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AVA

I tighten the straps on my gloves one more time, not because they’re loose—but because my fingers won’t stop twitching.

The docking bay smells like scorched metal and ion grease.

The kind of scent that clings to your clothes and tells your skin you’re somewhere important.

Floodlights beam down in cold shafts, illuminating the flanks of the transport ship looming ahead of me like a sleeping beast. Its hull is gunmetal gray, every panel sharp and bolted with intent. No curves. No warmth. Just purpose.

This ship doesn’t care who I am. That’s good. Neither does anyone else here.

My boots hit the ramp with a sharp clang, and I tell myself not to flinch. Every step I take is measured, precise. No fidgeting. No hesitation. I’ve been rehearsing this walk in my bunk for days.

I belong here.

Even if every nerve in my body is screaming ‘prove it’.

A voice, sharp as a slap, cuts through the mechanical hiss of hydraulics.

“Junior Lieutenant Marlowe?”

I snap to attention. “Sir.”

Lieutenant Serix Vale steps out from a control panel to my right, his uniform immaculate, not a thread out of place.

He’s tall—taller than I expected—with shoulders like an IHC war statue and a jaw so sharp it could draw blood.

His silver insignia glints under the dock lights, and his face is carved from the same metal as the ship: cold, impersonal, and not here to be impressed.

“You’re late.”

I blink. “Sir, I arrived five minutes early.”

He raises one brow. It’s the only part of his face that moves. “You’re late to me.”

My lungs freeze. But I swallow the urge to defend myself and nod. “Yes, sir.”

He studies me like I’m a stats readout he doesn’t particularly like. “You’re here because Command says you scored high marks on simulation and theory. But this isn’t a console and a classroom. This is live transport. You screw up, people bleed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t care about your family name. I care that you follow protocol and don’t make me regret signing off on your clearance.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again, jaw tight.

A flick of his hand, and he turns. “Follow me.”

I do, trying not to let my eyes drift over the tech as we walk.

The ship’s inner corridor is narrower than I expected, claustrophobic.

Pipes line the ceiling like veins, pulsing with quiet coolant flow.

Warning panels blink red and amber in the corners of my vision.

Somewhere deep inside, engines whine to life.

We round a corner, and that’s when I feel it.

Not see. Feel.

Like a shift in pressure. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

The hallway widens into a sealed observation corridor, its far wall reinforced with thick transparent duraglass. And behind that glass—floating midair in a circular containment chamber—is something that doesn’t belong to this world.

The artifact.

I slow before I realize it. My boots drag a fraction of a second.

It hovers weightless, encased in a containment field.

No wires. No clamps. Just… suspended. A sphere of layered metal and stone—old and pitted—but pulsing with an internal glow that shifts colors in waves.

Purple. Then green. Then something I can’t name.

There’s no hum, no sound at all, but it still makes the skin on my arms rise like static.

My breath catches.

It’s beautiful.

And it’s wrong.

“Don’t stop,” Lieutenant Vale barks, not even turning.

I blink and force my legs back into motion. But I glance again—just once. The glow flickers, like it knows I’m watching.

“What is that?” I ask, voice low but not quite steady.

Vale’s footsteps don’t even hitch. “Precursor relic. Eyes front, Marlowe.”

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“And you won’t be seeing this one again if you have any common sense.”

I stare harder, trying to memorize every curve of it through the glass. “Why is it on a prisoner transport?”

He stops. Turns.

His eyes pin me to the floor. “You’re not cleared to ask that question.”

I press my lips together. Nod once.

He exhales through his nose, slow and disappointed. “This isn’t academy anymore, Junior Lieutenant. You don’t get points for curiosity. You follow orders, you keep your head down, and you stay the hell out of compartments with red warning panels. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

He studies me like he’s waiting for me to slip up again. Like I will.

Then he turns and keeps walking.

The glow from the artifact pulses once more, casting a ripple of color across the floor like a second shadow.

I tear my eyes away and follow him.

But the image stays burned behind my eyes like a brand.

He doesn’t speak again as we wind through another corridor, the hum of the ship growing louder, deeper, more alive with every step. A pressure change tells me we’re near the barracks deck—quarters, supply, and the nerve center for personnel too low-ranked to get private rooms.

When he gestures toward the crew hall and mutters, “You’ll find your rack listed on the rotation,” it’s clear our welcome tour is over.

I nod, sharp and clipped. “Understood, sir.”

Vale disappears into a side corridor without a backward glance.

The moment he’s gone, I let out a weighted breath. My muscles ache from how tightly I’ve been clenching every part of myself.

The crew quarters are a lot less polished than the rest of the ship.

Narrow bunks stacked like shelves, lockers jammed tight against the walls, and the tang of too many bodies in too little space.

I drop my gear on the top rack assigned to me and start the mental checklist: boots stowed, uniform crisp, weapons locked, spine straight.

Then the voice behind me—easy, light, uninvited.

“First mission?”

I don’t flinch. I’ve practiced that too.

When I turn, he’s leaning against the doorway like it’s his natural habitat—one boot crossed casually over the other, a protein bar half-unwrapped in his hand, and a grin like he’s seen enough to find everything amusing.

“Depends who’s asking,” I say, deadpan.

“Kyeen Marlo. Communications, Deck Two. And before you ask, yes, I’m probably the least intimidating person on this ship. But I’ve got great aim and even better gossip, so people tolerate me.”

I stare.

He raises both brows. “You’ve got that new-transfer look. Fresh boots, sharper edges. Not a smudge on that badge. You’re either going to be a war hero or punch me in the face for saying that.”

“I could do both.”

He whistles, low and appreciative. “All right, Lieutenant Marlowe. I see you.”

“Don’t.”

That slows him. “Don’t what?”

“See me. Talk to me. Assume things.”

The smile falters just slightly, like I surprised him. He nods once, more serious. “Got it.”

I exhale and turn back to the locker, palms flat against the cool steel.

Why am I like this?

It’s not his fault I don’t trust anyone. It’s just that… every time someone has acted nice before, it’s turned out to be a setup. Or a test. Or a trap.

So I keep my walls high. And reinforced. And electrified.

“You’ll want to hit the mess before we launch,” he says behind me, quieter now. “After that, it’s just ration packs and regret.”

I nod but don’t look back.

He leaves without another word.

The silence he leaves behind is louder than his voice.

I stay in the crew quarters until the lights dim to pre-jump cycle. Most of the others have filtered out by now—heading to stations or crashing in for whatever sleep they can steal before launch. I need neither.

The locker hums softly under my fingertips as I press it closed, more from habit than necessity. Everything’s packed, locked, secured. I’ve done all I can to look like I belong.

But belonging was never the problem.

It’s believing that I do.

I slip out into the corridor without a sound. My boots move softer now, more sure, like I’ve learned the ship’s rhythm in just a few hours. Truth is, it feels more like I’ve learned to stay out of the way.

At the far end of the corridor, past a sealed galley and two locked doors marked “Crew Only,” is a small viewing alcove—one of those architectural afterthoughts that serves no real function other than aesthetics.

A slice of duraglass stretches from floor to ceiling, revealing the stars outside like a wound in the ship’s skin.

I lean against the edge of the frame, arms folded tight, eyes fixed on the void.

Out here, there’s no sound. No judgment. No gravity to hold your failures against you. Just lightyears of silence and the occasional flicker of something ancient and burning.

I’ve looked at the stars my whole life—through binoculars on a rusted balcony, from behind reinforced academy windows, on a cracked data slate with a too-dim screen. But it’s never been like this.

They’re real here.

Close enough to believe they might touch you back if you reached.

“Ten minutes to jump,” a voice says over the comm, static fuzzing the edges.

The ship groans faintly, pressure shifting as thrusters align. I watch one of the docking clamps detach, slow and methodical. My reflection in the glass is pale, ghostly, like I’m not quite part of the ship I’m standing in.

Like I’m still trying to earn my way on board.

I think of my family—what’s left of it. The whispers. The disgrace. The way people still look at the name “Marlowe” like it’s something to be pitied. Or punished.

But they won’t find any pity here. Not on this ship.

That’s the point.

I rest my head against the glass and whisper, “Don’t screw this up.”

The stars don’t answer.

But they don’t turn away either.