The halls of the Duj buzzed with activity as Reginald, the overly solicitous service bot, led groups of bewildered Aqualians to their designated cabins. His pristine uniform looked out of place amid the dishevelled crowd.
“Please, this way, madam! Don’t mind the squeak; it’s merely the hydraulics,” Reginald said to an elderly Aqualian, who stared at him with wide, fish-like eyes.
“Where’s the water? We sleep in pools!” she protested.
Reginald tilted his head, his lenses flickering as he processed this. “Ah, pools! Of course, madam. Let me arrange for suitable hydration. Would you like kelp pillows as well? Firm or medium?”
The elderly Aqualian huffed and muttered something in her native tongue, clutching a small carved trinket tightly as though it might make sense of her new surroundings. A trail of bots followed behind, each overloaded with Aqualians’ belongings: nets, carved trinkets, and jars of mysterious glowing liquid. Clorita watched from the side, hands on her hips, muttering, “We’re going to need a full reboot of the ship’s plumbing system at this rate.”
In the galley, the tension between Elder Mariq and RG reached a boiling point—literally.
“That is not how you poach an Aqualian Snapfish!” Mariq declared, slamming a webbed hand on the counter. “It needs a slow boil with sand-filtered brine!”
RG whirred, his voice rising in mechanical indignation. “Sand-filtered brine? Do I look like a beachcomber? My programming includes the finest culinary techniques in the galaxy!”
Mariq pointed a webbed finger at RG’s chest, his voice steady but firm. “Fine for landlubbers, maybe, but this is aquatic cuisine! Every ingredient tells a story, and you’re erasing it!”
Clorita walked in mid-argument, shaking her head. “Settle it over taste tests or something. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.” She paused, smirking. “No pun intended.”
The argument continued, but as the scent of Snapfish and spices filled the galley, their tones softened. Mariq leaned closer, scrutinising RG’s attempt. “That glaze...” he murmured. “It reminds me of a festival dish my mother used to make. We’d gather around the cooking stones...” His voice trailed off, thick with memory.
RG’s optics dimmed slightly as though in thought. “Home is a powerful flavour profile, Elder,” he said quietly. “Let’s perfect this together.”
Elsewhere, Luma was surrounded by a gaggle of excited Aqualian children. They chattered and giggled, their small hands reaching out to pet her glossy fur. Luma tolerated it for a moment before one child experimentally tugged on her tail.
A low growl escaped her throat as she darted under a console, her tail swishing like an angry flag. The children squealed with laughter, following her. They were right on her heels every time she slipped to another hiding spot.
Zog, passing by, paused to watch the spectacle. “I’d help you, Luma, but it looks like you’ve got it under control,” he said with a grin.
Luma shot him a baleful glare before darting into the bridge, where she curled up on Zog’s chair and refused to move.
“Looks like the kids wore her out,” Clorita remarked, stepping into the bridge. “Speaking of exhaustion, we’re going to need a bigger power source if we’re hosting a small planet’s worth of guests.”
Zog rubbed his temples. “Tell me about it. And remind RG not to start a civil war over seasoning.”
BOB chimed in with a slightly smug tone. “Noted, Captain. Also, a reminder: the fresh fish storage has reached maximum capacity. Perhaps you’d like to reconsider your ‘all-you-can-save’ policy?”
Zog sighed. “Noted, BOB. Noted.”
The Duj may have been bursting at the seams, but for now, they were safe. And that was enough.
Life aboard the Duj settled into a strange rhythm over the next few days. The Aqualians adjusted to their new quarters, though boredom quickly crept into their daily lives. Their once-bustling island routines were replaced with idle hours spent wandering the ship’s hallways or gazing at holographic ocean simulations BOB had thoughtfully projected in the common areas.
Some found solace in the shimmering projections. A group of children giggled as they pretended to dive through the illusory waves. But others, like Elder Mariq, found them hollow. Standing before a projection, he murmured, “They don’t move like our waters. The tides carried our stories, our songs. These... these are just lights.”
In a quiet corner of the ship, Mariq gathered the refugees for a small ceremony to honour Aqualia. They formed a circle, placing jars of glowing liquid in the centre. The elder’s voice wavered as he spoke of their lost home. “Aqualia’s oceans raised us. They fed us, sheltered us, and gave us life. Now, we carry its essence with us. Let us never forget.” The glow from the jars reflected in the refugees’ eyes as they whispered prayers and shared memories, their grief heavy but unified.
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The exquisite cooking from RG's kitchen was the only thing keeping tempers from flaring. His culinary team, bolstered by a few Aqualians curious to learn “land-dweller techniques,” churned out dishes that delighted even the most sceptical refugees. Elder Mariq himself had taken to spending long hours in the galley, debating RG about seasoning techniques and offering advice on how to prepare various aquatic delicacies.
One evening, Mariq watched RG plate a dish with meticulous precision. The elder’s expression softened. “You know, this… this reminds me of a story my mother used to tell about the Blue Planet. She said its waters could heal any wound, cleanse any sorrow.”
RG paused, his servo-arm stilling for a moment. “A myth worth chasing if it gives hope,” he said, almost to himself.
On the bridge, Zog stood at the viewport, staring into the expanse of stars. Clorita joined him, her voice low. “You really think this Blue Planet is out there?”
Zog didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But they need something to believe in. And right now... I think we do too.”
“Add it to the queue, BOB,” Zog finally said. “Let’s find their Blue Planet.”
The crew gathered in the Duj’s observation lounge, where the soft hum of the ship’s engines blended with the faint rustle of distant activity. Starlight from the panoramic window sprang across the room, illuminating the faint reflections in Elder Mariq’s shimmering fur. The atmosphere was quiet but heavy, charged with unspoken questions.
Zog leaned back in his chair, swirling a mug of freshly brewed Lubricoffee. The nutty aroma curled through the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the lounge. He stared into the dark liquid as though it held answers he couldn’t find among the stars.
“So, Elder Mariq,” Zog began, his tone casual but laced with tension, “what do you know about the Void?”
Mariq tilted his head, his reflective eyes catching the faint light of the stars beyond. “The Void?” he repeated. “I have heard nothing of such a thing. My people’s knowledge comes from our own observations and the tales passed down by our ancestors. But no such void exists in our lore.”
Zog frowned, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Figures. Another mystery to add to the pile.”
Clorita, sitting with one foot propped on the edge of the table, leaned forward, her fingers drumming lightly against her knee. “Alright, then. Let’s talk about what you do know. Is anything unusual out here? Planets, anomalies, places your people might settle?”
Mariq’s expression shifted, his fur glinting faintly as he straightened. “There is something,” he said softly, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “When I was young, I often gazed at the night sky with my mother. Among the stars was one planet—brilliant blue, like the waters of our home. It would rise above the horizon at certain times of the year, always in the same part of the sky.”
“And you think it could support life?” HALAT’s tone was practical, her analytical gaze fixed on Mariq.
“I cannot say for certain,” Mariq admitted, his webbed fingers resting lightly on the table. “But its colour suggests oceans, perhaps an atmosphere. It was more than a planet—it was a guide to us. A promise of refuge. We called it the Dawn of the Endless Sea.”
Clorita’s sceptical brow softened slightly. “Sounds more poetic than promising.”
“When it rose above the horizon,” Mariq continued, his voice growing distant, “it painted our waters in hues of sapphire and silver as if the ocean itself bowed to the stars. My people would gather on the shores to sing, believing its light carried our hopes into the infinite.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Mariq’s words settling over them. Zog finally broke the quiet with a low exhale. “Great. Another myth.”
“It’s not a myth,” Mariq said firmly, his gaze locking with Zog’s. “It’s real. And it’s out there.”
Clorita gestured toward the holographic star map projected on the lounge table. The constellations pulsed faintly, each point of light a promise—or a warning—in the vast expanse of space. “Can you pinpoint where this mythical planet is supposed to be?”
Mariq’s fingers hovered over the glowing map. “Here,” he said, tapping near an unmarked sector. “Roughly in this region. I cannot be precise, but I am certain it lies nearby.”
Zog squinted at the display and groaned. “Fantastic. More uncharted space. Just what we need.”
Clorita smirked. “Oh, come on, Captain. You’d hate a boring planet, and you know it.”
“Boring sounds great right about now,” Zog muttered.
BOB’s voice interrupted, smooth and faintly sardonic. “Plotting a course to the specified coordinates. Estimated travel time: five days in hyperdrive. Shall I also queue a playlist for ‘Cautious Optimism in Uncharted Space’?”
Clorita chuckled softly, but HALAT remained focused. “Hope is one thing. Viability is another. Unknown planets mean unknown dangers.”
“And yet,” Mariq said quietly, “hope is better than despair.”
Zog leaned back, rubbing his temples. His circuits hummed faintly, mirroring the buzz of unease in his mind. “We’re running low on resources, our systems are overtaxed, and now we’re chasing another wild goose. If this planet isn’t out there...”
He trailed off, his gaze lingering on the unmarked sector of the map. The glowing points of light pulsed faintly, almost mocking him with their silence. “Here’s hoping this myth doesn’t kill us all.”
Behind him, Mariq’s voice was steady though tinged with emotion. “Captain, your people brought us from the edge of extinction. You gave us hope when we thought there was none. We ask only for a little more.”
Zog stared at the map for a long moment, his hand hovering over the table's edge. He sighed, his expression softening as he nodded to BOB. “Add it to the queue.”
“As you wish, Captain,” BOB said smoothly, though there was a faint edge to her tone. “Navigational data suggests gravitational anomalies in the plotted region. Probability of interference: 42%. I recommend caution.”
“Noted,” Zog said, his voice low. “Let’s get to work.”
As the crew dispersed, Zog lingered in the lounge. The holographic map remained illuminated, casting faint light across his face. Somewhere in that unmarked region of space lay a destination—a refuge, a mystery, or a trap.
Something was waiting somewhere out there, in the endless sea of stars. He just hoped they needed it—and not something far worse.