'Insufficient context to interpret statement,' Buddy tells us.

'He's gone. That can't be good.'

'Speculation: The commander will proceed to ship's armoury.'

'He won't be very good at fighting with his claw pincers crippled.'

'Information: The commander's military record indicates that he is adaptable, resourceful, and good at improvising.'

'Can you seal this door so he can't come back and shoot us?'

The door hisses shut again.

'Information: Door sealed.'

We look back at the large hologram at the front of the bridge. 'Can we listen to any other communications that might tell us what the Ghutarn are up to?'

'Negative. Information: Ship protocols have been set to delete all communication records upon receipt.'

'Huh. That seems... suspicious.' The word seems to bubble up to our consciousness by itself. 'Could we trace where the ship has been? Maybe follow it back to where it came from?'

'Affirmative. Information: You will need to make this request of the ship itself. Additional information: Navigational systems are primary functions of global system.'

'Alright. And you can only crack local systems. So how do I request it from the global system? Just ask it?'

'Affirmative. Request: Please wait until command has been transferred to you.'

'How long will that take?'

'Pending.'

'Pending? That isn't a length of time.'

'Pending.'

'What does that-'

'Information: Congratulations Commander Saturday Gazette. You are now in control of the Dhruhagon.'

'Fun. Ship? Please ensure the former commander is unable to access the armoury.'

'Armoury sealed,' a deep male Ghutarn voice says, seemingly emanating from the walls around us. 'Access permissions updated.'

'Great. Now, we want to...' A number of phrases come to mind, and we choose what seems the most natural. 'We want to see your wake, please.'

A bright 3D image fills the space at the fore of the bridge, rotating slowly.

'Please specify degree of detail.'

‘What does it mean, degree?’ we ask Buddy, as it dissolves its connection to the seat's data port and comes free in Feely's grip.

‘Speculation: It wishes to know if you would like detailed retracing of orbital manoeuvres in Earth's atmosphere, such as performed in the attack upon the Mixcycli, and in rescuing you.'

'Ah,' we say. 'No. Ship, please just identify last stop before Earth.'

The hologram shimmers into a small graphic of a planetary system. 'Last stop, Forecz; For system.'

'That's better. Please take us there.'

There is a change in the ever-present humming of the ship's engines. Peripheral holograms leap into the air, full of lines and tight squiggles that might be Ghutarn script. After a moment the ship speaks again.

'Course plotted. Underway.'

'Thank you.' We settle back in the seat, our various arms tracing the unfamiliar lines of it, waving aimlessly, or wrestling each other for possession of the commander's weaponry items.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

'Buddy?' we ask. 'How do we know that “seeing one's wake” is similar to “retracing one's steps”? We can kind-of walk on our arms, but that's not really stepping like the Mix or Ghutarn or humans do. We have no idea where that... idiom...? Where any of those idioms came from.'

'Speculation:' Buddy says. 'You are a product of Mixcycli experimentation on a non-sapient life-form.'

'Yes, that's what Squ'thetha Rf'thatha said.'

'Speculation: Your neural architecture has been tuned and trained to encode libraries of data from various cultural viewpoints.'

We think about that. It occurs to us that we know what a library is, what data is, and sort of what encode means. Neural architecture seems a bit vague though.

'Huh,' we say thoughtfully.

‘Additional speculation: This may include pan-galactic standards, and novel extrapolations of indigenous culture.'

'From Earth?' For a moment we struggle to think of much culture on Earth. Maybe in the songs some of the marine mammals sing to each other?

'Speculation: Affirmative. Information: The idiom to retrace one's steps is present in the indigenous language known as English.'

'Oh, of course. Human culture.'

'Warning:' the data buddy says. 'The former commander has accessed primary ship engine compartment. Speculation: He may attempt to sabotage this vessel.'

'We should stop him. Can you guide us there?'

'Affirmative. Suggestion: It will be faster to ride there on a service drone.'

Buddy's words conjure up the idea of our resting atop something helpful and mobile. Whatever the Mix did to us, to our “neural architecture”, it's quite wonderful. 'We're not sure what that is,' we tell Buddy, 'but it sounds like fun.'

A moment later the door hisses open and a squat four-wheeled thing zooms in. It comes to a halt beside the commander's chair. It has many appendages folded and stowed back along its length – at least as many we have. Feely grabs Buddy and we scramble over the arm of the chair onto the dorsal surface of the drone, which promptly banks around in a small arc, and carries us back out through the door.

'It is fun!' we tell Buddy as we zip down the corridor, many times faster than we could travel under our own locomotion. It reminds us of when Squ’thetha Rf’thatha carried us on its back aboard the Shaxixith'th, but even speedier.

Suddenly there comes a loud noise, which reverberates throughout the ship, and the drone and corridor seems to lurch.

'What was that?' we yelp, even as the formerly-constant lighting dims and flashes red, and an alarm starts to sound. 'Not this again! We're really starting to hate alarms.'

'Warning:' Buddy tells us. 'Ship is registering a loss of degeneration pressure in injection cylinders.'

'What does that mean?'

'Information...'

'Nevermind! It's the commander, isn't it?'

'Affirmative.'

'Ship?' we call into the air. 'Do you have any countermeasures that can kill your former commander?'

'Anti-personnel devices offline,' comes a voice from a panel in a nearby wall.

The ship rumbles under us again.

'Can you evacuate the engineering section? Flush him into space?'

'Please provide emergency access code.'

'Uh. Buddy?'

'Information: Emergency access code is three, five, zero, aleph, zero, zero.'

'That!'

'Warning,’ the ship says. ‘Sections four through eight are now open to space.'

The service drone rolls to a halt.

'Why have we stopped?' we ask Buddy.

'Information: This drone is no longer able to access primary engine compartment,' the data buddy says. 'Additional information: The former commander is no longer aboard, however he... Suggestion: Brace for -'

* * *

When we wake we are back in the commander's chair on the bridge. A projection of the ship slowly rotates in the air before us, in a mixture of colours that presumably indicate environmental conditions, or severity of damage.

We check all our arms are present and responsive before addressing Buddy, who is still held in Feely’s grip.

'How did we get back here?'

Buddy responds immediately. 'Information: This unit tasked the service drone to return you to the Dhruhagon’s bridge.'

'What happened?'

'Speculation: The commander used undocumented personal explosives to disable the ship's engines. Information: The explosion also interrupted primary inertial fields and triggered minor deccelerative effects, which propelled the service drone carrying you into a bulkhead.’

‘That explains the pain.’

‘Additional information: The Dhruhagon is unable to self-repair the damage sustained to its engines. Supplementary information: The ship is operating on emergency power and heading on a course deviated approximately four degrees from its previous heading.'

'Are we going to miss our destination now? Forecz?'

'Affirmative. Information: The Dhruhagon is now heading core-ward into uninhabited interstellar space and is unable to slow, stop, or turn.'