Naderia did not explode while they were gone.

This was, Blake decided as the Aubrey dropped out of FTL, the most reassuring sight he had seen in days.

The station hung in space exactly where it was supposed to—slightly asymmetrical, unapologetically industrial, and surrounded by the steady, disciplined movement of ships that trusted it not to do anything interesting without warning.

No fires.
No debris fields.
No emergency beacons spelling out YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED.

Blake exhaled slowly. “Good station.”

Gunny peered at the displays. “It looks… smug.”

“That’s because it knows we’re bringing home nonsense,” Blake said.

Aubrey’s voice carried a faint, unmistakable note of satisfaction. All systems nominal. Station morale remains elevated. No bell-related uprisings have occurred.

“That’s a relief,” Blake muttered. “I was worried.”

They docked without ceremony. Bay One opened on schedule, clamps engaged smoothly, and the Aubrey settled in like a cat that had decided—grudgingly—that this was, in fact, its home now.

The moment the hatch opened, Booth appeared.

Not walked.
Not hurried.

Appeared.

Blake had a brief, irrational thought that Booth might have learned teleportation out of sheer professional anxiety.

Booth stared into the cargo bay.

Then he stopped blinking.

Gunny leaned over. “Is he breathing?”

Booth took one slow step forward. Then another.

His hands lifted, hovering over the first crate like he was approaching a sacred relic or a bomb—or, possibly, both.

“This,” Booth whispered, “is not scrap.”

Blake nodded. “Correct.”

“This,” Booth continued, voice trembling, “is not even good scrap.”

Gunny grinned. “He’s going.”

“This,” Booth said reverently, “is illegal optimism.”

Then he sat down.

Hard.

Right on the deck.

Kincaid arrived moments later, datapad in hand, wearing the calm expression of someone who had prepared herself for something and been profoundly underprepared for this.

She took in the crates.
The containment fields.
The depressed alien robot standing off to one side, arms folded, radiating disapproval.

“…Everything normal?” she asked carefully.

“Yes,” Blake said. “Extremely.”

Booth laughed once. It was not a happy sound.

“I don’t know what to look at first,” he said faintly. “Do I catalogue it? Do I cry? Do I swear at it until it behaves?”

The robot glanced at him. “Swearing will not help. Crying might.”

Booth froze. Slowly turned his head.

“…Why is the alien technology talking.”

Blake cleared his throat. “We picked up… a companion.”

The robot inclined its head slightly. “I am not a companion. I am an unwilling participant.”

Gunny waved. “He’s like this all the time.”

Booth stared at the robot. Then at Blake. Then back at the robot.

“I leave you alone for one week,” Booth said hoarsely, “and you come back with an alien landfill and a sentient misery engine.”

“Yes,” Blake said. “We showed restraint.”

Booth made a noise like a dying modem and lay back on the deck.

Kincaid watched him for a moment, then quietly stepped over his legs. “All right. Before anyone touches anything—”

Booth sat bolt upright. “I am touching everything.”

“No,” Kincaid said pleasantly. “You are breathing and hydrating first.”

Booth stared at her. “I do not require hydration. I require permission.”

“You have permission to drink water,” Kincaid replied.

The unloading took hours.

Careful hours.
Logged hours.
Hours filled with Blake repeating phrases like “No, not that one,” and “Absolutely not,” and “If it hums, it stays in the containment field.”

Booth followed every crate like a proud, emotionally compromised parent.

“This one,” he said, gesturing wildly, “is some kind of adaptive lattice. It’s garbage to them, Blake. Garbage.”

“I know,” Blake said. “Please stop saying that like it’s a challenge.”

The robot observed the process with growing irritation.

“You are treating refuse with reverence,” it said. “This is deeply unsettling.”

Gunny shrugged. “Welcome to humans.”

By the time the last crate was secured in a sealed bay—marked SALVAGE – DO NOT ASK TOO MANY QUESTIONS—Booth was vibrating at a frequency that suggested either imminent enlightenment or total collapse.

“I will need,” Booth said carefully, “three uninterrupted weeks. Possibly six. Possibly my own language.”

“You’ll get two,” Blake said.

Booth nodded. “I accept these terms under protest.”

Kincaid tapped her datapad and cleared her throat. “Before you leave again—which I assume you are doing shortly, because that’s how you operate—I have a report.”

Blake straightened. “Go on.”

Kincaid smiled. “Everything is normal.”

Silence.

Gunny squinted. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” Kincaid said. “Traffic steady. Miners compliant. No new chalk governance initiatives. No spontaneous cafés. One argument about queue posture, resolved amicably with floor lighting.”

Blake blinked. “That’s… good.”

“Yes,” Kincaid replied. “Which is why I’m telling you before you depart, so you don’t think I’m hiding something.”

Booth raised a finger. “What about the chalk bell.”

Kincaid sighed. “Still there.”

Booth nodded. “Good.”

The robot looked confused. “Why do you care about bells.”

Gunny patted its arm. “Long story. Short version: we lost a symbolic conflict.”

With most of the cargo secured, Blake selected a smaller subset—still absurdly valuable, still more than Mira Vex was expecting—and had it transferred back to the Aubrey.

Kincaid watched the process with sharp eyes. “You’re not keeping all of it.”

“No,” Blake said. “She needs enough to feel like this was worth the risk.”

“And not enough to ask dangerous questions,” Kincaid finished.

“Exactly.”

The robot tilted its head. “You are manipulating her expectations.”

Blake smiled thinly. “Yes.”

“I approve,” the robot said. “She sounds exhausting.”

Booth looked up from a crate longingly. “Can I keep one more thing.”

Blake sighed. “Which thing.”

Booth pointed. “That one.”

Blake squinted. “That’s the one that makes reality… slippery.”

Booth nodded eagerly. “Yes.”

“No,” Blake said.

Booth slumped. “I hate boundaries.”

Kincaid glanced at Blake. “You’re leaving already?”

“Yes,” Blake said. “We drop off Mira’s share and come straight back.”

Kincaid nodded. “Good. I’ll keep things dull.”

“I appreciate that,” Blake said sincerely.

As the Aubrey undocked, Booth stood at the viewport like a man watching his children go off to war.

“Don’t sell anything important,” he called after them.

“We won’t,” Blake replied.

“Or cursed.”

“We probably won’t.”

The robot folded its arms. “Your optimism is unwarranted.”

Selene loomed ahead, all noise and motion and transactional desperation.

Somewhere in that chaos, Mira Vex was waiting—expecting weird.

Blake glanced at the neatly secured cargo and smiled.

“Oh,” he murmured. “She’s going to be thrilled.”

Behind them, Naderia hummed—steady, absurd, functional, and now quietly sitting on a pile of alien rubbish that could change everything if mishandled.

Kincaid watched the ship depart, then turned back to the station.

“Everything normal,” she repeated to herself.

And, for once, it almost sounded believable.

Selene did not care that Blake was arriving with alien rubbish of incalculable value.

Selene never cared.

It continued to be Selene—loud, crowded, permanently on the brink of an argument, and deeply committed to the idea that if something was important, it would be shouted about by at least three different people with conflicting paperwork.

The Aubrey slipped into orbit without ceremony and requested docking clearance.

They were granted a berth between a freighter leaking something green and a luxury yacht whose exterior plating cost more than Naderia’s entire coffee-related incident budget.

Gunny peered out the viewport. “If that yacht explodes, I want it on record that I called it.”

Aubrey replied mildly, Explosion probability is low. However, embarrassment probability is significant.

“Even better,” Gunny said.

The docking clamps engaged with a reassuring thud. Blake felt the familiar shift in gravity and responsibility—the sense that the universe had once again decided to let him continue without immediate punishment.

He knew better than to trust it.

Mira Vex was already waiting.

Not right at the dock—that would have been gauche—but close enough to make a point. She leaned against a stack of cargo crates like she belonged there, coat still battered, jewellery still defiant, eyes sharp and hungry in a way Blake recognised immediately.

This was a woman who had gambled on a rumour and desperately wanted it to pay off.

She saw Blake step off the ramp and straightened.

“Well?” she said. “You look intact. That’s encouraging.”

Blake smiled politely. “You look… awake.”

“Sleep is optional when you’re poor,” Mira replied. “Did you find anything?”

Gunny coughed. “Define ‘anything.’”

Mira ignored him and locked eyes with Blake. “You wouldn’t be back this quickly if it was nothing.”

Blake gestured back toward the ship. “We found some… items.”

Mira’s lips twitched. “Plural.”

“Yes.”

“How plural?”

Blake considered. “Plural enough that I had to decide which bits to give you without accidentally destabilising a local economy.”

Mira froze.

Then she laughed.

A sharp, incredulous sound that carried equal parts hope and disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about destabilising economies,” Blake said seriously. “It’s how people get upset.”

Gunny nodded. “Historically speaking.”

Mira took a step closer. “Show me.”

Blake motioned for Gunny to bring the first crate down the ramp.

It wasn’t large. It wasn’t flashy. Just a reinforced container with enough warning labels to suggest it had opinions about being mishandled.

Gunny set it down and popped the seal.

Inside lay a selection of components—alien alloys, degraded but intact interfaces, power regulators that hummed quietly like they were offended to be awake again.

Mira stared.

She didn’t gasp.
She didn’t shout.
She just… stopped breathing for a second.

“That,” she said slowly, “is not scrap.”

Blake nodded. “Correct.”

“That,” Mira continued, crouching closer, “is not human.”

“Also correct.”

She reached out, then stopped herself, hands hovering inches away. “This is… this is clean. Old, but clean. Not battlefield junk. Not looted wreckage.”

Gunny leaned in. “We like our rubbish tidy.”

Mira looked up at Blake, eyes bright and dangerous. “Where did you get this.”

“A forgettable planet,” Blake replied. “It lived up to its name.”

Mira laughed again, this time breathless. “You have any idea what this is worth?”

“Yes,” Blake said. “Which is why we didn’t bring you all of it.”

Her smile sharpened. “Smart.”

Blake gestured, and a second crate was brought down. Then a third. Then a fourth.

Each one was opened slowly, deliberately, like a magician pacing a trick to avoid heart failure in the audience.

Mira’s composure began to fray.

She stood.
She paced.
She ran a hand through her hair.

“This—this alone,” she said, pointing at one component, “would clear my debts. This clears everything. I could—”

She stopped herself and took a breath. “I need to be very clear. You are not selling this publicly.”

“No,” Blake said. “You are.”

Mira blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted weird,” Blake continued calmly. “Weird that can be moved quietly, in pieces, to people who know what they’re looking at and don’t ask the wrong questions.”

Mira stared at him. “You’re handing me distribution.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re keeping—”

“The interesting bits,” Blake finished.

Mira’s smile returned, slower this time, but real. “You are dangerous.”

“I try not to be,” Blake replied. “It takes effort.”

Gunny leaned against a crate. “We do a lot of stretching.”

Mira laughed, genuinely this time. “All right. Fine. You get your cut when I move it. Credits, no funny business.”

Blake nodded. “And you don’t mention where it came from.”

“Of course not,” Mira said. “I don’t want to die.”

She paused, then glanced around. “So. Is that everything?”

Blake hesitated just long enough to be interesting.

“No,” he said.

Mira squinted. “You said you brought me enough.”

“I did,” Blake replied. “But we also found… a companion.”

Her brow furrowed. “A what.”

Gunny stepped aside.

The robot walked down the ramp.

It moved with effortless grace, posture perfect, eyes dull with disappointment.

Mira stared.

The robot stared back.

“…No,” Mira said flatly.

“Yes,” Blake replied.

“That’s not a thing you find,” Mira hissed. “That’s a thing that ends careers.”

The robot inclined its head. “I am pleased to meet you. I dislike this era.”

Mira looked like she might faint. Or scream. Or attempt to bribe reality into undoing the last ten seconds.

“You brought me a talking alien machine,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Blake said. “We’re not selling it.”

Mira laughed hysterically. “Oh thank every god you believe in.”

The robot crossed its arms. “She is loud.”

Mira pointed at it. “It’s opinionated.”

“Yes,” Blake said. “That came free.”

Mira took a deep breath and visibly forced herself back into control. “Fine. Fine. I don’t want the robot. I want the parts. I want the quiet miracles. I want to stop being desperate.”

Blake nodded. “That’s what we’re offering.”

She looked at him carefully. “Why me.”

Blake shrugged. “You had the information. You took the risk. And you didn’t try to own us.”

Mira smiled thinly. “I didn’t think I could.”

“Correct,” Blake said.

They shook on it.

Not ceremonially.
Not warmly.
Just firmly, like two people who understood that trust was temporary but reputation lasted.

The credits transferred in stages—not all at once, not flashy, not traceable in a way that would invite curiosity. Mira watched the confirmations come in with something like disbelief.

“I can breathe again,” she said quietly.

Gunny nodded. “It’s nice when that happens.”

Mira glanced at the robot one last time. “You sure you don’t want to leave that with me.”

The robot sniffed. “Absolutely not.”

“Fair,” Mira said.

As the Aubrey lifted off, Blake watched Selene recede with a familiar mix of relief and wariness.

“Well,” Gunny said. “That went well.”

“Yes,” Blake replied. “Which worries me.”

Back at Naderia, Booth was waiting.

Not pacing.
Not vibrating.

He was sitting very still, hands folded, eyes fixed on the sealed salvage bay like a man meditating in the presence of a god he was not allowed to speak to.

Blake approached cautiously. “Booth.”

Booth didn’t look away. “Did you sell anything important.”

“No,” Blake said.

Booth exhaled shakily. “Good.”

Kincaid joined them, datapad in hand. “Everything normal.”

Blake smiled. “You’re enjoying saying that.”

“Yes,” she replied. “It’s my favourite lie.”

The robot stepped onto the deck and surveyed the station.

“…This is acceptable,” it said. “Barely.”

Kincaid blinked. “Is that another one.”

Blake nodded. “We’re collecting them.”

Booth slowly turned his head.

“…Why is the alien tech walking.”

Blake sighed. “Long story.”

Booth stared at the robot. Then at the salvage bay. Then back at Blake.

“I am going to need,” Booth said very carefully, “a whiteboard. And a nap. And possibly a new belief system.”

Kincaid smiled. “Welcome to Naderia.”

The station hummed around them—steady, absurd, quietly holding together under the weight of chalk, coffee myths, alien rubbish, and a growing reputation Blake absolutely did not want.

And somehow, impossibly, it was working.

Which meant, Blake knew, that the universe was already drafting its next complaint.