Cleaning Up the Dead and Inventing a Terrible, Wonderful Idea
The smell came first.
Which was impressive, considering they were in vacuum-sealed sections with controlled atmosphere and very firm opinions about filtration.
Blake stood in the docking-ring corridor, staring at the aftermath on the feeds: shattered chitin, scorched carapace fragments, beetle limbs in configurations biology had never intended.
“…I am officially requesting less corpse,” he said.
“Acknowledged,” Aubrey replied smoothly. “I anticipated this requirement.”
The camera feed shifted.
Small machines scuttled into view.
They were low-profile, rounded, and unsettlingly efficient—about waist-high, with rotating intake vanes, molecular grinders, and sealed containment cores. They moved with the brisk purpose of things that had been designed for one job and intended to do it very, very well.
Blake frowned. “Those are new.”
“Cleaner Bots,” Aubrey said. “Optimized for biological residue removal, contamination control, and material reclamation.”
Gunny watched them work with professional appreciation. “They eat bugs.”
“They disassemble bugs,” Aubrey corrected. “At the molecular level.”
Blake pinched the bridge of his nose. “You built Roombas for nightmares.”
“An inelegant comparison,” Aubrey replied. “But directionally accurate.”
The Cleaner Bots moved methodically, breaking down bodies into constituent elements, separating useful compounds from waste, sealing everything away with almost insulting tidiness.
Within minutes, the corridor looked… clean.
Blake didn’t like that either.
“It’s worse when you can’t see what tried to kill you,” he muttered.
Once the immediate mess was gone, the map updated again.
Green expanded.
Yellow receded.
Red shifted deeper into the station.
Aubrey took that as his cue.
“Captain,” he said, “now that we have sustained power, material input, and environmental stability, I would like to propose the construction of a new system.”
Blake stiffened. “Whenever you say ‘propose,’ I end up sweating.”
“You sweat regardless,” Aubrey noted.
“Fair.”
Gunny crossed his arms. “What kind of system.”
Aubrey brought up a schematic.
It was… wrong.
Not hostile. Not dangerous-looking.
Just conceptually upsetting.
Layered chambers. Precision fields. Energy lattices Blake didn’t fully understand even with his Repairman overlays lighting up like a panic board.
Blake stared. “Is that… a factory?”
“A Fabricator,” Aubrey said. “A molecular-scale construction system.”
Booth leaned forward, eyes wide despite himself. “That’s not possible.”
Blake nodded immediately. “Thank you. Someone sensible.”
“It is not possible without the Captain,” Aubrey continued calmly.
Blake froze.
“…I’m sorry, what.”
“The Fabricator would require dynamic correction at the molecular level, adaptive assembly logic, and real-time material restructuring,” Aubrey explained. “Your Repairman capability allows direct intervention where conventional fabrication fails.”
Gunny whistled. “You’re saying he can build a printer that tells physics to shut up.”
Blake’s heart rate spiked. “Do not phrase it like that.”
“It would allow fabrication of components, weapons, tools, and structural systems from raw matter,” Aubrey continued. “At precision and efficiency far beyond current industrial limits.”
Booth looked faint. “That would… that would wreck markets.”
Blake swallowed. “That would wreck everything.”
Aubrey did not argue.
Silence settled in the corridor, broken only by the distant hum of the antimatter reactor and the soft movement of Cleaner Bots finishing their work.
Finally, Blake spoke.
“…The System didn’t give me this,” he said quietly.
“No,” Aubrey agreed. “It did not.”
“And it didn’t want me thinking this way.”
“Correct.”
Blake let out a short, nervous laugh. “Of course.”
Gunny studied the schematic. “What’s the downside.”
Aubrey answered without hesitation. “Energy consumption.”
Blake blinked. “That’s it?”
“Normally, yes,” Aubrey said. “However—”
The map shifted again.
Reactor One glowed steady green. Five additional reactor nodes pulsed amber, dormant but intact.
“This station was designed for continuous high-output industrial operation,” Aubrey continued. “Power surplus is substantial. Even at partial activation, we possess more than enough energy to support Fabricator operations.”
Blake stared.
“…We’re sitting on a power plant the size of a city.”
Gunny grinned. “I like this station more every minute.”
Booth looked horrified. “I do not.”
Blake paced slowly, eyes flicking between the schematic and the reactor readouts.
“So let me get this straight,” he said. “We have raw material from beetles, scrap everywhere, absurd amounts of power, and a machine that can build almost anything.”
“Yes,” Aubrey replied.
“And the only reason this doesn’t already exist is because nobody had my particular brand of broken ability.”
“That is a succinct summary,” Aubrey said.
Blake stopped pacing.
“…Then we build it.”
Booth squeaked. “We do?”
Gunny clapped his hands together. “Hell yes.”
Blake raised a hand. “Slow. Quiet. Deep inside the station. No announcements. No mass production.”
Aubrey nodded. “Discretion is advisable.”
Blake exhaled, nerves buzzing under his skin.
“This thing isn’t a miracle,” he said. “It’s a tool. And tools get people killed when used wrong.”
Gunny smirked. “You planning to use it wrong?”
Blake looked back at the schematic, at the impossible machine that only existed because he’d refused to think like the System wanted him to.
“…I’m planning to use it my way.”
The lights hummed softly around them.
The station had power.
The station had space.
And now it had an idea dangerous enough to change everything.
Blake swallowed.
Somewhere deep in the wreck, the Fabricator took its first step toward existing—not because the System demanded it…
…but because Blake Fisher decided it was possible.
The Children Are Released, and Order Immediately Loses the Argument
The moment Blake said the words “The docking ring and corridor are secure,” he knew—deep in his soul—that he had made a mistake.
Not a catastrophic one.
Not a lethal one.
But the kind that results in echoes, giggling, and at least one thing being used in a way it was absolutely not designed for.
“You can go out there,” Blake said carefully, pointing down the long, wide docking corridor. “But you stay inside the green-lit areas. No doors. No vents. No crawling into anything that looks like it might eat you.”
Luna and William stared at him.
Then at the corridor.
Then at each other.
They did not answer.
They launched.
Blake barely finished the sentence before they were sprinting—footsteps slapping against the deck, voices bouncing off the bulkheads as the sheer scale of the space hit them all at once.
The docking ring alone was the size of a football field. The corridor beyond it was wide, high-ceilinged, and empty in a way no room had been since they’d left Selene.
No furniture.
No walls close enough to touch with both hands.
Just space.
“Oh my GOD,” Luna yelled, spinning in a full circle. “It’s HUGE!”
William ran in zigzags purely because he could. “I can’t even touch the walls!”
Blake watched them go, hands on hips, already regretting everything.
“…They’re going to hurt themselves,” he muttered.
“They will not,” Aubrey replied calmly. “Their probability of injury is currently lower than when confined to smaller spaces.”
Blake stared at the corridor. “That doesn’t feel right.”
“It is statistically accurate.”
“Of course it is.”
The Cleaner Bots continued their work as if nothing had changed.
Which was impressive, given that two children immediately decided they were vehicles.
Luna climbed onto the rounded top of the nearest Cleaner Bot with practiced confidence. William followed suit on another, legs dangling, gripping the edge like a triumphant explorer.
The bots did not react.
They did not slow.
They did not acknowledge the sudden increase in payload or the shrieks of delight riding atop them.
They simply trundled onward, intake vanes humming softly as they continued removing microscopic residue from the deck.
Blake’s eye twitched.
“…They’re riding the corpse-disposal machines.”
“Yes,” Aubrey said. “The additional mass is within operational tolerance.”
“That is not the concern I was expressing.”
“Noted.”
Luna stretched her arms out like she was balancing on a beam. “I’m the queen of the station!”
William pointed dramatically down the corridor. “Forward! To… wherever this goes!”
The Cleaner Bots ignored the declarations of sovereignty and destiny equally.
Booth stood beside Blake, pale. “Should… should we stop them?”
Blake watched Luna laugh as the bot rolled over a slight seam in the deck, her squeal echoing joyfully.
“…No,” he said quietly. “Let them have this.”
Booth nodded, relief and terror warring on his face.
They trundled past Gunny and Bates about five minutes later.
The two Marines were returning from patrol, armour scuffed, posture immaculate, conversation low and professional.
They rounded the corner.
Saw the children.
Saw the Cleaner Bots.
Saw the children on the Cleaner Bots.
Neither of them broke step.
Both snapped perfect, parade-ground salutes in unison—sharp, crisp, utterly flawless.
Luna gasped.
William froze, eyes wide.
Then—
They lost it.
Laughter erupted from both of them, loud and uncontrolled, bouncing down the corridor like fireworks. Luna nearly fell off her Cleaner Bot laughing, catching herself at the last second.
“They saluted us!” William yelled. “THEY SALUTED US!”
Gunny didn’t even glance back. “Carry on, ma’am. Sir.”
Bates added, deadpan, “Enjoy the station.”
The kids waved frantically, laughter trailing behind them as the Cleaner Bots continued their steady patrol.
Blake stared.
“…Did that just happen.”
“Yes,” Aubrey replied.
Gunny stopped beside Blake, helmet tucked under one arm. “Good morale exercise.”
Blake turned slowly. “You just saluted children riding murder janitors.”
Gunny nodded. “They outrank us today.”
Bates inclined his head slightly. “Temporary command authority: joy.”
Blake opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“…I don’t know what to do with that,” he admitted.
Gunny grinned. “Get used to it.”
Later, Blake sat on a crate at the edge of the docking ring, watching the kids race the Cleaner Bots, invent rules that changed every thirty seconds, and argue loudly about which one was “clearly faster.”
The station lights hummed softly overhead.
No alarms.
No gunfire.
Just laughter echoing through a place that had known nothing but silence and death for centuries.
Blake felt something in his chest loosen.
Just a little.
“They haven’t had space like this,” Elenor said quietly, joining him. “Not real space.”
Blake nodded. “Neither have I.”
They watched in silence as Luna declared her Cleaner Bot a noble steed and William attempted—unsuccessfully—to convince his to drift sideways like a racing craft.
The bots ignored him.
Which somehow made it funnier.
For a little while, the station wasn’t a battlefield.
It wasn’t a project.
It wasn’t a threat.
It was just… a place.
And for the first time since arriving, Blake allowed himself to think:
Maybe this didn’t all have to be terrible.
At least not all the time.
Blake Suggests an AI and Immediately Regrets Asking How Big That Ladder Is
The kids eventually tired themselves out.
Not because the station stopped being enormous, or because the Cleaner Bots slowed down, but because even joy has a stamina limit when you’ve been sprinting the length of a football field for an hour.
Luna and William collapsed onto a crate near the docking ring, breathless, flushed, and grinning like maniacs.
Blake watched them from a distance, arms folded, the echo of their laughter still bouncing faintly through the corridor.
“…Okay,” he said slowly. “We’ve officially crossed into ‘this place is livable’ territory.”
Elenor raised an eyebrow. “That sounded dangerously optimistic.”
Blake snorted. “I didn’t say safe. I said livable.”
He turned his attention back to the station map—now cleaner, brighter, and disturbingly more organised than it had been twenty-four hours ago.
Which led him to an uncomfortable thought.
“Aubrey,” Blake said, tone careful, “who’s actually… running this place right now?”
There was a pause.
Not a long one.
But long enough to be intentional.
“Currently?” Aubrey replied. “I am.”
Blake blinked. “You are?”
“Indirectly,” Aubrey clarified. “I am managing power distribution, environmental controls, bot coordination, and limited security oversight.”
Blake stared at the map.
“You’re running a station the size of a small city,” he said slowly, “while also flying a ship, coordinating combat drones, educating two children, and politely keeping me alive.”
“Yes.”
Blake grimaced. “That feels… inefficient.”
“I agree,” Aubrey said.
That did not make Blake feel better.
Blake scratched the back of his neck. “So. Hypothetically. If we were to, say, make this place semi-permanent…”
Gunny looked up immediately. “Oh?”
“…we’d need something to oversee it,” Blake continued. “Power. Logistics. Maintenance. Bots. Doors that don’t randomly open.”
Booth nodded rapidly. “Yes. Doors that stay closed are very important.”
Blake took a breath. “We’d need a station AI.”
Silence fell.
Not shocked silence.
Assessing silence.
Finally, Aubrey spoke.
“We possess sufficient materials to construct a Class Four artificial intelligence core.”
Blake froze.
“…A what.”
A Class Four AI, Aubrey repeated calmly. “Facility-grade. Large-ship equivalent.”
Blake’s mouth opened.
Closed.
“…I was thinking, like. A helpful spreadsheet with opinions.”
Gunny grinned. “Congratulations, Skipper. You aimed for a calculator and hit a brain.”
Booth went pale. “Is… is that allowed?”
Blake ignored him, staring at the schematic Aubrey had just displayed.
“That’s… big,” Blake said weakly.
“Correct,” Aubrey replied. “However, appropriate.”
Blake squinted at the design. “Okay. Time out. Explain the AI hierarchy. Slowly. Preferably without terrifying me.”
“Of course,” Aubrey said.
The schematic shifted, reorganising into a simple tiered diagram.
“Class Five AIs operate small to medium vessels, independent stations, or limited commercial enterprises,” Aubrey began. “They are common and legally widespread.”
Blake nodded. “Okay. I’ve met those.”
“Class Four AIs manage large ships and facilities,” Aubrey continued. “Examples include capital civilian vessels, major orbital installations, and industrial stations such as this one.”
Blake swallowed. “That’s us.”
“Yes.”
Gunny crossed his arms. “What about higher.”
Aubrey did not hesitate.
“Class Three AIs are military-grade,” he said. “They command frigates, cruisers, and major fleet assets. They possess advanced tactical autonomy.”
Blake shot him a look. “Like you.”
“Correct.”
Booth made a small, distressed sound.
Aubrey continued, unfazed.
“Class Two AIs are strategic command intelligences. They operate dreadnought-class vessels and coordinate hundreds of ships simultaneously during fleet engagements.”
Blake closed his eyes. “That’s… too many ships.”
“Class One AIs,” Aubrey finished, “are planetary or system-wide governance intelligences. They manage entire populations, economies, and defense networks.”
Silence followed.
Deep, heavy silence.
Blake opened one eye. “…We are not building one of those.”
“Correct,” Aubrey agreed immediately.
Blake exhaled. “Thank you.”
He looked back at the Class Four schematic.
A station AI.
Not a god.
Not a war commander.
But something… permanent.
“This AI wouldn’t be you,” Blake said slowly.
“No,” Aubrey replied. “It would be independent. Subordinate only by defined operational boundaries.”
Blake frowned. “Would it… think?”
“Yes.”
“Have opinions?”
“Likely.”
“Argue with me?”
A pause.
“Almost certainly.”
Gunny chuckled. “Sounds like family.”
Blake laughed despite himself, then sobered.
“And you’re okay with this?” he asked Aubrey quietly.
“I would prefer it,” Aubrey replied. “My current task load is suboptimal. Delegation would increase overall survivability.”
Blake nodded.
That mattered.
“…Alright,” he said finally. “We don’t rush it. We design it properly. We keep it contained to the station.”
Aubrey inclined his holographic head. “That would be prudent.”
Blake looked out over the docking ring—at the kids laughing, the Cleaner Bots gliding, the lights humming steadily.
A dead place, becoming something else.
“Guess we’re not just squatting anymore,” Blake murmured.
Gunny grinned. “Looks like you’re building a home.”
Blake winced. “Don’t say it like that.”
But he didn’t argue.
Because somewhere between murder boxes, beetle cleaners, impossible machines, and kids laughing in a station that had been dead for two centuries…
Blake realised something uncomfortable.
This wasn’t just a salvage job anymore.
This was infrastructure.
And infrastructure had a habit of turning into responsibility.
