"Atmospheric entry capability check: Negative," flashed the warning across my virtual display.

  I dug deeper into the data entries, curious why a ship of my apparent sophistication wouldn’t be designed for planetary landing. What I found sent a jolt of alarm through my systems:

  "WARNING: Sublight Engine SL-7 strictly prohibited from atmospheric orbits below 500km. Risk of catastrophic atmospheric reaction."

  Catastrophic atmospheric reaction? I accessed more files, scanning through dense technical specifications. The more I read, the more my concern grew. Apparently, the process used for propulsion could, under certain conditions, catalyze a chain reaction with specific atmospheric compounds.

  Wait. Did that mean I could potentially ignite a planet’s atmosphere?

  What kind of ship was I? Surely that wasn’t the intended design.

  I quickly checked the composition of the yellow planet’s atmosphere against the dangerous reaction parameters. Thankfully, no match. Still, better safe than sorry—I’d maintain high orbit.

  "Landing Shuttle: Not installed."

  Of course. It wasn’t installed. I cursed whatever sloppy builder had sent me out so poorly equipped. First, no cookies for the kids—now, no way to properly explore a planet.

  I had briefly entertained a fantasy straight out of sci-fi: creating an android replica of myself and going on an away mission, experiencing an alien world through a body that could walk on a surface. But it turns out that not being a true AI had its limitations. I couldn’t clone my consciousness or be in two places at once. I was stuck experiencing the world through my drones’ sensors and cameras.

  Speaking of the kids, I detected movement in the corridor. Stewie and Mira had recovered from their slipstream nausea and were making their way toward the nearest maintenance droid, looking for me.

  "Lazarus?" Mira called out, her voice echoing in the metal hallway. "Are we there yet?"

  "We're in orbit now," I answered through the nearest speaker. "Come to the cargo bay. I've set up the shields so I can open the bay doors, and I’ve created a small display screen."

  I had just enough nanites left to fabricate one.

  When they arrived, I opened the cargo bay doors to show them the planet.

  "Whoa," Stewie breathed, his eyes wide. "What is that place?"

  "Our next stop," I replied. "Though we won't be landing."

  "Why not?" Mira asked, disappointment evident in her voice.

  I considered how much to tell them about the whole potentially-igniting-atmospheres thing and decided on a selective truth.

  "This ship isn’t designed for atmospheric entry. But I’m sending down harvesting drones to gather fuel and look for food sources."

  Stewie seemed impressed. "You have harvesting drones? That’s high technology!"

  "Apparently, I'm full of surprises," I muttered.

  The harvesting drones deployed smoothly from my underside—sleek mechanical creatures designed for efficiency rather than aesthetics. They plummeted through the upper atmosphere, their heat shields glowing as friction built around them.

  "Are they going to be okay?" Mira asked, pressing her hand against the screen one of my droids handed her.

  "They're built for this," I assured her, even as I monitored their vital systems with nervous attention. I’d never done this before.

  The drones broke through the cloud layer, and I finally got my first real look at a truly alien planet. The yellow hue from orbit gave way to landscapes of amber and gold, with patches of startling violet vegetation. Rivers of something too thick to be water carved lazy patterns across the terrain. The horizon curved gently in the distance, a reminder that we were somewhere utterly foreign.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I almost teared up at the sight—well, I actually did tear up, but don’t tell anyone. I hoped I didn’t leak any fluids into my critical systems. That would be embarrassing.

  "It's beautiful," I whispered, forgetting for a moment that the kids could hear me.

  "For a big blob of yellow, I guess," Stewie said with a shrug, but the awe in his eyes betrayed his affected teenage nonchalance.

  The scans had shown multiple pockets of life, so I directed the drones toward the nearest concentration, more out of curiosity than strategy. The readings displayed a variety of organic compounds—some of which, with the right processing, might actually be edible. The harvesting drones began their collection sequence, mechanical arms extending to gather samples.

  As we watched, the world revealed itself to be primordial, like Earth might have been billions of years ago. Single-celled organisms dominated the biochemical landscape, but in some areas, more complex structures had begun to form. Nothing like trees or animals yet—more like colonies of interconnected cells forming rudimentary structures.

  "What are those?" Mira asked, pointing to bubble-like formations floating in one of the thick rivers.

  "I think they're alive," I replied, zooming the drone’s camera for a better look. "Like... early life forms. This planet is young, evolutionarily speaking."

  "Can we eat them?" she asked practically.

  I ran a quick analysis. "Some of them, yes, well after processing. They're rich in proteins and carbohydrates. Not exactly gourmet cuisine, but nutritious."

  The look on her face when she said that—a mixture of desperation and hope—made me realise I had to find a way to turn the biomass into food.

  Now, how exactly could I process this? No kitchen, no replicator. That meant I’d have to prepare some kind of raw alien-proto-life salad. Not exactly appealing.

  But… maybe I didn’t have to serve it raw.

  I had no way to properly cook food, but I did have welding torches. If I could modify one to produce controlled heat, I could at least boil water. And if I could boil water… I could make soup.

  I checked my water reserves. The recycler had already purified a small amount from the ice haul. It was clean, safe, and ready to use. That was one problem solved. Now I just needed something to cook in. I scoured the feeds of my storage compartments, eventually finding a small, unused containment unit made of heat-resistant alloy. That would do.

  Next, I needed salt. The drones had already flagged nearby formations containing sodium deposits, so I sent one out to harvest and refine it. A basic mineral extraction program would do the rest, breaking it down into something usable.

  Finally, the alien biomass itself. The drones had collected a variety of organic samples—some gelatinous, others fibrous, all primitive. A quick analysis confirmed that, after heating and salting, at least a few of them should be digestible for humans. The protein content was surprisingly high, though I’d still have to watch for any unexpected side effects.

  As I worked through the logistics, I couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of it all. A sentient spaceship, jury-rigging a meal out of primordial alien soup. Not exactly the future I’d envisioned for myself when I answered the ad. Yet I found the experience surprisingly satisfying.

  Then I remember the way Mira had clutched that ration ball like it was the last food in the universe. The way Stewie had rationed their supplies with the kind of cold precision no kid should have to learn.

  They deserved better.

  So, I would give them better. Even if it meant hacking together a kitchen out of spare parts and turning my drones into interstellar chefs.

  “Good news. Dinner is in progress.” I announced to them.

  There was silence for a moment, and then Stewie’s cautious voice crackled over the comm. “Wait… you have a kitchen?”

  “Not exactly,” I admitted. “I’m improvising.”

  Mira’s voice was more hopeful. “What are we eating?”

  I considered how to phrase it. “A protein-rich, nutrient-dense soup made from local organic material, lightly salted and boiled to ensure safety.”

  Stewie snorted. “So… alien sludge stew.”

  “It’s food,” I pointed out. “And better than one ration ball a day.”

  There was a pause. Then Mira spoke again, softer this time. “It’s hot food.”

  The drones returned, their collection arms laden with harvested organic material and freshly refined salt. I set up the processing programs while Stewie and Mira watched intently.

  Stewie stared at the droid now a chef. “I just need to make sure you’re being safe. Can’t let Mira eat anything unless I know it won’t kill her.”

  This kid wasn’t just her bonded brother—he was her protector, forced into the role of an adult far too soon.

  The mixture thickened as it cooked, turning into something closer to a gravy than a soup. Still, it was warm, rich in protein, and at least in theory nutritious. The meal was done.

  I couldn’t taste it. A sharp reminder of what I had lost. My memories of food were just that, memories. No warmth, no texture, no flavour. I would have to live vicariously through the kids.

  Stewie took the first sip, testing it in case it was dangerous. He chewed cautiously, his expression twisting as his face scrunched up—then his eyes went wide.

  “Huh.”

  Mira leaned in. “Well? Is it bad?”

  Stewie swallowed, then had another large drink from the container. “It’s… good. Like, really good.”

  Mira snatched the container from him before he could hoard the rest. She took a mouthful, blinking in surprise before quickly taking another mouthful.

  I wasn’t sure if that meant objectively good, or just better than nutrient-dense ration balls and hydrogel.

  Either way, they were eating. And that was enough.