. “Ahmad—!”

  “Can hear you,” Ahmad said.

  He’d appeared in the entrance like he’d been waiting for the punchline. “Don’t run. Training.”

  “Your definition of training is heavy!”

  Ahmad’s expression didn’t change. “Builds character.”

  “That’s what villains say!”

  Genichiro snorted. Ahmad pretended not to hear it. The sphere continued to float like it was smug.

  Ahmad stepped closer, gaze flicking over the emitters. “Genichiro. Status.”

  “Stable,” Genichiro said. “Field’s clean. Swarm’s contained.”

  “Good.” Ahmad looked at me. “Observation: what are the hazards?”

  I stared at the sphere, then at the field ring, then at the warning placard on the wall.

  DO NOT ENTER FIELD DURING ACTIVE CYCLE****ORGANIC MATERIAL: PROHIBITED

  “Uh…” I forced my brain to stop screaming and start thinking. “The containment ring is the only thing stopping the swarm from… ‘repairing’ the nearest organic matter. So you don’t cross the boundary during active cycle.”

  Ahmad nodded once. “Correct.”

  Genichiro shrugged. “See? She can learn.”

  “Under duress,” I said.

  “That’s still learning,” Ahmad replied, like he was proud of the suffering.

  I decided I hated all adventurers.

  Then I remembered I was becoming one.

  We returned to the passenger room. The stars were still streaking past, calm and indifferent.

  That’s when Ahmad sat down in the seat beside mine.

  His presence changed the air. Not louder—just… steadier.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “…Yeah,” I admitted. “But it’s not the bad kind of nervous.”

  “Good answer.”

  He smiled—small, quick—and for a rare moment he closed his eyes like he was taking a breath instead of calculating five steps ahead.

  Quiet Ahmad was weirdly rare.

  Then he spoke again, eyes still half-lidded.

  “Your brother told me something,” he said. “Said, ‘My little sister’s tougher than she looks. Once she’s in the field, she’ll surprise you.’”

  My throat tightened. “He said that…?”

  Ahmad opened one eye. “So far, your heckling accuracy is certainly impressive.”

  “Why is that my performance metric?!”

  “It matters,” Ahmad said, straight-faced. “Adventurers need the strength to endure unreasonable situations.”

  “He just called it unreasonable—!”

  Ahmad’s laugh was quiet, but it hit like a warm tap on the shoulder—you’re here, you’re part of this, you’re not alone.

  It made me happy.

  Which made me mad.

  And while I was still processing that emotional betrayal—

  Ping.

  A soft alert chimed through the ship.

  The AI spoke, calm as a lullaby.

  “We have dropped out of leap near the sixth planet, Veshild, of the Toomlam system. Entering Veshild orbital route.”

  Genichiro’s head lifted. “That was fast.”

  Ahmad’s posture shifted. His voice dropped low, the joking edge disappearing like a switch had flipped.

  “Alright. Get ready. From here on, it’s not ‘training.’ It’s a mission.”

  A weight settled deep in my chest—fear, excitement, responsibility, all compressed into one solid point.

  “…Yes!”

  I was taking another step forward.

  Even if I screamed. Even if I heckled. Even if my knees wanted to wobble.

  I’d still face it with my head up.

  The shuttle began its approach, and the window filled with Veshild, and the ash-gray moon wrapped in thin bands of cloud, like it was trying to hide its face.

  And then the AI spoke again—same voice, same tone… except for one tiny wrongness.

  “Caution. Unregistered signal detected.”

  The words were normal. The pause after them wasn’t.

  Ahmad’s eyes opened fully. “Repeat.”

  The AI replied immediately.

  “Unregistered signal detected. Source: surface. Strength: low. Pattern: irregular.”

  Genichiro straightened. “That wasn’t in the brief.”

  Ahmad didn’t answer. He tapped the panel, pulled up the sensor feed, and his gaze went very still.

  A thin line of static crawled across the readout, like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to us.

  My mouth went dry.

  “Uh,” I whispered, because my brain couldn’t find a better word. “Is that… bad?”

  Ahmad’s voice stayed calm. Too calm.

  “It’s information,” he said. “And information changes missions.”

  He glanced at me.

  “Trainee,” he said, “remember what I told you.”

  “Observation,” I answered, automatically.

  “And staying alive.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Outside the window, Veshild’s moon rotated slowly, indifferent.

  On the console, the unregistered signal pulsed again—irregular, stubborn, like something down there was tapping on the inside of a coffin.

  Then the AI added one more line, softly, as if it didn’t want to be heard.

  “Note: signal matches no known human or GDC template.”

  I felt my heart give one hard, cold beat.

  Ahmad’s hand hovered over the descent controls.

  “Alright,” he said. “We go in.”

  Genichiro exhaled. “Of course we do.”

  And my inner heckler, very helpfully, chose that moment to whisper:

  This is where the story stops being a dream.

  And starts being a survival report.