It was the day after Verlin had passed the mothership schematics test, He looked at the stats of the supposed improvements in Coratian technology with bewilderment. "This is impossible."

Thessa's luminescence pulsed. "What do you mean?"

"The scale of advancement," Verlin said, still staring at the data. "Going from the mothership design I just assembled to this—" he gestured at the holographic projections showing current Coratian capabilities, "—that kind of improvement would take centuries. Millennia, even. You don't just leap forward like this in eight years."

"I agree completely," Thessa said. Her shimmer brightened with what seemed like validation. "The progression is... unnatural. We've been trying to understand it for years."

She moved closer to the display, her elongated fingers manipulating the holographic interface to bring up a timeline.

"The Coratian Empire seemed to have gone through some kind of internal conflict roughly six years ago," she said. "Intelligence reported disruptions in their command structure, unusual fleet movements, communication blackouts in several sectors. And then, shortly after that conflict resolved, their technological capabilities catapulted forward."

Verlin studied the timeline. Six years ago. Two years after the mothership crashed on Earth.

"What type of internal conflict?" he asked.

Thessa's shimmer dimmed slightly. "We're not sure. All the intelligence assets we had close to high-ranking Coratian authority were cut off soon after the conflict began. Communications went dark. Operatives stopped reporting. We lost our entire intelligence network within their territory in a matter of weeks."

She paused, then added, "We've been operating blind ever since."

Verlin processed that. A sudden internal conflict, followed by a complete intelligence blackout, followed by impossible technological advancement. 

Something had changed. Something fundamental.

'Was it Radae?' Verlin thought to himself, 'No, Radae should be dead.'

Thessa turned away from the display, her attention shifting back to Verlin.

"How did you manage to capture a Coratian mothership?" she asked.

"Gamma radiation," Verlin said. "A lot of it."

Thessa's luminescence pulsed rapidly—surprise, or perhaps disbelief.

"You're saying you managed to overpower a mothership's radiation shielding?" she said. "What type of weapon was that?"

"A powerful one," Verlin replied evenly.

There was a pause. Thessa studied him, her shimmer flickering with what might have been calculation.

Then she asked another question. "Did the mothership attack alone?"

"What makes you say that?" Verlin asked.

"The model of mothership was state-of-the-art, as you mentioned," Thessa said. "Normally something like that would be tested in active combat theaters, not deployed to some backwater planet. No offense."

"None taken," Verlin said. "But you're right. There were four other motherships that attacked alongside it."

Thessa's shimmer brightened sharply. "Five motherships. Against a technologically inferior civilization."

"Yes."

"Were those taken down with gamma radiation as well?"

Verlin thought for a second. If he said he'd rammed into four motherships while moving hundreds of times faster than the speed of light, he would sound insane. The Coalition would think he was delusional or lying.

"We had a weapon that could automatically track the motherships while moving at near-light speed," he said carefully.

Thessa's luminescence pulsed in a complex pattern. "Near-light speed tracking and engagement. Interesting."

Verlin could tell she didn't fully believe him.

"Do you think you'll be able to recreate that technology?" Thessa asked.

"With enough time, I'm certain I could, but—"

"You don't have to worry about that," Thessa interrupted, her shimmer brightening. "If your technology proves effective, you'll be greatly rewarded by the Coalition. Resources, personnel, whatever you need."

Not what I was worried about, but whatever, Verlin thought.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the door to the room suddenly irised open.

The being that walked through was covered in sleek black feathers that seemed to absorb the light around them, creating an almost void-like appearance. Large, intelligent eyes sat above a narrow, beak-like facial structure. The feathers ruffled slightly as the figure moved into the chamber.

Kellis.

This was the first time Verlin was making direct contact with them.

"Thessa," Kellis said, their voice smooth but carrying an edge of curiosity. "Would you mind if I had a word with Verlin?"

Thessa's luminescence pulsed once—acknowledgment. She gestured with one elongated hand, signifying she didn't mind.

Kellis turned to Verlin, those large eyes fixing on him with unsettling focus.

"I took some time to look at the notes you documented," Kellis said. "They're... incomplete. Severely lacking in detail."

The black feathers ruffled slightly, a sign of what might have been disappointment or frustration.

"The entries on human anatomy are surface-level at best. The cultural descriptions are fragmented. The historical timeline has gaps spanning centuries. And the biological diversity documentation barely scratches the surface of what must have been a complex ecosystem."

Verlin's jaw tightened slightly.

"I've had some issues with my memory," he said. "It's not what it used to be. I'll be able to produce a more comprehensive version in due time."

Kellis's large eyes studied him for a moment, then the feathers settled.

"Acknowledged," Kellis said. "Memory degradation is not uncommon in traumatic survivors. Take the time you need."

A pause.

"However, that's not the primary reason I came to speak with you."

Kellis moved closer, those intelligent eyes never leaving Verlin's face.

"I couldn't help but be intrigued by the supposed cause of extinction," Kellis continued. "You noted the cause of extinction of nearly—if not all—life on Earth as 'god.'"

The scholar let the words settle for a moment before continuing.

"Would you mind elaborating on that?"

Thessa spoke up before Verlin could respond. "Verlin, don't tell me you actually believe gods exist. That's an old fallacy made to control primitive societies."

Verlin was silent for a moment.

Then he spoke.

"That's what I thought too," he said evenly. "That was before I read about it in confidential Coratian records. Before I saw one with my own eyes."

He looked directly at Thessa, then at Kellis.

"So asking me if I believe in gods is ridiculous. You dont choose to believe gravity exists, it simply does."

The chamber fell silent.

Thessa's luminescence dimmed, her shimmer flickering with what might have been skepticism—or concern.

Kellis's feathers settled into their light-absorbing state, those large eyes studying Verlin with renewed intensity.

"You're saying you've encountered a divine entity," Kellis said carefully. "Directly."

"Yes."

"And this entity caused the planetary extinction."

Verlin hesitated. The lie he'd told during interrogation had been simpler—just let them believe Radae did everything. But now, with Kellis asking specific questions for documentation purposes, the truth became more complicated.

"The god was there," Verlin said. "I'm not completely sure what happened. The last thing I remember was the anger I felt towards it, and my body responding to that anger. Then I went unconscious. That's all."

He turned to Thessa. "Can we continue this another time?"

The constant talk about Earth and Radae had started to irritate him.

Thessa's luminescence pulsed once—understanding, perhaps. "Sure. Next time we'll be working in collaboration with a team of specialists."

Verlin nodded before making his way toward the exit.

But Kellis moved to block his path.

"I'm sorry, but that explanation of the death of over a billion sentient beings and millions of species is very unsatisfactory."

Verlin stopped and looked directly into Kellis's eyes.

"Listen—" Verlin paused, thinking of what to identify them as.

"Kellis," Kellis responded.

"Listen, Kellis. I'm not sure what sort of ambiguous sense of injustice you're feeling. But I nearly died trying to protect that planet and its inhabitants. My friends, and those I considered family, died for the sake of that planet. Anything that meant something to me is now gone."

Verlin's voice remained level, but there was an edge to it now.

"The anger and sadness you feel for Earth cannot compare with mine."

He didn't wait for a response as he walked past Kellis toward the door.

Kellis's feathers ruffled sharply, but they stepped aside.

The door irised open.

Verlin walked through, the three dark purple constructs immediately falling into formation around him—one behind, two beside. Their weapon systems hummed softly, tracking his movements as they escorted him down the crystalline corridor.

Behind him, in the chamber, Thessa and Kellis stood in silence.

Kellis's feathers slowly settled back into their light-absorbing state.

"Do you still think he's the cause?" Thessa asked.

Kellis's large eyes remained fixed on the closed door.

"The emotional response was genuine," Kellis said quietly. "But he's still suspicious. It feels like he's leaving details out."

Thessa's shimmer pulsed. "Well, whatever you think, I suggest you stop antagonizing him. With his knowledge, when we return to Coalition command, his status will be much grander than it is right now."

Kellis turned to face Thessa, feathers ruffling sharply.

"Does the death of a planet not matter to you?" Kellis asked. "Trillions of living beings snuffed out of their potential, and the only proof of their existence is a flimsy, incomplete archive."

Thessa's luminescence remained steady.

"Like you said," Thessa replied. "The planet is dead. The species are extinct. Whether some god killed them or he did—what changes?"

Kellis stood in stunned silence for a moment, feathers flaring.

"You know what, sometimes I can't stand you."

Thessa's shimmer didn't dim. "That's unfortunate. Now if you would excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."

She walked past Kellis toward the door, her elongated form moving with fluid grace.

The door irised open. Thessa stepped through without looking back.

Kellis remained alone in the chamber, surrounded by holographic projections of Coratian technology.

Those large eyes stared at the spot where Verlin had stood moments before.

Verlin walked through the crystalline corridors of the ship, flanked by the three dark purple constructs.

He was irritated. Annoyed.

And he wasn't even sure why.

He should be appreciative that Kellis cared about Earth. That someone wanted more information, wanted to preserve what had been lost. Wanted justice, or at least answers.

Maybe it was the constant questioning that irked him. The doubt. The suspicion that he was hiding something—which, of course, he was.

Or maybe it was just hearing about it again. Talking about Earth. About the extinction. About what he'd done.

He wasn't sure.

So, like everything else he had uncertainty about, he pushed it down and focused on what was in front of him.

The corridor stretched ahead, illuminated by bioluminescent veins pulsing through the walls. The constructs maintained their precise formation—one behind, two beside—their weapon systems humming softly.

With his upgraded position, he was now allowed access to most areas of the ship. He'd still be continuously monitored, of course. The constructs would follow him everywhere. But it provided extra degrees of freedom he hadn't had before.

He could move. Explore. Learn the layout of this massive vessel.

The corridor opened into a wider junction. Verlin paused, looking down the various passages branching off in different directions.

"What's down there?" he asked, gesturing to the leftmost corridor.

One of the constructs responded, its voice synthesized and mechanical. "Medical research laboratories. Restricted access for biological studies."

Verlin nodded and continued forward down the central passage.

They passed several sealed doors. Verlin pointed at one with complex geometric patterns etched into its surface.

"And that?"

"Engineering section. Propulsion system maintenance."

Another door, this one with a faint blue glow emanating from the edges.

"That one?"

"Data archive. Coalition intelligence records."

Verlin filed that away mentally. Might be useful later.

They walked for several more minutes, descending gradually into what seemed to be a lower deck. The temperature dropped slightly—still warm by most standards, but cooler than the sections he'd been in before.

The corridor widened into a more open area. Several doors lined the walls, each marked with symbols Verlin didn't recognize.

He was about to ask about another section when he suddenly halted.

The constructs stopped immediately, weapons systems adjusting their tracking parameters.

Verlin stood completely still, staring at a door about thirty meters ahead on the right side of the corridor.

It looked no different from the others. Same crystalline material. Same geometric patterns. Same sealed interface.

But something about it—

"What's behind that door?" Verlin asked, not taking his eyes off it.

One of the constructs responded. "That room is a habitat for an endangered plant species from planet Rhoda."

"I see," Verlin said absently.

He didn't know how he could tell.

But behind that door was yellow sunlight.

His entire being oriented toward that door like a compass needle finding north.

He could break through. The constructs couldn't stop him—not really. Even weakened, he was still faster, stronger, more durable than their weapons could handle in close quarters.

He could reach the sunlight. Absorb what he could. Then smash through the hull and escape into space.

But what if the habitat light wasn't enough?

Simulated starlight for plants—filtered, weakened, maybe the wrong spectrum entirely. What if he absorbed it and still couldn't survive the vacuum?

Then he'd die. Floating in orbit around the dead planet he'd destroyed. Having thrown away his only chance at reaching a real sun.

The gamble wasn't worth it.

Not yet.

"Could I step into the room?" Verlin asked, keeping his voice level.

The constructs' weapon systems hummed slightly louder.

"Negative," one of them responded. "The plant species within are extremely delicate and require a strictly controlled environment. Physical interaction is prohibited. Virtual viewing is available if you wish to observe."

Verlin stood silent for a moment longer, still staring at the door.

Then he nodded. "I understand."

There was no rush.

Now that he knew where it was, he could find the room again.

When the time was right. When he had a better plan. When the odds weren't a coin flip between survival and death.

"I'd like to continue exploring," Verlin said, turning away from the door.

The constructs adjusted their formation, and they continued down the corridor.

But Verlin memorized every detail. Every turn. Every corridor marker. Every distance.

He knew where the sunlight was now.

Three Weeks Later

The next weeks were filled with analytical work.

Verlin spent hours each day in laboratories and briefing rooms, surrounded by Coalition engineers and researchers. He explained Coratian propulsion systems. Demonstrated shield matrix configurations. Walked them through energy distribution pathways and weapon platform designs.

The Coalition members—Draeknith, Kyral, Quellan, Vorrn, Ulari, and species Verlin still couldn't identify—listened intently, took extensive notes, asked detailed questions.

Thessa supervised most sessions, her luminescence brightening whenever Verlin explained something the Coalition had been unable to decipher on their own.

During his spare time—what little he had—he returned to his quarters and worked on the Earth documentation.

At this time, the ship had already departed from the Earth's solar system and entered a new one

Verlin stood at a viewport in the observation deck, staring out at the unfamiliar celestial bodies.

The star at the center of this system burned blue-white. Not yellow. Not the G-type main sequence star his body was designed to absorb.

A blue giant.

The planets orbiting it reflected that harsh, cold light. One of them—the third from the star—showed signs of habitability. Green and blue visible even from this distance. Atmosphere. Liquid water.

The Coalition was gathering resources there.

With his current level of access, Verlin could venture onto that planet. The constructs would escort him, of course, but he could walk on solid ground again. Feel natural gravity. Breathe real atmosphere.

And be exposed to blue starlight.

His hand moved unconsciously to his chest, fingers brushing against the dagger hilt.

Blue sun radiation.

He was uncertain how it would affect his physiology.

Blue stars were different. Hotter. More energetic. Higher frequency radiation.

It might work. His cells might adapt. Might absorb the energy and restore some of his power.

Or it might not.

His heart wasn't functioning—hadn't functioned since Radae drove the blade through it eight years ago.

The only thing keeping him alive was the constant energy flow. Geothermal energy cycling through his cells, compensating for the absence of cardiac function.

If that flow stopped—if the blue star radiation somehow disrupted or depowered his current state—he would die.

Truly die.

Not unconsciousness. Not suspended animation. Actual death.

He wasn't willing to take that risk.

Not for a guess. Not for a maybe.

Verlin turned away from the viewport.

The current plan was to wait.

Wait until they reached another yellow star system.

Fortunately, that was going to be the next stop.

Unfortunately, it was also going to be a short one.

Verlin had learned this from casual conversations with Coalition crew members during his teaching sessions. The ship's teleportation drive—their primary method of faster-than-light travel—had limited range. It required intermediate stop points between major destinations.

The yellow star system they'd pass through next was one such waypoint. A brief stop to recalibrate the drive before the next long-range jump.

The ship would arrive, spend less than five minutes in-system, then teleport away.

Five minutes.

Not much time.

But enough.

Verlin had made successful inquiries—carefully, casually—about the botanical habitat he'd discovered. The room with the endangered plants from planet Rhoda.

Verlin had done the calculations in his head.

Two to three minutes of full exposure would be enough.

Enough to absorb sufficient solar energy to survive in vacuum. Enough to potentially regain his ability to fly—or at least enough power to endure the void without immediately dying.

And even if he didn't regain flight, as long as he pushed off the ship in the direction of the star, momentum would carry him. Eventually, he'd reach it. Absorb enough radiation to fully restore himself.

It might take hours. Days, even.

But he'd survive.

And now that he'd recorded everything he could remember about Earth—every species, every detail his degraded memory could retrieve—there was nothing else for him to do on this ship.

He'd played along. Helped the Coalition learn Coratian technology. Proven his value. Earned their limited trust.

But he had no long-term plans of remaining in their custody.

Verlin returned to his quarters and pulled up the ship's route information on his terminal—data he'd been given access to as part of his upgraded status.

Current Location: BX-91 Extraction Cluster (Blue Giant - Resource Extraction)

Next Waypoint: Helios Relay-7  (G-type Star - Drive Recalibration)

Estimated Arrival: 4 days, 7 hours
Estimated Duration in System: 4 minutes, 30 seconds

Final Destination: Vermillion Command Nexus  (Red Dwarf System - Coalition Military Command)

Verlin stared at the screen for a long moment.

A yellow sun.

Four days.

He could wait four more days.

He closed the terminal and sat back, steam rising from his stone-like skin in the warm chamber.