The hot water scalds my skin, but I don’t care. I stand under the spray, letting it batter my shoulders, washing away the grime, the blood, and the ache that’s settled in my muscles—and somewhere deeper, too. My hands press against the slick tile walls, nails scraping faint lines into the grout before the water erases them. The steam curls around me, thick and suffocating, but I cling to it. It feels safer than the cold, sterile air outside this tiny room.

My hands shake as I run my fingers through my hair, untangling knots and rinsing away the soap. The strands feel wrong—silky smooth, unnaturally soft. And white. White. The sight of it under the harsh bathroom light churns my stomach. My hair wasn’t like this before. My body wasn’t like this before. None of me was like this before.

What am I now?

I scrub at my pale arms, harder than I need to, as if I can scrape away the wrongness. The soap lathers into a slick foam, sliding down into the drain. My fingers catch on the corner of the shower knob, cutting my hand—then I blink, and it’s gone. The skin underneath is flawless, no scar, no blemish. Perfect. Too perfect. I drop the soap in the process, my stomach twisting violently. It’s not normal. None of this is.

I stare at my forearm, my breathing shallow. The pale skin glistens under the water, untouched, unmarked. Too smooth. Too perfect. My nails hover just above it, trembling, before I press them down sharply and drag.

A deep line blooms red across my skin, pain flaring hot and immediate. Blood wells to the surface, running in thin rivulets down to my wrist. The sting is sharp, real—and almost a relief. For a split second, it feels normal. Human.

Then, as I watch, the blood slows. The edges of the wound knit together in small, jerking motions, like something alive is working beneath the surface. The pain doesn’t fade entirely—it dulls to a low throb, echoing in my bones—but the skin pulls closed. My stomach twists violently, bile rising in my throat. The blood that ran down my arm pools at my feet, wasted.

I drag my nails down my forearm again, harder this time, the motion desperate. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, and a fresh bloom of blood follows. The sight is vivid, stark against my pale skin—but even as it runs red, the edges of the wound knit together in jerking, unnatural motions. The sting fades, leaving me lightheaded, my body weak. My stomach churns as the gnawing ache of hunger claws at me, sharp and relentless. It’s costing me—my body is draining itself to keep me whole.

I stumble back, clutching my arm as a cold wave washes over me. My legs feel weak, my head spinning. It’s not normal. None of this is normal. It’s wrong—so profoundly, utterly wrong that the sight of my own skin makes me want to scream.

The water pours over me, steaming and relentless, but I can’t feel it anymore. All I feel is the cold knot of dread coiling tighter and tighter in my chest, the wrongness crawling under my skin, in my veins. I’m not human anymore... I don’t know what I am.

A fractured sob escapes me, raw and broken, as the water streams down my face. The tiles seem to close in, the room shrinking, and I grip the wall like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My knees tremble, threatening to buckle. I press my forehead to the cool tile, trying to steady my breathing, but it only comes in short, ragged gasps.

A memory flares behind my eyes—his face, sharp and urgent, lit by the flicker of gunfire outside. My father’s hands, cold and trembling, as they pushed me into the pod. His voice, cutting through the chaos like a scalpel. Humanity’s hope, he said. The words twist now, bitter and mocking, ricocheting around my skull. Hope for what, Dad? For this? For me?

Another sob breaks loose, and I clutch my hair tightly, yanking until my scalp burns. The sharp pain grounds me for a fleeting moment, but it doesn’t last. The strands slip through my fingers like silk, clinging to my wet shoulders, limp and lifeless. I don’t even feel the water anymore—just the crushing weight pressing down on my chest.

I glance at the fogged mirror through the steam, my vision blurring with tears. My crimson eye glares back at me, glowing faintly, a constant, mocking reminder of what I’ve become. But just beside it, my one blue eye remains—the same soft blue as my father’s. My heart twists painfully at the sight of it, grief surging like a tidal wave. For a moment, I let myself believe that the blue eye connects me to him somehow. That it’s still me—still the daughter he believed in, not this… thing.

“What did you do to me, Dad?” I whisper for the hundredth time, the words choking on a sob. My voice cracks, barely audible over the hiss of water.

I grip the shallow sink beneath the mirror, its cold metal edge biting into my palms as water streams relentlessly over my shoulders. My nails scrape against the rim, slipping uselessly, and I feel the panic rising higher, impossible to contain. My chest tightens, and my breath comes in short, jagged gasps.

The steam clings to me, thick and suffocating, wrapping around my body like a second skin. It crawls into my throat, heavy and choking, making it harder to breathe. I blink hard, trying to focus on the reflection, but my vision wavers. My doll like face stares back, perfect and undeniably not human, overwhelming everything else.

Humanity’s hope. My father’s voice echoes in my mind, a sharp, cutting memory. The words spin faster and faster, louder and louder, until they drown out the rush of the water. I clutch the sink tighter, my knuckles aching, but it’s not enough. The panic claws at my chest, relentless and unyielding.

I close my eyes, desperate for relief, but the words don’t stop. Hope for what, Dad? For this? For me?

My breath catches, and I force my eyes open, meeting my reflection again. The crimson eye glows back at me, alien and unrelenting, but beside it, my single blue eye shines through the haze. Familiar. Steady. It’s all I have left of him—the only part of me that still feels real.

“Get through today,” I whisper, my voice trembling as I cling to the sight of that blue eye. “Just… just today.”

The words are shaky, but they anchor me, grounding me just enough to keep standing.

The words barely hold. The thought feels hollow, fragile, but it’s all I have. The tension in my chest doesn’t ease. The wrongness doesn’t leave.

But I can’t let myself break. Not here. Not yet.

The ship is quiet—too quiet. The only sound is the rhythmic slap of water on the tiles. No hum of machinery. No distant voices. Just me, alone, with the crushing silence pressing in like something alive.

A flicker of movement catches the corner of my eye.

I freeze, my chest tightening as my breath hitches painfully. Slowly, I turn my head toward the bathroom entrance, heart pounding harder with each agonizing second.

Through the swirling steam, I see them—two faint, glowing yellow orbs hovering just beyond the doorframe. It’s tall, too tall to be human. They don’t blink. They don’t move. They just watch.

My breath catches in my throat, the sound a soft, strangled gasp. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out everything else. Those eyes—cold, inhuman, calculating—are locked on me, fixed like a predator on prey. The steam shifts around them, coiling like smoke, but they don’t waver.

And then something moves. A shadow. Too tall, too thin, with long, unnaturally jointed limbs that jerk like a puppet’s as it emerges slightly from the fog. A faint clicking sound cuts through the silence, almost insectile, and my stomach turns violently, bile rising in my throat.

“Who’s there?” My voice is barely a whisper, trembling against the rush of the water.

No answer.

The shadow twitches again, the yellow eyes narrowing slightly. Its limbs jerk forward, not quite stepping, more like dragging through the thick steam. Their angles are all wrong—sharp, broken—and the sound of something wet dragging across the tiles sends a shiver down my spine. My stomach churns, and the oppressive sense of wrongness grows, heavy and suffocating.

My heel slips on the wet tiles as I try to back away. The world tilts violently as I crash down, my head smacking against the edge of the stall. Pain explodes behind my eyes, sharp and blinding, and the taste of blood floods my mouth. I groan, clutching the back of my head, fingers finding slick warmth.

The pain dulls almost immediately, a familiar pang of hunger twisting in my gut. My fingers brush over the wound, and I feel the skin knitting itself back together under my touch. Blood drips from my hair, trailing red streaks down my pale arms, but the gash is already gone.

My breath hitches as I push myself up, my vision swimming. The monster is closer now. Too close. The yellow eyes burn like twin embers in the swirling steam, unblinking, locked on me. Its long limbs twitch, joints crackling unnaturally, and a clawed hand drags along the tile with a faint screech. My chest tightens like a vise, every nerve in my body screaming for me to run—but I can’t move.

The fear overtakes me, primal and overwhelming, and my body gives in to it. A warm wet rush spreads down my legs, mixing with the shower water pooling around me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The word pounds in my head like a drumbeat, frantic and useless. My chest tightens, my limbs lock in place, and I can’t make myself move. Shame and terror burn through me, twisting together into a suffocating knot. Move! Do something! But I’m too frozen, too scared, and the thought spirals, hollow and helpless.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers digging into the slick tiles as I gasp for breath, every muscle locked. The sharp pang of hunger twists deeper, gnawing at my insides, but I don’t dare open my eyes.

Seconds pass, stretching unbearably long.

When I finally force myself to look, it’s gone.

The doorway is empty. The steam curls lazily, undisturbed. The faint hum of the ship returns, but the silence feels heavier than before, pressing down as if it wants to crush me. I blink, wiping at the blood smeared across my cheek with trembling hands. My legs won’t stop shaking, and the memory of those yellow eyes burns at the edges of my vision, unrelenting.

I push myself upright, clutching the edge of the stall for support. My damp hair clings to my neck, streaked faintly with blood, and the ache in my stomach sharpens with every breath. My body feels hollow, weak, as though fear itself is draining me. The creature—it was there. It was.

Wasn’t it?

I swallow hard, my chest tightening as I shuffle toward the doorway. Barefoot and naked, I hesitate at the threshold, the cold metal of the frame biting into my palm. My breath fogs in the chilled air as I peer into the corridor. It’s quiet—empty. I glance left, then right, heart pounding. Nothing. Way too fast, way too quiet. No way it could’ve been human. I should’ve heard something—any sound, a footstep, a breath. But there’s nothing. Just the low hum of the ship and the faint echoes of my ragged breathing.

Shivering, I pull back into the bathroom, my chest heaving as the heavy silence presses in around me again.

It wasn't real?

The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. My chest heaves as I stumble toward the sink, leaning heavily against the counter. The cold metal against my palms steadies me just enough to keep my knees from giving out. You saw it. You know you did.

Or did I?

The question gnaws at the edge of my mind, rising louder with every pounding beat of my heart. What did you do to me, Dad? My fingers tremble as I touch my arm, feeling the smooth, perfect skin where wounds should be. Am I losing it?

The memory of the injection flashes behind my eyes—his trembling hands, his voice saying I was humanity’s hope. Was this what he meant? The thought sends a cold wave through me, bile rising in my throat. If it’s not real... if I imagined it... am I going insane?

I sink back against the shower wall, the warm spray pounding against my shoulders. No, it wasn't real. It couldn't be. I hit my head too many times, that’s all. My fingers press against my temple, gingerly tracing where the skin is smooth, no swelling, no blood. I should have a concussion—or worse. I should be dizzy, weak, seeing stars. Instead, the only thing pounding in my head is fear.

Fear, and the gnawing ache in my stomach. Hunger. The pain sharpens, twisting with every breath. I press a hand against my stomach as if I could stop it, but it only grows worse, clawing at me. It’s not just healing... it’s taking something from me every time.

I force myself to glance into the mirror, only briefly this time, searching for something familiar. My reflection wavers in the fogged surface, distorted and alien. My crimson eye glows faintly, but my gaze skips over it quickly. Instead, I find the other one—blue, steady. Human. My father’s eye.

It steadies me, if only for a moment. He gave this to me too, I think bitterly, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Is this all I have left of you, Dad? A body I don’t understand, a mind I’m starting to lose, and a promise I don’t even know how to keep?

I close my eyes, gripping the edge of the sink as the water pours down over me. The pounding in my chest matches the rushing of the water, relentless. Maybe it’s not real. Maybe it’s the drug, or the head trauma. Maybe I just need rest, food. Something normal. But the memory of those eyes—those cold, unblinking yellow eyes—stays vivid, cutting through every rational thought.

What else did you do to me?

My breathing hitches as I try to push the thought away. The warmth of the shower does nothing to ease the cold dread that clings to me. I feel hollow, disconnected, as though this body isn’t my own. As though I’m slipping away from myself with every second.

“I’m not crazy,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I’m not.”

But even as I say it, the words feel fragile, as though they could shatter under the weight of the truth.

“Sol?” Yates’s voice cuts through the stillness, muffled but close.

The sound jolts me, breaking the spell, and I exhale sharply. My legs are trembling, and my grip on the counter is so tight my knuckles ache. I force myself to move, stepping cautiously toward the door.

“Yeah?” I call out, my voice shaky as I push the bathroom door open again. The hallway is just as empty as before, the sterile lights casting long, unbroken shadows. But now Yates is there, her silhouette emerging from a few doors down, a bundle of folded clothes in her hands.

Yates steps forward, holding a folded bundle of clothes. Her expression is calm but searching, her eyes flicking over me. “I thought I heard something. Are you alright?”

I hesitate, the words tangling in my throat. I could tell her. I could say something about what I saw—or thought I saw. But what would I even say? That I’m seeing things? That I’m losing it?

“I slipped,” I say finally, gripping the towel tighter. “I’m fine.”

Yates doesn’t seem convinced, but she nods and holds out the clothes. “Here. They’re temporary until we get you something better.”

I take them with trembling hands, muttering, “Thanks.”

She lingers for a moment longer, her gaze flicking over my face like she’s trying to read me. “When you’re ready, meet me in the hall. We’ve got a lot to go over.”

“Okay.” I wait until she leaves before letting out a shaky breath. My legs feel weak as I lean against the door, staring down at the simple shorts and t-shirt in my hands. The normalcy of them feels almost absurd after what I just experienced.

I dress quickly, trying to shake the unease crawling under my skin. The mirror catches my eye again, the steam clearing just enough to reveal my reflection. My crimson eye glows faintly in the dim light, and for a split second, I think I see movement in the corner of the frame.

I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs. But there’s nothing there. Just shadows. Just silence.

It’s nothing, I tell myself, stepping into the hall. But the thought feels hollow. The memory of those golden eyes lingers, cold and unblinking, at the edge of my mind. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself that I didn’t see them.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The bathroom door hisses shut behind me, and the warmth of the shower gives way to the biting chill of the corridor. My bare feet hesitate on the cold, sterile floor for a moment before Yates steps forward, holding out a folded pressure suit and a pair of bright red flip-flops adorned with a floral pattern.

“Here,” she says, her tone calm but brisk. “The suit’s temporary, and these—” she gestures to the flip-flops— “will keep you from looking like a bum.”

I take the items with trembling hands, the pressure suit feeling heavier than I expect. My gaze falls to the flip-flops, the garish pattern catching me off guard. My shoulders sag, and I let out a quiet, exasperated sigh.

“Red flowers?” I mutter.

Yates raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Best spare's I've got. Take it or go barefoot.”

I slide my feet into the flip-flops, the soles squeaking faintly as I shift my weight. “Thanks,” I say, clutching the pressure suit against my chest, its fabric cool against my damp T-shirt and shorts.

“Feeling a little more human now?” she asks, her tone light.

“Something like that,” I manage, forcing a faint smile. The temporary clothes feel inadequate—thin and clinging awkwardly to my damp skin—but they’re still better than the gown. I shift the bundle in my arms, the fabric of the suit slipping slightly between my fingers as we walk.

“Good,” Yates says simply. “The captain wants to meet you in the mess. Everyone’s already there.”

The knot in my stomach tightens at her words, but I nod. “How many are awake?”

“Ten total,” Yates says, starting down the hall. “That’s including Jericho, the ship’s AI. A skeleton crew.”

The phrase sticks with me. Skeleton crew. It feels too fitting, like we’re the bones of something much larger, stripped down and hollow. I glance at the narrow windows lining the corridor, each one offering a view into the cryo chambers. Frost clings to the glass, and I can just make out faint silhouettes inside—the rest of the ship’s passengers, frozen in time.

“Why so few?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.

“Resources,” Yates replies. “Food, water, air. The fewer people awake, the more we can conserve. Four teams rotate throughout the year—A, B, C, and D. We handle three months awake, then back to cryo. Team B will take over after us, and so on.”

I glance back toward the frosted windows. “Do we ever meet them? The other teams?”

“Only during the switch,” Yates says. “When one team comes out of cryo, the other goes in. It’s brief—just enough time to hand off updates and get out of the pods.”

Her voice is calm, steady, but the weight of her words sinks into my chest. I won’t ever know most of the people aboard this ship. My world, for the foreseeable future, will be reduced to these halls and the people currently waiting for me in the mess.

“What do they all do?” I ask, desperate to pull my thoughts away from the isolation creeping in.

Yates sighs lightly, then starts listing off names like she’s reciting a roster. “Captain Warren leads Team A and the ship as a whole. He’s one of four captains, but this is his ship more than anyone else’s. He keeps everything running, makes the hard calls. Respect him, and he’ll respect you.”

I swallow hard, the weight of her words settling heavily in my chest. “What’s he like?”

“Experienced,” she says after a moment. “He’s been on Jericho since launch, but before that, he served on Gorlion, the only ship to ever return to Earth after its fusion core began to fail. Warren’s traveled further than any captain alive, and he’s the one who decides what happens on this team. Stern but fair. Don’t waste his time.”

I nod, though my chest tightens further at the thought of facing him. “And the others?”

“Lieutenant Commander Evelyn Vega,” Yates continues. “She’s the navigator and quartermaster. Second-in-command. She handles logistics, navigation, and planning—anything that keeps the ship and crew functional. Calm, sharp, steady. You’ll like her.”

I cling to those words, hoping they hold some truth.

“Reid’s the engineer,” Yates says next, her lips twitching slightly. “Handles all the ship’s systems and keeps it running. He’s laid-back, a bit of a jokester, but he knows his stuff. You’ll be training with him.”

My chest eases slightly at her tone. It sounds like Reid might be the closest thing to a friendly face in this lineup.

“Holt handles security,” Yates says, her tone sharpening. “Tactical and combat training. He’s quiet, disciplined, and doesn’t waste words. Don’t expect him to go easy on you.”

I glance at her, unsure whether to feel reassured or terrified. She doesn’t elaborate.

“Garin is the lead scientist,” she continues, her voice tightening slightly. “He specializes in physics, AI systems, and anything else technical. Brilliant, but… abrasive. Don’t take it personally.”

I grimace. That’s going to be hard.

“Jimmy’s the general laborer,” Yates adds. “He helps Reid with mechanical repairs, handles manual tasks. He’s young, eager to prove himself, but… well, he’s impressionable. Spends too much time around Garin.”

I frown, not liking the sound of that. I count in my head. Warren, Vega, Reid, Holt, Garin, Jimmy. That’s six. Plus Yates and me. Eight. Nine, counting Jericho.

“And who’s the last?” I ask.

“Ashly,” Yates says, her voice softening slightly. “She’s one of the science team. Works under Garin, specializes in biology and genetics. Quiet, kind, but… she keeps to herself. For good reason.”

The unspoken meaning hangs heavy in the air between us, a weight I don’t want to disturb. I don’t press further, though my mind lingers on the way Yates said it—careful, almost protective. It doesn’t take much to guess that Garin isn’t exactly easy to work with. His sharp demeanor makes that clear enough.

Yates glances at me, perhaps sensing my hesitation. “Ashly and Jimmy are the youngest on the crew. They prefer to go by their first names—keeps things a little more casual for them. Everyone else sticks to last names. It’s just… how it’s always been.”

I nod slowly, the distinction settling into place. It makes sense now—why their names were softer in tone when spoken. There’s something different about being called by your first name out here, a faint tether to the person you were before you boarded this ship. It’s less formal, maybe even a little comforting. I can’t help wondering if it’s something they cling to, surrounded by people who wear their roles like armor.

“And Jericho?” I ask, glancing at the walls around us.

“The ship’s AI,” Yates says simply. “Handles navigation, inventory, and diagnostics. It’s a tool, nothing more.”

Her tone leaves no room for debate, but I can’t help feeling like there’s more to it than she’s letting on.

I hesitate, my grip tightening on the suit in my arms. “Why am I awake?”

Yates stops, turning to face me. Her gaze softens slightly, but her voice remains firm. “That’s for the captain to explain. He’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. The weight of her words doesn’t ease the twisting in my stomach, but I force myself to move forward when she gestures down the hall.

“Just listen,” she says, her tone gentler now. “And be respectful. Warren’s a good man, but he’s got a lot on his shoulders. We all do.”

Her words settle uneasily in my chest, but I nod again. “Okay.”

“Good,” Yates says, turning away. “Come on. They’re waiting.”

The mess hall door hisses open, and I step inside, the knot in my stomach tightening as six heads swivel toward me—though Garin doesn’t even glance up from his cards. The air is warmer here, tinged with the faint smell of coffee, and something heavier—like yeast or beer. I pause just inside, gripping the temporary pressure suit tighter against my chest as the door slides shut behind me, sealing me in with the skeleton crew of Jericho.

Two gazes linger on me longer than the others. I can only assume they’re Jimmy and Reid from Yates’s descriptions. Reid’s grin widens slightly, his mirrored sunglasses doing little to hide the way his gaze sweeps over me—my damp T-shirt clinging to my skin, the shorts leaving my legs bare. Jimmy’s eyes flicker over me briefly, less overt, but still noticeable. It’s not outright hostility or judgment, but there’s something there that makes my skin prickle.

Scrutiny, maybe. Or something else.

I shift uncomfortably under their attention, my arms tightening around the bundle of the pressure suit. The fabric feels heavier now, more like a shield than just something I’m carrying. The others, at least, return quickly to what they were doing, their brief glances devoid of the same lingering weight.

The room is larger than I expected, with clean, metallic walls reflecting the stark overhead lighting. There are hints of humanity tucked in the corners: a coffee pot gurgling softly on a counter, faded posters of Earth’s oceans and mountains, and a scuffed deck of cards spread across the center table. The sight of them gathered here—moving, talking, living—makes the ship feel a little less like a tomb.

Yates steps in behind me, nodding toward the room. “This is our team.”

I follow her gesture, my eyes darting to the nearest group. Reid is the first one I notice, leaning back in his chair with a grin as he shuffles the deck of cards. He’s short and stocky, with messy blond hair sticking out from under a pair of mirrored sunglasses that seem absurdly out of place under the harsh lighting. His Hawaiian shirt—loud and clashing—is unbuttoned just enough to reveal the black pressure suit beneath, clinging to his barrel-shaped torso.

“Beer or coffee, Garin? Both?” Reid’s voice is light, almost playful, as he slides a mug and a bottle across the table toward the man sitting next to him.

Garin doesn’t answer immediately, his pale fingers adjusting the cuffs of his pristine lab coat. His dark hair is slicked back, every strand meticulously in place, and his sharp features are set in a look of irritation that feels permanent. Even the way he sits—straight-backed, arms folded—screams arrogance.

“Neither,” he replies coolly, though he pushes the mug toward Ashly without looking at her. “Take it. You look like you need it.”

Ashly’s fingers curl around the mug hesitantly. She’s small, barely taller than me, with delicate features and dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. The oversized lab coat she wears seems to swallow her frame, and when she glances at me, there’s a flicker of something kind in her expression. But it fades quickly as Garin’s gaze darts her way, sharp and cutting. She lowers her head, her shoulders hunching inward.

The fourth figure at the table, Jimmy, looks up from his hand of cards. He’s younger than the rest, maybe early twenties, with brown hair tied into a messy man bun and faint circles under his eyes. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but there’s a stiffness to him that doesn’t match his casual posture. He glances at me briefly, his expression unreadable, before his eyes dart back to Garin as if seeking approval.

“That’s our science team,” Yates murmurs beside me. “Garin, Ashly, and Jimmy. Physics, biology, and the grunt work.”

Reid deals a card to Garin, who doesn’t even look at it, then glances over his shoulder at me. “Hey, you’re the new kid, right? Beer’s terrible, but it’s better than the coffee.”

“Reid,” Yates warns, her tone sharp.

“What?” He holds up his hands in mock innocence, the cards still fanned between his fingers. “Just trying to be welcoming.”

“Stick to cards,” she replies curtly, leading me further into the room.

At the far end of the hall, two figures stand hunched over a glowing console embedded in the table. A hovering drone buzzes between them, projecting a translucent map of the quadrant. The woman—Vega, I guess—is focused on the display, her short dark hair streaked with gray catching the light as she tilts her head. She wears a navy jacket over her black pressure suit, the silver insignia on her collar marking her as someone important. Her hazel eyes flick between the map and the hovering drone with sharp precision, her lips moving as she mutters something too low to hear.

Beside her stands the captain.

Captain Warren doesn’t look up immediately, his dark brows furrowed as he consults the display. His black hair, peppered with gray, is cropped short, and his beard—more gray than black—frames a face lined with experience. He’s tall, his broad frame filling out the leather jacket that drapes over his pressure suit. There’s an intensity to him, even in this moment of quiet focus, as if every thought is calculated, deliberate. He gestures toward the drone, and it flickers slightly, the map shifting in response.

“That’s Jericho,” Yates whispers, nodding toward the drone.

My stomach twists. The AI. I’d known my father had worked on artificial intelligence, but seeing it in action—its cold efficiency, its unblinking presence—makes my skin crawl.

Warren finally looks up, his eyes locking onto me with a weight that’s impossible to ignore. His gaze is sharp, assessing, but not unkind. He straightens, the quiet authority in his posture filling the room.

“Voss,” he says simply. His voice is deep, steady, carrying an unspoken expectation of obedience. “Come here.”

I move forward on shaky legs, my grip tightening on the suit in my arms. As I approach the table, the rest of the crew begins to shift, their attention turning toward me fully. Vega steps aside, her gaze meeting mine briefly. There’s something almost reassuring in her calm demeanor, though she doesn’t offer a smile.

“Let’s make this quick,” Warren says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glances around the room, addressing the crew as much as me. “This is Sol Voss. She’s the newest member of Team A. You’ll train her in your fields as needed. You all know what that entails.”

He looks back at me. “Reid, chief engineer. Keeps the ship running.”

Reid raises his beer bottle in a mock toast. “I’ll go easy on you, kid.”

Warren’s brow furrows slightly, but he continues. “Lieutenant Holt, security and combat training.”

My eyes flick to the tall man standing near the corner, quietly assembling the pieces of a sleek black firearm. Holt is clean-shaven, his dark eyes sharp and unflinching. He doesn’t acknowledge me beyond a slight nod, his attention already back on his work.

“Lieutenant Commander Vega, navigator and quartermaster,” Warren says, gesturing to the woman beside him.

“Welcome aboard,” Vega says, her voice steady and professional. Her hazel eyes meet mine again, and for a moment, the knot in my stomach loosens.

“Yates, medical and counseling,” Warren continues, nodding toward her.

“We’ll get you sorted,” Yates says reassuringly.

“Garin, lead scientist,” Warren says, his tone hardening slightly. “Ashly, biology and genetics specialist and his assistant.”

Ashly offers a timid nod, her hands wrapped tightly around the coffee mug in front of her. She looks like she’d rather disappear than meet my eyes.

Garin doesn’t bother looking at me, his attention fixed on his cards.

“Jimmy, general labor and our mechanic,” Warren finishes.

Jimmy glances up briefly, his expression unreadable, then looks away just as quickly.

Warren’s gaze returns to me, his expression unreadable. “For now, listen, learn, and don’t waste anyone’s time. Understood?”

I nod quickly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Warren says, turning back to the glowing display. The drone hovering above him adjusts its projection, the map shifting slightly. “We’ll start with the basics tomorrow. For now, get settled and get the pressure suit fitted. It’s critical you wear it at all times when on duty—if we lose pressure, it can save your life.”

I nod, clutching the suit tighter against my chest. I know that already. My dad had been one of the engineers behind the pressure suit’s design—a revolutionary nano-weave packed with life support systems, climate control, and armor. Its auto-deploying helmet had been the innovation that saved countless lives in the vacuum of space.

But that’s not the question burning in my mind. My throat feels dry as I glance toward the other crew members, all of them returning to their tasks. My gaze shifts back to Warren, his focus already back on the map. I take a shaky breath and step closer.

“Sir?” My voice feels small in the vast room, but it’s enough to make him look at me again.

“Yes?”

“Why…” I hesitate, my grip tightening on the suit. “Why did you wake me up? Out of all the people in cryo, why me?”

The room falls still for a moment. Even the faint clink of Holt assembling his weapon halts briefly before resuming at a slower pace. Warren’s sharp eyes lock onto mine, and for a heartbeat, I regret asking. But then he leans back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I figured you’d want to know sooner rather than later,” he says, his tone steady. “Yates didn’t tell you?”

“She… she mentioned the rotation,” I say quickly, “and conserving resources. But… why me? Specifically?”

Warren exhales through his nose, glancing briefly at Vega. She steps back, giving him space to speak but staying close enough to listen. The other crew members seem to tune out the conversation, though I can feel the weight of a few curious gazes lingering.

“Our last general laborer died last cycle,” Warren says plainly, his voice low but unwavering. “Accident during a repair. We had no choice but to redistribute his duties among the team. That worked for a while, but it stretched us thin. When it came time to wake the next rotation, we needed someone who could cover gaps without pulling specialists from their rotations.”

He pauses, letting that sink in before continuing. “You’re young. You’ve got potential. And frankly, your presence was the logical choice. You can train across fields—engineering, manual repair, science support, even combat if necessary. That versatility is invaluable out here.”

I nod slowly, though my stomach churns. He makes it sound practical—logical. But it still doesn’t answer the bigger question. “Why wake me so early? Hundreds of years before we’re due at Haven?”

Warren’s expression softens slightly, but his tone remains firm. “This isn’t Earth, Sol. We’re not in a position to hand out free rides. Cryo pods are a privilege, one you’ll need to earn. If you serve your ten years—biologically speaking—you’ll more than pay for your place on this ship. Forty years may sound like a lot, but you’ll be awake for less than a quarter of that. And when it’s done, you’ll have real experience to show for it.”

My chest tightens, the weight of his words pressing down on me. “And if I don’t?”

“That’s not an option,” he says bluntly. “We’re all here to do our part. This ship doesn’t run on good intentions—it runs on discipline, effort, and sacrifice. Your father understood that.”

His mention of my dad stirs something raw in me. “My father?”

Warren nods, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Dr. Julian Voss was a great man. His work on AI systems, pressure suits, cryo stabilization—hell, the very FTL drive that powers Jericho—changed the game for all of us. He was one of the lead architects of this ship, Sol. Without him, Jericho wouldn’t even exist.”

His voice deepens, filled with a personal weight. “Your father didn’t just design technology; he pioneered the future. Cybernetic enhancements, gene editing—those projects weren’t just theoretical. The gene editing, in particular, saved this mission before it even began. It allowed us to survive the extremes of cryo—stabilized the body, reduced cellular degradation. Without it, half the people on this ship wouldn’t have made it through the first cycle.”

He leans forward slightly, his voice softening. “And that’s not all. His work extended far beyond survival. That gene therapy also slowed aging. Not by a little—by almost half. The people on this ship are living proof of his legacy. Generations ago, we would’ve needed thousands of crew to make this journey. Now, with extended lifespans and cryo rotations, fewer people can go further, longer.”

Warren’s tone grows heavier. “He believed in humanity’s survival, Sol. But more than that, he believed in you. He spoke of you often—always with pride. To him, you weren’t just his daughter. You were the future, the bridge between everything he worked for and everything we’re striving toward.”

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to go away. “I don’t even know what he wanted from me. He didn’t tell me—he just…” My words trail off, the memory of his hands shoving me into the pod, his voice saying humanity’s hope, cutting through the haze.

Warren leans forward slightly, his voice softening. “You don’t have to figure it all out now. But if you want to honor his legacy, start by pulling your weight here. Prove to yourself—and to the rest of this crew—that you’re more than just Julian Voss’s daughter.”

I nod, though the weight in my chest doesn’t ease. His words are pragmatic, even encouraging, but they still leave me feeling hollow. Like a cog in a machine, expected to turn without question.

“Jericho’s been on autopilot for decades,” Warren continues, gesturing toward the drone hovering near the map. “The AI handles most of the ship’s systems. But now, we’re entering uncharted space—beyond the last transmissions from the earlier colony ships. This is the frontier, Sol. We need everyone at their best. That includes the Princess of Humanity.”

His words catch me off guard, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. For a fleeting moment, the strict, no-nonsense captain lets something softer slip through. He winks—quick, subtle, but undeniably there.

I blink, momentarily disarmed. It’s the first sign I’ve seen that he isn’t all business, a crack in the polished armor of authority. But the weight of his words still presses on me, heavier than the smirk can lift.

I glance at the drone, its glowing blue sensors flickering as it processes some unseen command. My stomach twists again, the sight of it sending a shiver down my spine. My father’s work. His legacy. And now, apparently, mine.

“Yes, sir,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Now, off you go,” Warren says, his gaze returning to the glowing map on the table. He straightens his posture, his hands clasping behind his back as he shifts his focus to the drone hovering above. His tone is firm but not unkind, the faintest hint of finality edging his words. “You’ve got what you need for now. Get settled. Tomorrow, your new life starts.”

He doesn’t look at her again, already immersed in the map’s shifting data and issuing quiet commands to Jericho. It’s clear he’s done with the conversation, his attention back on the task at hand, leaving no room for further questions.

I nod again, clutching the suit tighter as Yates steps forward to guide me out of the room. My thoughts swirl as we leave the mess, the door sliding shut behind us with a soft hiss. I don’t look back at the crew, though their faces—some curious, some indifferent, some downright cold—linger in my mind.

But more than any of them, it’s Warren’s words that echo in my thoughts. Honor his legacy. Prove yourself.

And beneath it all, the memory of those glowing yellow eyes, unblinking and inhuman, waits at the edge of my mind like a shadow I can’t escape.