The corridor stretches in eerie silence as I follow Yates, my footsteps soft against the metallic floor. Every shadow feels sharper, every corner darker. I glance over my shoulder again, half-expecting—what? I don’t even know. My pulse quickens, the hum of the ship’s systems doing little to soothe the unease crawling up my spine.
I linger on the next shadowed corner, my mind conjuring those eyes—sharp, predatory, glowing yellow. The memory sends a shiver through me, and I clench my fists to keep steady.
“You should eat,” Yates says gently, breaking the silence. She hands me a pre-packaged meal, her expression kind but searching. “It’ll help. Cryo takes a toll.”
I take the package, clutching it tightly as we round another bend. My gaze flicks to the walls, the faint glow of overhead lights, the corners where shadows pool. Every creak in the walls makes my breath hitch.
“Reid will stop by later to calibrate your suit,” Yates continues, her tone steady. “He can be a bit much, but he’s good at what he does. Just… try to get settled.”
I nod mechanically, my grip tightening on the package. A part of me wants to ask if she’s seen anything strange—if she’s seen them—but the thought knots my stomach. What if she thinks I’m losing it? Even with her kindness, the fear of what she might see in me keeps me silent. The last thing I need is for her to think I’ve lost my mind.
Yates pauses at a door marked with an ID plate: Voss, S. My chest tightens at the sight of it. My father’s name, my name, now stamped on a room I barely recognize as mine. Yates presses the panel, and the door hisses open. Inside, the room is small but functional, the sterile walls lit by a soft, dim glow. A narrow cot sits against one wall, and a desk is built into the other, a sleek monitor embedded into its surface.
“This is yours,” Yates says, stepping aside. Her voice softens further as she adds, “If you need anything, Jericho can help. Or… you can ask me.” She gives me a small, reassuring smile, one that feels almost too genuine for this cold, hollow place.
I hesitate in the doorway, my fingers tightening on the edge of the meal package. My eyes flick to the corners of the room, half-expecting to see something lurking there, crouched in the dark.
“Thanks,” I murmur, though the word feels hollow. Her kindness only makes the knot in my chest tighten. If she knew what I’d seen—what I think I’ve seen—would she look at me the same way?
Yates nods, seeming to sense my unease. “Get some rest, okay? You’ve been through a lot. Take care of yourself, Sol.” Without another word, she turns and disappears down the hall, her footsteps fading into the distance.
The room feels cold, quieter than I like. I set the food on the desk and glance at the monitor. As the door slides shut behind me, a voice crackles softly to life.
“Previous occupant: Wilks. Status: Expired. New occupant: Sol Voss.”
The mechanical precision of Jericho’s voice sends a shiver down my spine. The word “expired” lingers unnaturally in the air, like an echo that refuses to fade. My stomach churns, but I shake my head, trying to push the unease away.
“Great,” I mutter dryly. The AI doesn’t respond.
I move toward the cot, my eyes skimming the sparse room. The space is clean—too clean. No trace of the previous occupant remains except for the faint scent of disinfectant that clings to the air. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs feeling weak beneath me. The cot creaks faintly under my weight, its surface stiff and unfamiliar.
My hand brushes against the pillow, and I freeze. Something hard presses beneath the fabric, sharp against my fingertips. Slowly, I lift the pillow. Beneath it lies a photograph, its edges worn and slightly curled. My breath hitches as I pick it up, the cool surface of the paper sending a chill through me.
The image shows a group of people, their faces turned toward the camera. My father stands at the center, his familiar sharp features softened by a faint smile. Beside him is a dark-skinned man I vaguely recognize. My chest sinks as I realize it’s Wilks. I’ve seen him before, in the lab when I was younger, though his name hadn’t meant much to me back then. The rest of the group—Garin, Ashly, and a few others—are arranged around them, their expressions a mix of determination and weariness, the weight of their work evident in their tired eyes.
But one face is scratched out. Deep, jagged lines mar the photo, obliterating the features of the woman standing near my father. My chest tightens as I stare at the violent defacement, the scratch marks uneven, as though carved in desperation.
It doesn’t make sense—why deface just one face, and so aggressively? My fingers hover over the image, tracing the damaged surface. A chill creeps through me as something about the silhouette catches my eye. The curve of the shoulders, the way her stance mirrors her focus—it feels familiar. Too familiar. My mind races, dredging up a fragmented memory.
I know this figure. Or… I think I do.
Knight.
The thought strikes like a thunderclap, sharp and undeniable. Dr. Knight—my father’s assistant, his protégé, the one who was always by his side. I’d admired her once, drawn to the way she seemed larger than life in my younger eyes—her almond-shaped eyes, her unnervingly perfect features, enhanced in ways that made her seem almost otherworldly. But now, the memory carries an edge of unease, tainted by a growing suspicion.
Why would her face be the one scratched out? And why with such anger?
I stare at the photo, my pulse quickening. The jagged lines over her face feel less like an act of vandalism and more like a warning. But from whom? And why? My father’s faint smile mocks me from the center of the image, as if he’s keeping the answers just out of reach.
My fingers tremble as I turn the photo over, my heart pounding. The back is marked with hurried, uneven handwriting, as though the writer had been shaking when they scrawled the words:
I’m so sorry for what we have done. Nature never meant for anything to live forever, let alone become… this. Lab 3 must stay sealed. Live your life. The horrors in Lab 3 should be forgotten. Evolution is better left to nature and god. Abandon your father’s legacy—I beg you.
The words hit me like a cold wave, each phrase heavier than the last. The plea to abandon my father’s legacy twists in my chest, raw and cutting. His face in the photo seems to mock me, his faint smile a haunting reminder of everything I don’t understand.
My thoughts race. Lab 3. What horrors? What did they do in there? And why would someone want me to forget my father’s work? The questions churn, unanswered, as I clutch the note tightly.
A sharp knock at the door jolts me, and I shove the photo and note under the pillow, my breath quickening as I turn toward the sound.
“Hey, you in there?” Reid’s voice calls through the door, light and easy. “Didn’t want to barge in. Figured I’d give you a minute.”
I exhale shakily, pushing myself to my feet. My heart still hasn’t settled after finding the photo. I press the panel, and the door slides open to reveal Reid, holding a six-pack of beer in one hand and a small flask in the other. His grin is wide, disarming, and a little too confident. The mirrored sunglasses reflect my startled expression right back at me.
“Brought a housewarming gift,” he says, lifting the beer with a crooked grin. “And this right here?” He waves the flask like it’s some grand treasure. “Our very own moonshine. Made with love and questionable decisions. Don’t tell the captain.”
I blink, trying to match his easy demeanor. “Thanks,” I manage, stepping aside to let him in. My pulse is still racing, but I force myself to act normal.
Reid strolls in like he owns the place, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Not bad. It’s a lot cleaner than my place,” he says, setting the beer on the desk. His eyes flick to the cot, and he smirks. “Stiff as hell, though. But you get used to it. Or you don’t. Either way, beer helps.”
It’s only now, standing this close, that I really notice him. The mirrored sunglasses catch the light, and for a moment, I see my own reflection again staring back—wide-eyed and disheveled. It throws me off balance. Beneath the glasses and the ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, though, I notice something else. His face is rugged, the kind of handsome that sneaks up on you when you’re not expecting it. Dirty blonde hair falls in uneven waves over his forehead, and a faint five o’clock shadow frames his jawline, adding a roughness that somehow fits him. He’s heavier than I thought, broad across the chest and shoulders, but it suits him, giving him a solidness that feels oddly reassuring.
He hands me a beer, and I take it without thinking, the cold metal grounding me. “Beer helps,” I echo, my voice more flat than I intended.
His smirk softens slightly as he leans against the desk, the bright print of his shirt clashing hilariously with the sleek black pressure suit underneath. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, it works. He is in his early 30s, I guess, though with how long people can live now, who knows? He carries himself like someone who’s lived through enough to earn that swagger, like the universe threw its worst at him and he laughed it off. That grin of his—half confidence, half trouble—is as disarming as it is irritating.
“Trust me,” he says, cracking open a beer and taking a sip. “This stuff’s the only way to survive a place like this.”
I almost laugh. I’m not sure if it’s the promise of beer or the easy confidence in his voice, but for a second, the weight pressing on my chest feels a little lighter.
I let out a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Welcome aboard,” he says with a grin, raising his beer in a casual toast. I hesitate, then take a small sip. The bitterness makes me grimace, but the warmth that follows spreads quickly, unexpected and oddly soothing. It’s a small comfort I hadn’t realized I needed.
“So,” he says, leaning against the desk, his grin as steady as ever, “how’s your first day back from the dead?”
I snort softly, swirling the can in my hands. “I’d give it about two stars so far. The accommodations are... well shit, the food’s terrible, and the company’s…” I glance at him, the faintest smile tugging at my lips. “Well, jury’s still out.”
He chuckles, tipping his drink toward me. “Fair enough. Gotta say, you’re handling it better than most would.”
I shrug, but the photo and note sit like a weight in my chest. “It’s… a lot,” I admit, taking another sip to buy a moment. The beer doesn’t taste any better the second time, but at least it gives my hands something to do. “Still trying to figure out which way is up.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Reid leans back against the desk, watching me over the rim of his beer. “Hell of a thing, waking up here. Especially after that long in cryo.”
I glance at him, unsure how to respond. His grin softens as he gestures vaguely toward me with the flask of moonshine. “But hey, you came out okay. I’ve seen cryo mess people up the first time they go under. Waking up wrong, stuff out of alignment… Let’s just say I’ve seen better outcomes.”
The way he says it makes my stomach twist, though his tone stays light. “What do you mean, ‘better outcomes’?”
He shrugs, taking a long drink before answering. “Most people are fine, but sometimes… things go sideways. Muscle degradation, memory gaps, personality shifts. And that’s just the physical stuff. Doesn’t happen often, but when it does? It’s bad.”
I sit with that for a moment, unsure whether to feel lucky or more unnerved. “And someone is just telling me this now?”
His grin returns, lopsided and a little too confident. “You’re fine, Princess. Trust me, I’d tell you if I thought you were about to fall apart. Besides, I’m more impressed than anything. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re still standing. Cryo’s not for everyone, but you…” He gestures again, this time toward my hair. “Hell, even the white hair works. Adds to the whole ‘larger than life’ thing you’ve got going.”
I snort softly ignoring the nickname, looking away as heat creeps up my neck. “Glad I pass inspection.”
“Oh, definitely,” he says, taking another swig. “Still, gotta admit I was a little worried about you waking up here.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, keeping my voice light even as the weight in my chest presses harder.
“Jericho’s not exactly what I’d call a smooth ride. Lots of history here, and not all of it’s pretty.”
I frown, the teasing edge in his voice replaced by something heavier. “History? What kind of history?”
Reid hesitates, his gaze dropping to the beer in his hands. “You know how it is on these ships. Old stories, strange accidents… Every colony ship’s got its share of ghosts. Jericho’s no different.”
“Ghosts,” I echo, forcing a small laugh. “What, is this place haunted or something?”
He chuckles, though it sounds forced. “Something like that.”
I take another sip, my mind racing. His tone sets me on edge, and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. “Like Lab 3?”
Reid freezes mid-sip, his brow furrowing slightly. The easy grin fades as he lowers the flask. “Lab 3, huh?” He studies me for a moment, his voice quieter now. “That’s a hell of a place to start.”
I force myself to hold his gaze. “I found a photo,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It was under the pillow. Someone scratched out one of the faces. Do you know who it was?”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then he lets out a low whistle, setting the beer and flask down. “Damn. That was probably Wilks’s photo. This was his room before… well, you know. Thought Jimmy was supposed to clear it out.” He shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Kid’s got a real knack for half-assing things. Figures he’d miss something like that.”
“Wilks,” I repeat, the name twisting something deep in my stomach.
“Yeah.” He crosses his arms, his tone softening just slightly. “Smart guy. Worked with your old man back when this ship was shiny and new. One of the original science team.”
“When was the photo taken?” I press.
“First few months after takeoff. All the science teams were awake back then. They were working on something big.” He hesitates, his grin fading a little. “After that, they rotated into cryo.”
“But not my father,” I say quietly.
“No,” he admits. “Your dad went under with the rest about a year in, but his pod malfunctioned. He never woke up.” His voice dips, almost apologetic. “Cryo’s tricky. The first freeze is always the riskiest—some people just don’t take to it, and you don’t know until you try. Most of us were tested before this trip. Your dad wasn’t. Guess they thought it was worth the gamble, given who he was.”
I frown, the weight of his words settling over me. “And when his pod failed?”
“They had to reshuffle everything,” Reid explains, his voice quieter now. “The captains held a meeting—the first wake cycle—since they were the only ones conscious at the time. They decided to wake Knight from deep cryo on the colony ship to take over Garin's place on B-Team. And Garin got bumped up to head scientist and lead on A-Team.”
“Garin?” The name tastes bitter in my mouth.
“Yeah. That one surprised everyone,” Reid says with a short laugh. “Most people thought Knight would step in as lead scientist, but the captains voted Garin in. Three out of four, and Warren was one of them.”
“When?” I press, narrowing my eyes.
Reid hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was the first time for the captains, but the crew didn’t find out until the second time everyone was awake together, about 25 years in. First was launch, then the captains woke to deal with your dad’s pod failure a year into the trip. They handled that on their own. The second time the crew was all up was for major ship repairs—25 years in. And the last time? Just recently. About a year ago.”
“What happened during that last wake cycle?” I ask, the unease in my chest deepening.
Reid’s grin falters, his usual levity dimmed. “Wilks died,” he says flatly. “About a year back, just before we went under again. Big confusion after that. The science teams were all there, but…” He trails off, his tone shifting to something more cautious. “Let’s just say, whatever happened in Lab 3, they’re tight-lipped about it.”
“Lab 3,” I echo, my voice barely a whisper.
Reid leans forward, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “The captains kept it hush-hush. Even I don’t know the full story, and I usually hear everything. All I know is that something went wrong, and no one’s been inside Lab 3 since. Garin, Knight, and Ashly were there originally, part of the team when it happened. Whatever they saw or did… well, they’re not talking.”
“Why wouldn’t they talk?” I ask, my pulse quickening. The way he says it makes it sound deliberate, like they’re keeping something terrible to themselves.
Reid hesitates, his expression tightening for the first time since the conversation began. “No fucking idea… I’m just the one who locked it,” he admits quietly, glancing toward the door as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Me, or one of the engineers from the other teams—we’re the only ones who can access it. Warren told me to seal it up after everything went down. Said it was for everyone’s safety.”
“What happened?” My voice feels too loud in the quiet room, the weight of his words pressing down on me.
He shakes his head, his grin flickering like a faulty light. “I don’t know the details. They didn’t let me in on that part. Just told me to secure it and make sure no one goes back in. But…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to the floor. “When I was locking it, I thought I heard something. Like… movement. On the other side.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Movement?” I echo, my breath catching in my throat.
He nods, his eyes narrowing slightly as if recalling the moment. “Yeah. Could’ve been nothing—ship creaks all the time, right? But it wasn’t the kind of sound you forget. It was… subtle, but off. Like someone shifting around inside. Maybe it was just the air systems kicking on, or some random mechanical glitch, but it didn’t feel like that. It felt alive.”
The words hang between us, heavy and unwelcome. My chest tightens, and a shiver runs down my spine. “Did you tell anyone?”
He snorts softly, but there’s no humor in it. “What would I say? ‘Hey, Captain, I think there’s something moving around in the haunted lab’? Yeah, that’d go over real well.” His grin fades, and his voice lowers. “Besides, there’s already enough paranoia on this ship without me making it worse. People have been whispering about Lab 3 for years.”
I frown, leaning in slightly. “Whispering about what?”
“There are rumors,” he says after a pause, his tone heavy. “They say the science teams ran experiments on people. Like your father, but… not the same. It wasn’t just data or controlled tests—it was the crew. Some of them volunteered. Others didn’t.”
My pulse pounds in my ears, my breath catching in my throat. “That doesn’t make sense,” I murmur, though my voice wavers. “Why would they—?”
“Who knows?” Reid cuts me off, his jaw tightening. “Maybe they thought they were doing the right thing. Or maybe they didn’t care. Whatever it was, it scared the rest of the crew shitless. That’s why no one goes near that door. It’s not just locked—it’s buried.”
I swallow hard, but the knot in my chest only tightens. “Why not ask Ashly what they were working on? Or Garin?”
Reid’s jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment before responding. “Ashly?” he says with a short laugh, though it carries no humor. “Good luck with that. Whatever happened in there tore her up. She’s wracked with guilt, and even bringing it up is enough to rattle her. She’ll either shut down or freak out, neither of which gets you closer to the truth.”
“And Garin?”
“Won’t tell you shit,” Reid says bluntly. “He’s too full of himself to admit to anything. Acts like he’s above it all. If you push him, he’ll just dismiss you like he does everyone else.”
I frown, the weight of his words sinking in. “What about Knight?”
Reid’s expression shifts, almost reluctant. “Knight’s still in cryo with B-Team,” he says quietly. “They’re not scheduled to rotate back for another three months. Until then, she’s not answering any questions, either.”
The name hangs in the air, heavy yet not unfamiliar. Knight. I knew her well. She was my father’s assistant after all, always at his side in the lab. My memories of her are tangled with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the cold gleam of surgical tools. Knight wasn’t just efficient; she was methodical, detached. The way her almond-shaped eyes studied me—calm and clinical—left no room for doubt. To her, I wasn’t a child. I was data, a living experiment she handled with calculated precision.
I remember the quiet murmur of her voice as she recorded notes, the subtle click of a pen against her clipboard as she cataloged my reactions. She never hesitated. Not when I cried. Not when I begged. It was always, “For progress,” or, “Your father’s legacy depends on this.” Her words felt like steel, cold and unyielding. She believed in my father’s work, believed in me as his greatest creation. But there were moments when her gaze lingered just a second too long, and I’d catch a flicker of something else. Guilt? Doubt? Or was it simply the calculation of risks versus rewards?
The experiments were often invasive—needles piercing too deep, chemicals burning as they flowed through my veins. Knight stood by, monitoring every twitch, every gasp, every tear, her expression unreadable. My father was there too, of course, murmuring reassurances, promises that this was for the greater good. But it was Knight who made it happen. Knight who prepped the syringes, adjusted the machines, kept me sedated when I screamed.
She wasn’t cruel, not exactly. But there was something deeply unsettling about her detachment. Even now, the memory of her hands—perfectly steady as they secured electrodes to my skin—sends a shiver through me. She made it easy to forget I was human. Easy to forget I had a choice.
Whatever doubts I have about my father’s legacy, about the things he turned me into, Knight will always be part of them. She was the instrument of his will, the one who carried out what he couldn’t. When I think of her now, it isn’t admiration or fear I feel. It’s something darker. Something colder. Resentment, maybe. Or something closer to hatred.
The memory tightens my throat, but I force myself to swallow it down. “So that movement,” I repeat, my pulse quickening, my voice barely above a whisper. “What do you think it was?”
“Don’t know. That’s way above my pay grade,” he says with a shrug, straightening up and forcing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway, that was during the third time we were all awake. Ship’s not exactly built for that many people conscious at once—it gets tense. People start talking. Too many ghost stories, not enough space. You’re lucky you missed it.”
“Tense?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Small ship, big personalities. Add exhaustion, too many people crammed into tight quarters, and limited food and booze? It’s a recipe for things boiling over, and somehow, it always has perfect timing—just when things are already about to fall apart. But that’s ancient history now. You’re here, and we’ve got work to do.”
I take another sip of the beer, letting the warmth settle in my chest as I try to piece everything together. The fragments feel close, like they almost fit into a bigger picture, but there’s something missing—something just out of reach.
“Perfect timing, huh?” I say dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Guess I missed the big reunion when everyone was awake at the same time. Sounds like I really dodged the highlight of the century.”
Reid smirks, leaning back against the desk. “Oh, trust me, you did. Nothing like watching a shipful of sleep-deprived, pissed-off people pretending to play nice while silently plotting murder over ration packs. It’s a real bonding experience.”
His grin widens as his eyes flick to the black suit folded neatly on the desk. With a nod, he gestures toward it. “Speaking of perfect timing, I was supposed to fit that suit for you when you woke up, but, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck, feigning an innocent look. “Let’s just say I got… distracted. Figured I’d save myself the lecture from Vega and get you kitted out now.”
He steps forward, tapping the desk lightly as he nods at the suit. “Let’s get you suited up, Princess. Can’t have you running around without your armor.”
I blink as he says it again. “Princess?”
“Yeah,” he says, grinning again. “Princess of Humanity. You’re the last one with the Voss name, carrying all that legacy. It suits you.”
The nickname makes me pause. I’ve heard it many times before—and recently—Princess of Humanity. A title that always carried weight and sharp edges, tied to my father’s reputation and the rumors about his work. About me. It was rarely meant as a compliment. Especially not from that dick.
I snort softly, shaking my head. “Garin would probably call me ‘lab rat of humanity’ instead. Seems more his speed.”
Reid’s grin falters, his expression hardening. “Garin can go fuck himself,” he says bluntly, his voice sharper than I expected. “You’re not a rat. Princess suits you better. Always has.”
I raise an eyebrow at the sudden shift in his tone. “That’s… unexpected.”
He shrugs, his grin sliding back into place, though there’s something steadier behind it. “Just calling it like it is. Garin can’t see past his own ego, but the rest of us know better. You’re more than your father’s legacy—you’re your own person. That’s what matters.”
His words catch me off guard, the conviction behind them striking something deep. For once, the nickname doesn’t feel so heavy, like it’s about me instead of the shadow of my father’s work.
I let out a small laugh, surprising even myself. “So, a compliment, then?”
“Definitely a compliment,” he says, his grin softening into something almost genuine. “Legacies like yours? They’re heavy, sure, but they don’t have to be bad. And you carry it well.” He leans back, his teasing smirk returning. “Besides, you pull off the larger-than-life thing better than anyone.”
I roll my eyes, though the faint smile tugging at my lips betrays me. “Well, glad I pass the engineer’s inspection.”
“Oh, you definitely do,” Reid says with mock seriousness, tapping the desk for emphasis as a sly grin spreads across his face. “Princess suits you perfectly. And if Garin’s got a problem with it, well, he knows where to find me.”
My cheeks flush, and I quickly glance down at the suit in my hands, focusing on the fabric to steady myself. The weight of it feels suddenly more substantial, grounding me. “So… do I just put this on?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended, unsure of exactly how this works.
Reid’s grin widens, his easy confidence firmly back in place. “Yup. I’ll step out—don’t worry, I’m a gentleman,” he says with an exaggerated wink before pushing off the desk and heading toward the door.
I wait for the door to slide shut behind him before changing out of the loose T-shirt and shorts Yates gave me. The suit fits snugly, molding to my body like a second skin. As I fasten the last clasp, I take a deep breath, only to feel the fabric pull tight across my chest, leaving me slightly restricted. I shift uncomfortably, adjusting the suit. The snug fit highlights my small, slight frame, but it doesn’t shy away from the curves that feel almost out of place—my chest and hips seem exaggerated by the way the suit clings. It’s a strange balance, one that feels both secure and suffocating.
I glance at my reflection in the full-body mirror. The black material contrasts sharply with my pale skin and white hair, which falls in a curtain over my shoulders. Silver circuitry glints faintly along my limbs and torso, catching the light. My red eye stares back alien and unfamiliar, unnervingly vivid against the dark suit, while my blue eye feels like the last piece of the person I used to be. The image is jarring—human, but only just.
I almost laugh at the absurdity. I look like a character someone would draw to be larger than life, striking in a way I’m not sure I understand. The thought feels both ridiculous and uncomfortably true.
The door slides open. “Well,” Reid says, leaning against the frame with a smirk, “you make that look a hell of a lot better than I expected. The white hair against the black? Very dramatic. Like something out of a holo-novel.”
“Reid,” I warn, trying to sound stern, but the small smile tugging at my lips betrays me. Heat creeps up my neck, and I glance away, unsure if his comment is teasing or genuine—or maybe both.
His grin widens as if he knows exactly how I feel. “Relax, it’s a compliment. You look like you were designed for it.”
I’m embarrassed, flattered, and a little irritated all at once. For a moment, I wonder if he really means it—if he sees the larger-than-life figure I glimpsed in the mirror. Knowing Reid, or at least starting to, he probably does. And if I’m learning to trust him, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
“Hey, just calling it like I see it.” He crouches beside me, running a scanner over the seams. His expression turns serious as he works. “It’s a tight fit, but that’s how it’s supposed to be. Moves like a second skin. You’ll thank me when it saves your ass.”
I shift my arms experimentally, the fabric stretching easily with me. “It feels… different.”
“Good different,” he says, straightening. “Trust me, you look functional and badass. Exactly what the Princess of Humanity should be.”
I roll my eyes, but the warmth in his voice catches me off guard. It’s not unwelcome—actually, it’s almost flattering. Almost. But there are bigger things to worry about.
“Thanks, Reid,” I say quietly, adjusting one of the clasps.
“Anytime, Princess,” he says, his grin returning. But there’s something softer behind it this time, something almost sincere. “Oh, and heads up—we’ve got a big day tomorrow. You’re lucky. You get to see the fun stuff.”
I tilt my head, curiosity overriding my lingering unease. “Fun stuff?”
“We’re refueling the fusion core,” he says, his grin widening. “Scoopin’ hydrogen from a star we’re passing. You know, just casually borrowing from the universe’s furnace.”
I blink, unsure if he’s serious. “A star? As in, a Sun?”
“Yep,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “Basically, we’re pulling a Prometheus—stealing fire from the gods. Or maybe it’s more of an Icarus situation, depending on how smoothly it goes.”
The reference catches me off guard, and I smirk despite myself. “Didn’t both of those end badly?”
“Details,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Either way, it’s gonna be a hell of a show. You might even learn something.”
“Stealing fire from the gods,” I repeat softly, the words sticking in my mind. “Doesn’t that feel a little… ominous?”
He shrugs, his grin turning mischievous. “It’s only ominous if we screw up. Which we won’t. Normally, we’d skim a nice, friendly gas giant, but someone—” he throws an exaggerated glance over his shoulder, as if searching for the culprit— “miscalculated. Now we’re low on fuel, and the only thing out here for light years is that big glowing ball of hydrogen.”
I frown, trying to process his nonchalance. “So we’re scooping hydrogen from a star? That’s safe?”
“Totally safe. Probably,” he says with a lopsided grin. “The shields can handle micrometeors at near light speed when we’re out of warp. A little star skimming is just a hot day at the office. Anyway, it’s not my fault. Vega and Jericho handled the course plotting, so if anyone screwed the math, blame them. But hey, at least it’ll look cool.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So, this is a gamble based on some bad math?”
He laughs, waving me off. “Nah, it’s cool. We’ve done worse. And I’ve got a plan if it all goes sideways.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring,” I mutter, though his confidence, misplaced as it might be, manages to chip away at my unease.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin. “Just think of it as a front-row seat to humanity flipping off the universe. I mean, who else gets to say they stole fire from a star and lived to tell about it?”
Before I can respond, he pulls the flask from his pocket and gives it a little shake. “Here,” he says, unscrewing the cap with a flourish. “It’s not top-shelf or anything—hell, it’s not even mid-shelf—but it gets the job done. Homemade, straight from my secret stash.”
He takes a swig, his face scrunching briefly before he lets out a satisfied sigh and hands it to me. “Go on, Princess. You survived cryo, you can handle a little burn.”
I hesitate, then take the flask. The liquor burns sharp and hot, trailing fire down my throat and settling warm in my chest. I cough slightly, and he chuckles. “Not bad, right?” he teases, his grin widening.
I hand it back, the faintest smile tugging at my lips. “Well, I’ll try not to miss the spectacle,” I say, the heat of the whiskey making me feel a little steadier, a little more grounded.
“Keep it,” he says with a wink, slipping the cap back on and tossing it to me. “Call it a welcome gift. And hey, if you need more, I’m brewing the next batch. Leftover rations, filtered water, and a little help from the hydroponics bay. They’ve got just enough fresh scraps and yeast to make something vaguely drinkable.” His grin is disarming, full of mischief, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of everything feels just a little lighter.
"I'll remember that," I say, gripping the flask lightly, its weight oddly comforting in my hand.
“Good,” he says, pushing off the doorframe. “Don’t let the ghosts—or Jimmy’s snoring—keep you up. You’ll want a clear head in the morning. Wouldn’t want to miss the gods striking us down or something.” He pauses, his tone shifting to something more serious. “But really, leave Lab 3 alone. Some doors are sealed for a reason. Leave ’em that way.”
He winks as he steps into the corridor, the door hissing shut behind him. For a moment, I stare at the closed door, his words lingering in my mind. A big glowing ball of hydrogen. Stealing fire from the gods. It all feels dangerously poetic, as if the universe is just waiting for us to push too far.
I can’t help but think of my father. People used to say the same thing about him—playing god, meddling with forces beyond comprehension. They feared him as much as they revered him, the man who was both humanity’s leader and its only hope. Every breakthrough brought whispers of hubris, of tampering with things better left alone. Yet, he pressed on, carrying the weight of a dying world on his shoulders.
Now, here we are, his legacy stitched into my very being, still pushing, still reaching, still daring the gods to strike us down.
The idea of siphoning hydrogen from a star should thrill me—a feat so grand it borders on divine. But instead, it gnaws at the back of my mind. Stealing fire from the gods. Even myths had their limits. What happens when we push too far?
I sit on the edge of the cot, my thoughts spiraling. Reid’s warnings, the scratched-out face in the photo, the desperate scrawl of the note—they all point to truths buried deeper than I can yet reach. But instead of crushing me, the weight sharpens something inside: a need to understand.
I slip my hand beneath the pillow, pulling out the photo and note again. My father’s face stares back at me, his faint smile a cruel echo of the man I thought I knew. The scratched-out figure looms like a ghost, and the words on the back of the note burn into my mind:
Live your life. The horrors in Lab 3 should be forgotten. Evolution is better left to nature and God. Abandon your father’s legacy—I beg you.
Someone wanted me to find this. But who? And why? The note feels like a warning, but it’s incomplete—hiding as much as it reveals. Lab 3. It keeps coming back to Lab 3.
Reid’s voice echoes in my mind, stripped of its usual humor. “Some doors are sealed for a reason.” The way he’d said it—too sharp, too quick—lingers. It wasn’t just a warning. It was fear.
And then there are the eyes. Gold. Alien. Terrifying. The way they pierced me, unblinking, studying. For a moment, I’d felt like prey. A shudder crawls up my spine at the memory. I told myself it wasn’t real, a trick of stress and imagination. But even now, I can’t shake the feeling that something is still watching, waiting.
My father’s voice lingers in my mind: “To endure, we have to evolve.” He believed humanity had to break its limits to survive. But what if breaking those limits unleashed something worse? Lab 3 wasn’t just about saving humanity—it was about reshaping it. And something went terribly wrong. Wilks died there. Reid hinted at experiments on the crew—some willing, others not. The rest? Too afraid to speak.
The note in my hand deepens the unease. I beg you. The words feel desperate, almost panicked. Whoever wrote this wasn’t warning me out of caution—they were pleading. But pleading with me to stop what? If there’s a monster, why isn’t anyone acting like there’s danger? Why does everyone seem so calm if something’s loose on this ship?
My fingers tighten around the edge of the note as another thought creeps in. What if the monster—the thing I thought I saw— what if it's loose? What if it’s not locked behind Lab 3? What if it’s tied to the experiments, to my father’s work, to me?
The tension coils tighter in my chest, and I glance at the monitor on the desk. “Jericho,” I call, my voice breaking the silence.
The AI’s voice crackles to life, calm and clinical. “Yes, Sol?”
“Run a scan of the ship,” I say, the words feeling foolish even as I speak them. “Look for… anomalies.”
“Please clarify.”
I hesitate, gripping the photo tightly. “Signs of movement. Life forms that shouldn’t be here.”
The pause that follows stretches unbearably. Finally, Jericho replies, “Scan complete. No anomalies detected.”
I exhale shakily but press on. “How many life forms are awake and on board?”
“There are 1,098 life forms aboard the Jericho,” Jericho replies with its usual clinical precision. “Nine are currently awake: Captain Warren, Lieutenant Commander Vega, Chief Engineer Reid, Medical Officer Yates, Head Scientist Garin, Biologist Ashly, Security Officer Holt, Maintenance Technician Jimmy, and yourself, Sol Voss. Two life forms are registered as deceased: Julian Voss and Gregory Wilks. The remaining 989 crew members are in cryosleep. Additionally, 100 animal life forms across 50 species remain in cryogenic stasis. These include breeding pairs of livestock, insects, and rare species critical for ecosystem restoration and genetic diversity. No unaccounted-for life forms.”
Nine awake. No anomalies. No monsters. The logical answer should comfort me, but it feels hollow. If Jericho’s right, then the problem is me. My fraying mind, my growing paranoia. The cracks forming under the weight of my father’s legacy.
And yet, the yellow eyes feel too real to dismiss. If Jericho can’t detect them, does that mean they don’t exist? Or does it mean something worse?
I inhale sharply, steadying myself. “Jericho,” I say, my voice trembling as I lean closer to the monitor. “What is the status of Lab 3?”
A pause follows, longer than I expect, and tension knots in my stomach. Finally, the AI responds, its voice calm, clinical, and maddeningly precise. “Access to Lab 3 information is restricted. Clearance denied.”
“Restricted?” I repeat, the frustration in my voice surprising even me. “Why?”
“Access to Lab 3 is limited to authorized personnel,” Jericho replies. “You do not have clearance.”
I grip the desk tightly, my nails pressing into the cold metal. “Who has clearance?”
“Head Scientist Garin, Captain Warren, and Lieutenant Commander Vega are authorized to access Lab 3 records and physical entry. Additional clearance may be granted by Captain Warren.”
My breath catches. The sterile response offers no comfort, only reinforcing how tightly locked the answers are. “What about Lab 3 itself? What’s its status? Has it been accessed recently?”
“Lab 3 remains sealed. No unauthorized access detected since it was locked under Captain Warren’s authority.”
The words should reassure me, but they don’t. My fingers twitch at my side, my mind racing. “Jericho… why was it locked?”
“Information classified. Clearance denied.”
The words slam into me like a wall, unyielding and final. My frustration flares. “You’re the ship’s AI,” I snap, the heat rising in my tone. “Aren’t you supposed to help me?”
“I am programmed to ensure the safety and functionality of the Jericho and its crew,” Jericho responds, as measured as ever. “My assistance is bound by clearance protocols.”
I lean back, the knot in my stomach tightening. Jericho is just a machine, just a program—neutral, unfeeling. But the way it denies me, the way it guards Lab 3 like some ancient sentinel, feels deliberate. It was built by my father’s team, its purpose entwined with his work. And that alone makes me question how much I can trust it.
For all I know, Jericho is hiding something—following directives I’ll never understand. It has no problem listing the crew, running scans, or denying anomalies, but when it comes to Lab 3, it shuts me out. What’s it protecting? Or… who?
The AI’s voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, Sol?”
“No,” I say sharply, my voice colder than I intend. The calm precision of its tone feels almost mocking. “That’s all.”
The monitor dims, the silence closing in around me once again. I sit there, my mind a storm of questions and doubts. If Jericho won’t tell me about Lab 3, and if even it can’t—or won’t—acknowledge anything unusual on this ship, then where does that leave me? Alone with a growing fear that maybe the problem isn’t just me. Maybe it’s the ship itself.
Maybe Jericho isn’t just an observer, isn’t just a tool. Maybe it’s complicit.
The note and photo sit in my lap like relics of a truth I can’t yet grasp. I can’t shake the feeling that whatever’s waiting in Lab 3 is tied to me—to my healing, to the changes in my body, to everything I don’t yet understand. The answers are behind that sealed door.
Reid’s voice echoes yet again: “Some doors are sealed for a reason. Leave ’em that way.”
But I can’t abandon the questions gnawing at my mind. The scratched-out face in the photo, the cryptic warning, the lingering memory of those eyes. It all feels connected. The note told me to forget, to let Lab 3 stay buried. But how can I forget what I don’t even know? How can I abandon a legacy that has become part of me?
I clench the note tightly, my pulse quickening as the yellow eyes flash in my memory once more, vivid and sharp. If they aren’t real, why do they feel so close, so alive?
My chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear alone that grips me. Curiosity. Determination. Something darker. Something colder. My father’s work didn’t die with him—it followed us, festering, waiting. And now, it’s calling to me.
I set the photo and note down on the desk, my gaze lingering on them. The cold emptiness of the ship doesn’t feel so overwhelming anymore. It feels like a tether, pulling me closer to the truth. Whatever waits behind that door, it’s part of me now.
Every lock I’ve faced only proved one thing—whatever’s behind it, I’m meant to find.
For the first time since waking, the silence around me doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like the beginning.