PART TWO

  Continuing down the hall after parting ways with the Goblins, Cyrus followed the AI’s guidance into a narrow, tunnel-like corridor. He was stopped by the mental image of Hoshi, dressed in her starlit robes. A door slid open to Cyrus’s right, revealing a shadowed room that seemed to pulse with secrets, starkly different from the hallway he’d grown accustomed to. He peered inside, and a rush of anticipation surged through him.

  Hoshi gestured for him to move inside, sweeping an arm through the air. As the hand passed the room's entrance, small lights flickered to life along the floor and ceiling, just enough to give Cyrus a sense of the space—enough to see that there was a floor and ceiling, but not much more.

  ‘This is the Exo-pilot room,’ Hoshi’s voice echoed in his mind. ‘Here, you will fully immerse yourself in the ship’s systems and complete the neuro-registration with the Cosmic Sentinel, beginning your training.’

  More lights flickered on as Cyrus stepped inside, now along the walls, as displays powered up, casting a dim glow across the room. Unlike the other areas of the ship he’d visited, this space felt distinctly different. The walls were composed almost entirely of large dark, glassy display panels, much larger than those throughout the hallway.

  The floor was made of a deep, almost black material that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Beneath the surface, an intricate network of faintly glowing circuitry pulsed slowly, adding to the room’s enigmatic presence.

  As Cyrus’s gaze wandered upwards, he noticed that the ceiling matched the floor in darkness, but its glowing circuit-like patterns cast an amber hue, the mix of light providing just enough illumination to see without straining the eyes.

  The most dominant feature of the room stood in stark contrast to the minimalistic feel of the space.

  At the center of the room sat a large, throne-like chair, plush and slightly inclined, its design reminiscent of the gaming chair Cyrus had once owned back in his apartment.

  Above the chair, at the center of the ceiling, hung a thick, ridged silver cable, reaching down several feet before ending. At its lowest point, somewhat tethered, sat what looked like futuristic VR headgear, unlike anything Cyrus had ever seen before on Earth.

  The design was silver and circular, almost crown-like, with clear indentations for the nose and ears, but with a shield that extended down over the eyes. It appeared to be made of metal, yet it also resembled a liquid, similar to the floor in the medical center, but even more fluidic in appearance.

  The rig seemed to float in midair, suspended from the cable, surrounded by a semi-visible field—a slight distortion that kept the headset aloft and stationary, giving the entire setup a futuristic vibe. The field acted like a stabilizer, holding the headset in place without the need for physical connections.

  Cyrus’s gaze moved back to the chair, his mind slowly processing the surrealness of the situation. For a brief instant, memories of his old apartment flooded his mind—the comfort, the quiet, the sanctuary he had retreated to when the world became too overwhelming.

  The chair, with its sleek design and soft contours, felt like a twisted reminder of the safe life he had been forced to leave behind. The thought hit him unexpectedly—the weight of his lost home and sanctuary making his chest tighten. It felt like only moments ago. The world had shifted beneath his feet, and now, here he was, standing in the heart of an alien ship, faced with a new chapter.

  The sudden wave of loss hit him, a sharp reminder of the home he would never return to. But just as quickly, the room around him pulled him back in. The wonder of the technology, the possibilities ahead—it was too much to ignore, too much to let him linger in the past.

  He had always struggled with a sense of missing out, feeling like he was being left behind while the world moved forward. His anxiety had always held him back, but now, with the SCANT, that hesitation began to fade. Exploration was no longer a distant dream.

  There were places on Earth he had always longed to visit, but they had felt impossible with his disorder. Now, though, it wasn’t just about Earth—it was about something much bigger, something real and attainable. He wasn’t looking at the world from a distance; he had the chance to step into it, to explore an entirely new reality.

  This room, with its advanced technology, was the threshold of possibility—a chance to take control. Once he could understand this alien ship, navigate its complexities, and learn to fly it, he could rebuild himself. A better version of himself. One who embraced life fully.

  Cyrus inhaled deeply, pushing aside the lingering melancholy. The excitement for the future quickly overtook him as he moved toward the chair. His fingers brushed the controls, familiarizing himself with the texture of the armrests. Unlike the VR headsets he was used to, these controls were more intricate and stationary, designed not for mobility in virtual space, but for precise action.

  The armrests featured four rings, each one mounted on a lever and pivot, allowing for full, natural finger movement. Just in front of the rings were small mechanical buttons, likely for activating various functions. At the side of the armrest, where his thumb would rest, sat a small metallic joystick—similar to the one he’d used on his old Nintendo controllers. A mushroom-shaped stick with a textured circular disk at its top.

  The familiarity of it sparked a rush of memories, this time of happier days spent playing game consoles and losing himself in the stories. A smile crept onto his face as he recalled those simpler times.

  ‘Once you have registered with the ship and completed the initialization, I will have further tasks for you,’ Hoshi’s voice pulled him back to the present, grounding him. ‘You will need to sit and don the headset to begin.’

  Cyrus hesitated for just a moment before walking around to the front of the chair.

  His pulse quickened, a mix of anticipation and nervousness flooding him. The journey ahead was daunting, no question about it. But it was the only way forward.

  The circumstances were dire. He didn’t know exactly how long it would take for the Goblins to die of dehydration, but he knew humans could only survive about three days without water. He could extend that a little with some... unsavory measures, but he didn't want to even think about what that might involve.

  The clock was ticking. He had to figure out how to get them to a place with resources—food, water, and all the other things the ship needed.

  The Goblins were doing their part, but they couldn’t fly the ship. That burden was entirely on him. If something went wrong—if he couldn’t sync with the ship, or if he was inept at flying, or if any of the hundreds of unforeseen problems cropped up—they would all die.

  ‘Your DNA is 88.4 percent compatible. There should be no issues with interfacing using the Exo-Pilot terminal,’ Hoshi reassured him, almost as if they had read his thoughts. Which, considering the situation, Cyrus figured was a real possibility.

  “88.4 percent, huh? So I guess I’m not the perfect candidate after all,” Cyrus mused aloud, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “What happens if my DNA doesn’t properly integrate?”

  There was a brief pause, as if the ship were processing the potential scenarios. ‘There is no comparative data to base predictions on. However, I do not anticipate significant effects. Any issues, if they occur, should be minimal. Possible outcomes include: minor headache, nausea, loss of hearing, eyesight, or smell, or temporary loss of sensation in extremities.’

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his composure. “Wow… so, paralysis? Really? And what about the other things?”

  ‘Any condition should be temporary, including paralysis.’ There was another pause, the response more measured. ‘At least, most likely.’

  Cyrus’s resolve to jump into this new life wavered as the potential side effects sank in. He gave a half-smile, stroking his chin as he mulled over the possibilities. “Wow, okay… that’s a little worrying,” he muttered. He’d known this was something he’d have to do, but he hadn’t truly considered the risks until now.

  “Well… we’re not getting out of this predicament any other way, so... let’s get this over with,” he finally said, sighing as he resigned himself to whatever may come. His stomach growled, a harsh reminder of the urgency of the situation.

  Hoshi’s holographic image smiled gently, a smile that felt too human for Cyrus to dismiss entirely, yet there was something distinctly inhuman about it, too. ‘Please take a seat to begin the process. Full immersion is required for initial synchronization.’

  The Exo-Pilot terminal shifted, moving into a more inclined position, and Cyrus sat down gingerly, taking his time to familiarize himself with the controls on the handrests and the texture of the material beneath him. It, like everything else on this ship, was unique. It felt familiar to supple leather, yet the cushioning was softer and the material itself more breathable.

  As he settled fully into the upright chair, he slid his hands into the armrest recesses, exploring the rings, buttons, and joysticks beneath his fingers. He tested them, noting their fit and feel.

  Then the chair began to move again, reclining smoothly until he was almost horizontal, his legs and chest level. Small pads rose along the armrests to support his wrists. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought this entire chair and its controls were custom-designed for him.

  From this position, the headset was easily accessible. He took hold of the dangling device. Unlike the bulky headsets he was used to, this one was sleek and thin, almost like a metallic eye mask. The warm metal was solid yet possessed a liquid-like sheen.

  He held the headgear before him, studying it. A million thoughts swirled through his mind: the past, the future, the potential side effects, the possibilities.

  He saw his distorted reflection in the polished metal. His black, curly hair was as disheveled as ever. He smiled, and the image smiled back. There was no turning back now.

  "Glix led the way down the circular metallic tunnel, following the glowing yellow arrows on the displays, guiding them through the turns. The image of Hoshi, in the form of Grubnash, jumped from one display to the next, leaving the directional pointer in its wake.

  The corridors felt deliberately made for someone Goblin-sized or perhaps only slightly larger, and Glix couldn’t help but wonder why. There had been little discussion before they left to begin repairs, the topic of the ship’s creators had come up only briefly, although not even the AI seemed to have any information regarding them.

  The main hallways were clearly designed for larger beings, yet these smaller, more utility corridors would obviously not be comfortable or easy to use for the people who used the main halls. "Why two size tunnel? Big and small?" she wondered, as she plodded along."

  Daegnon followed quietly behind, his mind elsewhere. His silence was unusual, but not surprising—everything had changed so quickly. Their world had shifted so drastically that he still couldn’t quite process it all. He had demanded the role of leader, but now, he questioned whether he was truly the best choice. He had used his conversation with Cyrus to maintain some authority, but part of him wondered if he should have just followed orders instead of asserting himself.

  His mind churned as he walked, lost in his thoughts. This was how he dealt with change—by rethinking everything. What he didn’t realize was how much the SCANT was enhancing his thinking. It was taking his natural curiosity and tendency to analyze situations and setting them into overdrive, reinforcing the very traits that had made him a good fit for captain in the first place.

  Everyone had their own way of dealing with the shift in their world—including Raknak, who faced his turmoil in a much different way.

  Raknak, for his part, stomped down the corridor behind Daegnon. His frustration was obvious—his demeanor more like that of a disrespectful child than the clan's protector he usually portrayed.

  Back in the burrow, Raknak had been the best hunter, providing more than his share of food. But he also ate more than his share, justifying it as a necessary trade-off for the security he continually provided. That justification held some weight, as he had saved the burrow from underground monsters on more than one occasion. In time, this led him to believe that the strongest should lead.

  When Daegnon’s father was killed by the leader of the opposing faction, Raknak saw it as his opportunity to claim the role of burrow master. But Daegnon’s father had already named his son as his successor, and the Shaman had supported the choice—leaving Raknak without a proper claim to leadership.

  That was when Raknak’s frustrations began. He was stronger, older, and more experienced, yet now he was forced to follow Daegnon—a young Goblin who, in Raknak’s eyes, had never earned the respect he was owed. The situation aboard the ship only worsened his resentment. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his experience and abilities were being overlooked, and he believed he should be the one leading now.

  What he didn’t know was that, deep within his mind, the SCANT was working diligently. Unlike with Daegnon and Glix—whose enhancements focused on curiosity and analytical thinking—Raknak’s abilities as a hunter and defender made him a natural fit for security.

  So the SCANT was sharpening his perception, improving his multitasking abilities, and refining his fine motor control. These were the vital skills that matched his future role aboard the ship.

  Unfortunately, these changes did little to ease the storm of frustration brewing inside him—but ultimately, they were giving him the tools to adapt and learn in ways that would allow him to serve the ship and its crew more effectively.

  Finally, the image of the elder Goblin paused on a display, and the metallic voice that accompanied it spoke again. All three of them gathered closer, eager to hear what the spirit—or AI, as Cyrus had called it—had to say.

  “Underneath this display is a panel you will need to remove. Use this tool,” the voice continued, and a strange black-and-red object appeared in a small drawer beneath the display. It had a long metallic shaft with a star-shaped tip. “To open the panel, place the tip in the corresponding shape and twist to the left.”

  Glix took the tool and located the small metal piece the image had indicated. She inserted the tip into the hole and twisted. The piece turned halfway around, and she felt a slight pressure release as the locking mechanism clicked open.

  “Good. Now do the same to the other three,” the metallic voice commanded.

  Glix followed the instructions, and when she finished, the wall panel tipped open. She barely had time to react before the panel fell away, clanging loudly on the floor. Behind it, a dark space flickered with dim light as they peered inside.

  “Wow,” Glix whispered, leaning in to get a better look.

  “Good. Now use this tool,” the voice continued. A second drawer opened, revealing a much more complex device. The three of them stared at it, their curiosity piqued.

  “Use it to first clean, then seal the hole in the tube behind the panel,” the voice finished.

  This time, the instructions were more complicated, and it took Glix several attempts before she figured out how to use the new device.

  It resembled a small pistol-like object—though that concept was unfamiliar to the Goblins. The first challenge was getting Glix to grip it properly, and once she did, she carefully followed the AI’s guidance.

  The tool, which Hoshi called a mender-beam, had multiple settings, each serving a different function. For this task, there were two settings the AI showed them how to use.

  The first was a low-range laser used to clean the surface of the Dark-Matter Fusion Conduit by removing debris, rust, and contaminants. It created a sharp, concentrated beam that effortlessly removed excess buildup along the interior surface.

  The second setting, used to repair damage, looked similar but had a distinct difference in color. The beam shifted from a pale reddish hue to a bright green. This green beam was used for small to moderate repairs, where the damage to the structure was minimal.

  It reassembled the atoms of the damaged surface, aligning them as closely as possible to their original state. If necessary, the tool would draw in surrounding atoms, rearrange them, and attach them to the surface being repaired, effectively rebuilding it atom by atom.

  For more extensive repairs, such as when large sections of the structure were missing, the tool required an additional catalyst. A small cylindrical object was inserted into the side chamber of the mender-beam.

  The catalytic material was then atomized within the tool’s body, converted into the correct material, and then transferred through the beam. The beam would reassemble the material atom by atom, filling in the missing structure and seamlessly bonding it with the surrounding surface.

  While both beams were technically harmless to living beings, the light from the device could be intensely bright, and if shined in one’s eyes, it could cause temporary blindness.

  This is exactly what happened when Raknak took his turn trying out the tool. He inadvertently held the device backwards, and the beam shot directly into his face.

  After a few moments of blinking and stumbling around, Raknak grumbled, rubbing his eyes until he could make out his surroundings once more—though everything still looked like a collection of blurry blobs.

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  It took several tries, but eventually, all three of them had demonstrated the basics of using the tool.

  Hoshi, seemingly pleased with their progress, confirmed that the repairs in this tiny area, within this small section, on this lesser floor, in this one tunnel, of this part of the overall ship… were now complete.

  Glix, having shown superior understanding and control over the tool, quickly finished her part of the task. Once done, Hoshi directed her to a different part of the ship.

  “This route is the only one available at the moment in order to reach the main engineering bay. There, you will continue repairs, and reconnect power relays” Hoshi said.

  The route appeared on the screen, a chaotic maze of ladders, junctions, and painfully narrow corridors. The two remaining Goblins exchanged a glance—one of those subtle, shared moments of silent gratitude that neither of them had to navigate that mess.

  Glix, on the other hand, grinned with anticipation.

  Raknak and Daegnon quickly bid her farewell, both conspicuously avoiding any offer to accompany her.

  “Good luck,” Daegnon muttered dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching with suppressed amusement.

  “Yeah, have fun,” Raknak added, raising an eyebrow in mock enthusiasm.

  Glix wasn’t the best at reading social cues, but even she could tell they were mocking her. So she decided to mock them right back.

  With great concentration, she closed one eye, stuck out her tongue, and yanked on the opposite ear—a gesture she’d seen other Goblins use when teasing each other. She was fairly certain she’d done it wrong, but that only made it feel more appropriate.

  She didn’t fully understand the gesture’s social significance, but she did know the moment called for it. The route ahead would be long, tight, and mildly terrifying—but it also led to the heart of the ship, the nexus of systems and secrets.

  And best of all? She’d be alone.

  As Glix disappeared down the corridor, both Goblins silently hoped that wherever the AI sent them next, it would involve fewer ladders and slightly more floor.

  Once she was out of sight and off to begin her more advanced tasks, Hoshi guided the remaining two to a nearby section further down the corridor—one with several areas still in need of attention. There, each would continue practicing with the mender-beam until they gained more confidence in its operation.

  “Argh… Stupid thing always shoot wrong way!” Raknak growled, once again pointing the wrong end towards the metal and shooting the laser in the face. He’d done this several times now and had taken to closing his eyes before activating the beam. Even when it was facing the right direction, it rarely hit the target.

  With a light kick to Raknak’s leg, Daegnon scolded him. “Hold it da right Farqing way! Grubnash… errr, Hoshi already tell you stop doin' it your stupid way! If you listen to ship AI, you stop have-ing dis problem.”

  Both of their vocabularies were expanding, but many of the variations and sentence structures were so ingrained in the way they’d spoken all their lives that, to them, they already sounded smarter. To anyone else, though, their speech sounded slow and broken, like they were tasting new words for the first time before saying them.

  “Me way work better,” the overly wide Goblin retorted. “‘B’sides, it easi-er for me ta use dis way when me lay down like dis.”

  “The angle of your body does not influence the device’s capabilities,” the metallic voice of Hoshi came through the image of Grubnash on the screen. “It is illogical to believe your body’s position would change the direction the mender-beam operates.”

  “Hear dat, dummy?” Daegnon said, kicking Raknak again. “Not… no,” he corrected himself, “Don’t matter how you use it, if you hold it backward, it’s gonna shoot you in da face!”

  Raknak just grumbled under his breath and shifted the device in his grip, still fumbling with it.

  Meanwhile, Hoshi had been closely monitoring the Goblins' speech patterns to assess how quickly the SCANT's influence was expanding their vocabulary. Progress was slower than expected, but there was notable improvement. Daegnon was now using larger words and more complex syntax than Raknak, though both still had a long way to go before they were fully fluent in a language beyond their current grasp.

  It would still be days before the SCANT could initiate the integration of the Myrdin codex into their language centers. Once that began, it would be optimal for all crew members to speak Myrdin, as it was the language the ship itself used. For now, Hoshi could provide a simple translation for displayed data, but eventually, a shared tongue aboard would make things smoother—not just for the SCANT, but to promote camaraderie among the crew.

  Hoshi just hoped that the language data corruption would be resolved by then. So far, it had only progressed by fourteen percent.

  While the Goblins were busy working on the ship, Cyrus inhaled, closed his eyes, and lowered the headset onto his head. It fit as though it had been custom-made for him; the crossbeam and nose bridge settled snugly into place without discomfort, and he felt the rear tighten slightly as the helmet secured itself.

  Surprisingly, he could still see through the metal—an effect he found almost as astounding as the room itself. The science behind such transparent metal was beyond anything he could comprehend.

  Hoshi gestured to the handrests, and Cyrus easily slid his fingers into the rings. It felt right here, as if he’d found a new sanctuary. A warmth washed over him—not just emotionally, but physically—as the visor began to fade from transparency to a solid, metallic sheen, as such objects were meant to be.

  Then came the sensation of sinking—but it was unlike any sinking he had known. He wasn’t melting into something but aligning with it. He wasn’t sure whether his eyes were open or closed, and it didn’t matter; his mind could see in this place.

  The sensation deepened—his entire consciousness felt as though it were being immersed in a new reality.

  Glix had been navigating a maze of tunnels—most of them smaller in scale—but she fit through them comfortably, almost as if they’d been built with someone her size in mind.

  Occasionally, the passageways opened into larger hallways, similar to those outside the medical center. She climbed ladders built directly into the walls, pried open floor panels to crawl through access ports, and, at one point, had to scramble over and through debris from what appeared to be a cave-in.

  It wasn’t stone, though—it was twisted metal struts, hanging wires, and various objects she’d seen scattered throughout her journey so far.

  All the while, bright yellow arrows guided her—projected onto the walls by the ship itself. Hoshi, wearing the familiar image of Grubnash, appeared periodically to point her in the right direction, offering instructions and subtle course corrections along the way.

  Finally, she reached the bottom of a long ladder. The floor beneath her opened, revealing a room unlike any she’d seen before.

  The room expanded before her, vast as a cavern—comparable in size to the one her clan had once occupied. But instead of tents and scurrying Goblins, this massive space was filled with machines and lights, coiled hoses, rotating gears, and sounds unlike anything Glix had ever imagined.

  “This is the main engineering bay, which houses the JUMP engine room,” said Grubnash’s image from beneath the main display, his elderly face smiling from the wall. “This will be like a second home to you. In time, you’ll know every inch of this place—what every system and device does, and how to properly maintain and repair it.”

  Glix’s jaw dropped. Her mind whirled—mostly with excitement, but a fair amount of anxiety buzzed underneath. She had always been considered smart compared to other Goblins, but this? This was different. This place was enormous and complicated, full of things she didn’t yet understand. The idea of learning it all felt impossible.

  “There is no need to worry. I am actively making you smarter,” Grubnash’s image added cheerfully. “Before long, you will be the smartest Goblin who ever lived.”

  She blinked at that. The smartest Goblin ever?

  Part of her wanted to smile. Part of her wanted to hide. That kind of title came with expectations—ones she wasn’t sure she could live up to, no matter how much help the ship gave her. Still, a flicker of pride sparked beneath the worry. Maybe, just maybe, she could become something more than just smart for a Goblin.

  Maybe she could just be the smartest… anyone.

  She took a deep breath and stepped forward.

  The ladder beneath her hands vibrated slightly, and Glix watched as it extended downward into the expansive room. She was tired—worn from the long journey and from having to use both her legs and arms to navigate the ship’s many levels. But the thrill of discovering this place—the sheer wonder of it—filled her with renewed energy. Without hesitation, she climbed down the final few yards.

  Darkness surrounded Cyrus for a moment before a semi-translucent hologram appeared before his eyes. It was the same holographic form he’d come to associate with the Hoshi, but something about it was slightly different.

  “Welcome, Cyrus,” the hologram said.

  This time, instead of the voice appearing solely in his mind, he heard it—vibrations resonating through his ears, not just the internal echo he’d become used to. It felt more real, more grounded. This was the same way he experienced the Goblins’ speech—processed through his senses rather than injected directly into his thoughts.

  “Neural synchronization levels are at 96.7 percent efficiency. That number is excellent for a first integration. I detect no adverse side effects in your physical form. I believe it is time to proceed.”

  Cyrus wholeheartedly agreed. Just knowing his body was okay brought an immense wave of relief.

  “This is the training simulation,” Hoshi continued, gesturing with a wide sweep of an arm.

  Only then did Cyrus notice that the hologram’s outfit had changed. Gone was the large kimono—replaced by a dark gray, jumpsuit-like garment that reminded him of a flight suit. Though similar in purpose, its cut and texture were unlike any style he had seen back on Earth. Tucked under Hoshi’s left arm was a helmet—also flight-themed, though sleeker and more abstract than the ones he’d seen on TV or in movies.

  Printed on the helmet was a blue star, with red and white wings extending from either side. The logo was unmistakably familiar, and Cyrus couldn’t help but wonder if the AI had pulled the image directly from his memories—or if it had scoured Earth’s databases while searching for him.

  The entire appearance of the AI was both comforting and uncanny. It reminded him just how strange his life had become—and how, no matter what happened from this point forward, he would never be the same.

  Before he could ask, or even fully finish the thought, the darkness around him shifted and filled in.

  The Cosmic Sentinel appeared before him—floating in the void, just as he’d seen it during the earlier information dump. This time, though, it was scaled down to his size, hanging in the air a few feet in front of him like a miniature model.

  “This is the Cosmic Sentinel’s exterior,” Hoshi explained. “You can use this image to check for structural issues, monitor ongoing repairs, and, at times, make modifications—but those functions will be covered later. For now, you can mentally move, rotate, or manipulate this projection however you like.”

  Cyrus had played enough VR games to have a rough idea of how this might work. Of course, VR back on Earth hadn’t been advanced enough for direct mental manipulation—so learning to move objects with his mind instead of his fingers took a bit of adjustment. But within moments, he had the image of the ship rotating smoothly in the air.

  He took the opportunity to study it closely.

  The entire front end was bulky, flat, and triangular, with the bottom point jutting downward, sharper and lower than the other two. It resembled a massive, kite-shaped shield—and it definitely wasn’t aerodynamic.

  Along the front, two large, darkened intake manifolds flanked the central portion. Viewed head-on, they looked uncannily like a pair of large, shadowed eyes. Just beneath them, where a nose might sit on a humanoid face, there was a wide opening—what Cyrus immediately identified as a windshield. Through it, he could make out the interior of the ship. This, he realized, had to be the bridge or command center.

  Though he didn’t yet know the purpose of the dark ports or the viewing window, together they gave the ship an ominous presence—a face that seemed to glower at him through the void.

  Cyrus had heard of how the human brain was wired to see faces in objects, even when none were present. ‘Pareidolia,’ the word floated through his thoughts as he continued to study the Cosmic Sentinel’s menacing visage.

  With a small shake of his consciousness to break the spell, Cyrus spun the image of the ship to the right, revealing a large, complex structure behind the shield-like front.

  The rear of the ship tapered into a sharp point, forming a four-sided pyramid. This pyramidal body attached directly to the back of the triangular shield, creating a seamless transition from front to rear. The pyramid’s apex aligned neatly with a small divot at the top of the shield, while its three lower points were hidden behind the front section’s protective bulk.

  The surface of the ship’s body was layered with decks, intricate tools, and strange, unfamiliar devices. Cyrus instinctively sensed that many of these were smaller thrusters or weapon systems, though he couldn’t identify them with any certainty. These highly advanced components broke up the pyramid’s otherwise smooth exterior, hinting at the ship’s hidden complexity.

  The final prominent feature was a fin-like structure extending from the lower edge of the pyramid. It jutted downward and back, ending in a softly glowing sphere. Though small compared to the rest of the ship, the sphere radiated a quiet significance—as if it held something vital, something central to the ship’s function. Positioned just behind and below the pyramid’s tip, it subtly lengthened the Cosmic Sentinel’s silhouette while anchoring its design with purpose.

  As Cyrus continued rotating the image, he noticed how the elongated tip of the frontal shield wasn’t just for aesthetics—it was angled precisely to protect the fin and whatever critical power was housed within that glowing orb.

  The Cosmic Sentinel wasn’t just a vessel—it was a fortress. A machine of immense complexity, bristling with systems he didn’t yet understand, cloaked in a presence that felt almost alive. It stared back at him like something ancient and waiting.

  His thoughts swirled—not just with the ship’s design, but with the weight of what it meant to be connected to it.

  To fly it.

  To repair it.

  To keep it alive.

  He paused, centering himself—not with a deep breath as he normally would, but with an internal focusing.

  He wasn’t sure he was ready. But he knew he had to be.

  With renewed determination, he turned back to the image and continued familiarizing himself with every inch of its exterior.

  “Now that you are familiar with the exterior,” Hoshi said as Cyrus continued to ogle the ship, “you need to initiate neuro-registration.”

  The image of the Cosmic Sentinel shrank, repositioning itself into a small window at the bottom right of his vision. It continued to spin slowly, and Cyrus instinctively understood that he could bring it back into focus at any time—just by thinking about it.

  He’d used HUDs before—Heads-Up Displays—so the interface felt familiar, even if this one moved with his thoughts instead of a controller. He wasn’t entirely confident with the mental input yet, but he knew it would come with time. Every game had its own controls; this was no different. Just another learning curve.

  As the ship’s image receded, a new visual bloomed at the center of his view.

  Now occupying his full attention was what his mind interpreted as a cloud—swirling with multicolored gases. It wasn’t flat or static; the cloud had depth, volume, and motion, as if he were viewing it in real time from shifting angles. It appeared suspended within a faintly glowing bubble, gently pulsing as it turned.

  A set of four more similar-looking cloud-filled bubbles appeared in the corner of Cyrus’s vision as he studied the central one.

  “Your first puzzle will be to match the nebula in front of you to its corresponding representative,” Hoshi said, the holographic image shrinking down to occupy the corner opposite the twirling ship—making room as several more cloud-filled bubbles appeared around him.

  Cyrus stared at the swirling orbs, trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to be comparing. He attempted to shift the central bubble to the left for a better view—but his arm didn’t respond.

  That’s when he noticed: he couldn’t move at all.

  He hadn’t needed to until now, so it hadn’t registered—but in this space, he was disembodied. Looking down revealed nothing where his torso should have been. No arms. No legs. No real sense of being there.

  A flicker of unease rose in his chest—or whatever he had in place of one. He tried to flex his fingers. Tried to shift something—anything—but nothing responded.

  He turned his attention toward the flight-suited Hoshi.

  ‘Where’s my body?’ he asked, the question laced with a thin thread of tension.

  Even as he formed the thought, he realized he hadn’t spoken it aloud. There was no mouth, no breath—only thought. And yet, the words filled the space as clearly as if he had said them. Just like Hoshi’s voice, his own thoughts now had presence in this strange place.

  Hoshi looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “You do not need a physical body in this space. Once your neuro-registration is complete, your body will be the ship. Until then, only your consciousness is manifesting.”

  ‘My consciousness?’ Cyrus echoed, the idea slowly settling in. ‘And… my body will be the ship?’

  “Yes,” Hoshi replied. “In order to pilot the Cosmic Sentinel, you must fully integrate. Your consciousness will take control of the ship’s systems, allowing you to function as both its internal regulator and its pilot.”

  “Your brain already manages your biological systems—your heartbeat, metabolism, temperature regulation. This vessel requires similar oversight. At the same time, your brain allows you to move, act, and respond to your environment. The ship needs that too—both regulation and direction. You will be both.”

  Cyrus felt his thoughts racing. This was far beyond what he’d expected. He’d assumed piloting the ship would be like a VR game—controls, maybe a dashboard, something familiar. The idea of becoming the ship—of his consciousness running its systems like a second nervous system—was overwhelming. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that kind of responsibility… or transformation.

  There was a long pause as Cyrus contemplated all that Hoshi had told him. His introspection came with many questions and few answers.

  ‘Will I still have a body? Will I ever be able to leave the ship again? What happens if the ship is damaged or destroyed—will I die here? Is the chair I’m in going to be the last place I ever sit? Will I never eat again? Never have sex?’

  He cringed inwardly.

  ‘Am I going to die a virgin?’

  The questions spun through his mind, sending him into a quiet spiral of anxiety, fear, and curiosity. The sheer scale of what he was facing—merging with a spaceship—seemed to shake his inner voices back into motion. But they felt different now. Fainter. As if coming from a distance, like echoes of his former self.

  The Hopeful Voice tried to comfort him.

  ‘This could become my new safe place. My new home. It’s not like I enjoy leaving anyway… so what’s the harm?’

  Then came the Despairing Voice, low and grim:

  ‘But what about when you take damage—or when the ship does? I bet it’s gonna hurt. How are you going to deal with that?’

  For a brief moment, the two voices almost seemed to merge, aligned in a shared unease.

  ‘Would it really be that bad to just give myself over to the ship?’ he wondered.

  ‘I’ve often said I’d rather have a robotic body…’

  The questions and uncertainties continued to spiral, with increasingly frantic and bizarre thoughts bubbling to the surface.

  ‘Would I live forever as the ship? Can spaceships have sex? Would Hoshi basically be my lover? I’d have Goblins inside me? Do you think space tastes good? Would I be able to smell anything?’

  Finally, Hoshi’s voice cut through the chaos in his mind.

  “You will be connected to the ship, but you will still be you, and you can still leave and live a life. Your restrictions will be minimal. As for the rest of your… strange array of thoughts—the SCANT is still working on those.”

  With an effort of will, Cyrus pulled himself back, reining in the wild spiral of questions and stray thoughts. He managed to refocus, then asked, ‘So, you’re saying I don’t have to be connected all the time? That the ship can run itself without me?’

  Hoshi’s image enlarged slightly, demanding his attention again.

  “No,” they replied. “The ship cannot self-regulate. That is part of why it’s in its current degraded state. But once neuro-registration is complete, your brain will be accessible at all times via the SCANT. This means you can continue living normally. You will only need to occupy the chair when direct piloting is required.”

  It took a few more moments for Cyrus’s mind to settle, his emotions calming and anxiety loosening its grip on the higher-functioning parts of his brain.

  ‘Oh, okay… so basically, this is like the hard interface, but the simple stuff can be done by the link already inside me—the one we’re using to talk right now?’ he asked, finally beginning to grasp how the neuro-registration process worked.

  “Yes,” Hoshi replied. “The SCANT is capable of broadcasting across great distances using what you would call subspace. Its range is not infinite, but you will have far more freedom than you did on Earth. Essentially, you have the entire galaxy to explore—even if you choose not to take the ship with you.”

  There were still a few strange questions left over from his earlier spiral—ones Hoshi hadn’t addressed. Cyrus decided he was fine letting those particular thoughts stay unspoken.

  ‘Okay. Sorry I freaked out. Let’s continue,’ he said, watching as Hoshi’s image shrank once more into the corner of his vision and the swirling, gas-filled bubbles returned to the center.