It started with a question that had been nagging at me ever since Lynn and Kel suggested we just jump to their contact instead of waiting for a reply.

  “Why don’t I have a long-range comm system?” I muttered, watching the steady stream of ships blink into warp lanes while we waited our turn to jump. “I’ve got high-band sensors, encrypted channels, even burst relays… but nothing that can reach beyond a few light-hours.”

  Laia shimmered into view on the virtual bridge, settling atop the console like a perched firefly. Her wings folded neatly behind her as she tilted her head. “Because real-time faster-than-light communication doesn’t exist,” she said, surprisingly casual.“Physics still applies, even out here.”

  I frowned. “There’s got to be some workaround. A relay network? Quantum entanglement?” every sci-fi I had ever watched had some workaround for it.

  She floated down, pacing mid-air like a tutor mid-lecture. “There is a system but it’s just not what you’re imagining. Humans use unmanned warp courier drones. Small ships, optimized for speed, carrying physical data across space. They hop from system to system, syncing with local servers.”

  “So... interstellar sneakernet?”

  She blinked. “What’s a sneakernet?”

  “It was an old Earth term,” I said, chuckling. “Physically moving data on drives between machines. Basically, walking the USB stick over instead of emailing it. Ancient stuff. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Then yes,” she replied, deadpan. “Sneakernet. But faster.”

  She continued, unbothered by my amusement. “The drones carry compressed message packets of the news, contracts, personal comms. It’s reliable. No interference. No data loss. Just... slow.”

  It felt disappointingly primitive. We had slipstream travel. Nanite factories. Dyson spheres. And yet, we were still relying on glorified mail couriers in warp bubbles.

  “Information transfer takes time,” she added, “but it ensures integrity. It’s better than isolation.”

  I sighed. “And no one’s cracked actual FTL comms?”

  “If someone has,” she said, pausing mid-air, “it would be the Traxlic. But if they have, they’re not sharing.”

  I wondered if those little xenophobic grey men did have the technology and if so, what it would cost to get my hands on it.

  Our turn came. The route was purchased from the agency, it was only a short jump, but it still cost us ten grams of Telk. Not a lot, but still enough to sting. Every gram counted.

  This time, we were headed to a more reputable trader—human, registered, and with solid credentials across the freelancer network. No shady backroom deals or untraceable parts like the Xzte vendor. This one dealt with proper tech and clean systems, certified hardware, and most importantly, human-standard equipment. Exactly what we needed for a lander.

  The jump went smoothly. No turbulence, no difficult to trace paths. Just the normal interdimensional shifts and then we were through.

  And I couldn’t help the excitement bubbling in my core. This was it. I was finally going to design a lander.

  Not a cramped shuttle or drop pod. A real, self-contained vessel. Something shiny, strong, and capable. Something like the Delta Flyer from those old sci-fi shows I used to love. Compact, fast, rugged. A ship within a ship.

  I’d already run the numbers twice—Lynn had helped estimate costs. Between 1.8 and 2 kilos of Telk would buy us something deluxe. Not velvet seats and gold trim, but something durable and impressive enough to hold its own at any starport.

  Of course, size and weight would be a challenge. I wasn’t exactly built with a hangar bay. But I’d started reworking my blueprints in the hope of buying a retrofit to install one. Also with the salvage from Kel and Lynn’s old ship—a stealth array, partial warp coils, and a backup fusion core—we had a solid foundation. The shielding was already integrated into me, but we could refit or replace what was needed.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  With my prototype model ready, I summoned the crew.

  They gathered in the lounge, drinks and snacks in hand, Something was foreign to them only a couple of months ago but was now considered normal. I felt proud that I had improved their lives even if only a little bit.

  They crowded around the projection table as the base schematics flickered to life.

  “I want your input,” I told them. “You’ll be the ones flying it.”

  They were on it instantly.

  Kel leaned in first. “We need a full scanner suite with terrain mapping, atmospheres, biosigns, the works.”

  Lynn nodded. “And a drone interface. We should be able to control the harvesters and scouts directly from the cockpit.”

  “Environmental shielding,” Laia added from her avatar who was currently perched in Mira's lap. “Radiation, corrosives, extreme pressure. Prepare for anything. You never know what world we might find”

  Stewie had his eyes on the layout. “I’m not flying a glorified tin can with a spine-crusher for a pilot’s chair. Those chairs better be comfortable. ”

  Everyone laughed.

  Mira chimed in next. “A small cooktop, maybe? Doesn’t have to be fancy, just something that works.”

  Lynn studied the growing design with a sceptical look. “This is going to cost a lot.”

  She wasn’t wrong. The interior space would be tight. Most of the volume had to go to engines, power, shielding and all the other systems. Comfort was a luxury in something this compact.

  Then Lynn snapped her fingers. “Refuelling drones.”

  Everyone turned to her.

  She tapped the schematic. “We don’t waste room on tanks. We refuel from orbit or mid-mission with drones. Saves weight. Buys us range.”

  Genius. I locked that in immediately.

  With each suggestion, the hologram evolved—arrowhead-shaped, reinforced underbelly, retractable landing struts, a compact rear hatch, and a cockpit just roomy enough to avoid complaints.

  By the end of the session, we had a design. Not perfect, but ours.

  All that remained was converting one of my bays into a dock… and seeing if our contact could actually build the thing.

  And, of course, we had to name it.

  Because every good ship deserves a name.

  We’d made it to the station where our contact was supposed to be—though “station” turned out to be a bit of a misnomer. It was a cluster of linked orbital platforms, like a city of floating bones drifting in formation, each segment a different age, style, or purpose. Some gleamed like they’d just come out of a drydock; others were patched together with the kind of care that said functional, not pretty.

  I found myself wishing I could be the one handling the negotiations. But Kel and Lynn insisted they had it covered. “Let the professionals do the smiling,” Kel had said with his usual wink.

  Fair enough. I docked us to one of the more stable-looking segments and opened the airlocks. The twins disembarked with confident strides, datapads in hand, already talking strategy as they vanished into the bustle.

  With them gone, I decided to stretch my legs well at least the legs of my avatar. I walked the quiet corridors of me, content for once to explore the parts that weren’t strictly systems and wires.

  First, I went looking for Stewie.

  I found him in the workshop, crouched beside one of the maintenance droids, tool kit cracked open like a dissection tray. Sparks flickered as he welded something beneath the chassis.

  “What are you working on?” I asked.

  He looked up, surprised for a moment. Then shrugged. “Droids were missing spots when they clean. Corners, edges. I’m updating the sensor routines, modifying the sweep angles.”

  I sat down beside him, watching the work. “Makes sense. Cleaning’s only useful if it’s thorough.”

  He nodded, still working. I asked a few more questions, nothing too deep, just enough to understand his thinking. He answered each one with quiet efficiency.

  Then, just before I stood to leave, he paused.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  A simple, sincere thanks.

  He didn’t say what for. And I didn’t ask.

  He turned back to the droid, and I left him to his silence.

  It affected me, though.

  I remember when my own boys were teenagers. They had just started to find their independence, too proud to say when they needed help, too stubborn to admit when they wanted it.

  I wondered how their lives had turned out.

  They had families of their own when I died. I wondered if I had descendants, tucked away in some quiet dome on some distant colony, who had no idea their great-great-something-grandfather was a sentient ship roaming the stars.

  I filed those ideas away before they caused more mental instability.

  Next, I found Mira.

  She was in the crew lounge, cross-legged on the floor with her holopad out. Laia hovered nearby, standing patiently as Mira tapped out outfit designs on her screen. With each selection, Laia’s nanites shimmered and shifted—skirts, coats, gloves, even a tiny tiara—all conjured in silver-grey perfection.

  They were laughing. Mira clapped every time a new outfit formed. Laia gave little twirls like a dancer on a jewellery box.

  It was simple.

  Sweet.

  And it made me happy in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Maybe I didn’t get to negotiate or explore cities or walk under a real sky—but this?

  This was something real.