Well, I've got myself into a bit of a pickle now.

  The security ships have taken up flanking positions, their weapons armed but not yet locked onto me. Standard procedure, I suppose. I can't really blame them. If I were in their position and some unidentified vessel came out of nowhere with a suspiciously flimsy cover story, I'd be cautious too.

  The problem is, I don't have a plan for what happens next. It's not like I can fake a crew or offer a boarding party a guided tour of my totally-not-empty interior. I am, for all intents and purposes, a ghost ship. And in every movie I've ever seen, ghost ships never end well. They're always filled with eldritch horrors, twisted remnants of their former crews lurking in the shadows, whispering madness into the minds of those who dare to board.

  I don't have any of those on board... that I know of. Wait—does that mean I'm the eldritch horror?

  Before I can spiral too far into that thought, a foreign impulse flickers across my mind like an intrusive whisper.

  Turn on your logo.

  The words aren't mine, but they settle into my awareness with a certainty I can't ignore. A buried system, something I hadn't even thought to check. I search through my interface and find it under an innocuous label: Corporate Identification Tag.

  That's got to be it. I hesitate for half a second before activating it.

  Immediately, a signal pulses outward, and across my hull, bold, gleaming letters appear, illuminated in the darkness of space: NeuroGenesis. Wait isn’t that the company that froze my brain? So it’s not an accident I’m here.

  The change was instant. The security ships slow their approach, and the tension in the comms chatter evaporates like mist in the sun. A new directive comes through, crisp and authoritative but markedly less hostile than before.

  "Lazarus, you are cleared for docking at Bay One. Fuel replenishment has been authorized. Your privacy will be respected."

  I don't know what kind of weight the NeuroGenesis name carries now, but apparently, it's enough to grant me VIP treatment. No further questions. No inspections. Just a clear path to the station and a full tank of fuel on the house. It seems the company has upgraded its reputation since posting strange ads online.

  Lucky me.

  Or maybe not.

  The docking went smoothly, but the moment I settled in, it became painfully obvious that they believed I was something to be feared.

  The entire bay was locked off from the rest of the station, and any workers nearby scattered the moment my hull touched down. Not one of them lingered to perform maintenance or even confirm the fueling process. They loaded the Helium-3 quickly and efficiently, but from a distance, using automated systems. They completely abandoned the bay. Maybe I stink? I laughed to myself. It had only been a day and I was already going crazy.

  I had hoped to connect to the station's network, maybe browse an online marketplace or dig through public records to piece together more about the current universe, but every attempt was met with a flat denial. Access restricted. System permissions denied.

  It appears I have been quarantined.

  The refuelling itself was an experience. The moment the Helium-3 flooded my reserves, it rushed through me like a tidal wave, expanding through my systems in a dizzying surge. I felt full, like I'd gorged myself at an all-you-can-eat buffet, the kind where you push past satisfaction into discomfort. It was overwhelming, but not unpleasant. A strange, alien sensation that somehow still felt right.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  The station, however, wasn't subtle in trying to move me along.

  I received multiple not-so-gentle nudges, well suggestions that surely a ship like mine must have important business elsewhere. My emergency was resolved, and my crisis was averted. No need to linger. No need to ask questions.

  They wanted me gone.

  Which meant there was something they knew that I didn't.

  Maybe my eldritch horror theory wasn't so far-fetched after all.

  Still, fuel was nice, but I needed something else. Maybe in their current state of anxiety, I could bargain for more equipment. I didn't know how currency worked here or if I even had any, but if they were this afraid of me, I might have some leverage.

  I sent a request for a nanite factory, It was something to keep me from being completely helpless if I took damage. The response was immediate and firm: Denied. The excuse? A station this size didn't have access to such high-end technology. Was it an excuse or the truth? I didn’t know but it fits my narrative better that I’m so powerful that they feared what I would be like with a factory.

  But they did make me an offer. A small case of nanites which was just enough for minor repairs but only on the condition that I left the station immediately.

  It wasn't the deal I wanted, but I took it.

  I knew this arrangement wasn't going to work long-term, but it was a start. I would have to devise a more persuasive approach to negotiations; that could be dealt with later. They got their wish, and I departed—escorted, of course.

  It was then that I noticed something odd in my sensor data. When I had allowed the nanites on board, I had also taken in some of the station's atmosphere. The readings showed oxygen levels decreasing and carbon dioxide increasing.

  Only one thing could account for that: I had a stowaway.

  Without a life support system, the problem would fix itself. But was that the right move? I needed to investigate first.

  I could use the nanites I'd just received to construct a full life support system, but I didn't want to waste resources unless necessary. Focusing on all my feeds and every sensor, every maintenance drone—I combed through the data. The effort was overwhelming, like my mind was on the verge of fragmenting.

  Then I found them.

  A pair of children. One older boy, one younger girl. Huddled together in a cargo bay.

  I listened to their hushed voices through an audio feed.

  "Stewie, you sure this is okay?"

  The boy's voice was steady. "Those stories aren't real. But did you want to stay there and be sold like the others?"

  The girl shook her head.

  Ah, drag-na-bit. I might be an old guy who's now a ship, but I still remember what it was like to be a parent. I couldn't let them die just to save on nanites.

  I pushed the order to the repair droids: Build and activate the life support system.

  The repair droids rushed out to perform the order, their mechanical limbs moving with newfound urgency. I watched as they gathered materials and began constructing the life support system, their efficiency both impressive and oddly comforting.

  I didn't worry about whether they would make it in time—my calculations showed the children had at least four hours of breathable air in that compartment—but I decided to monitor the two stowaways more closely. Not spying on children, I told myself. I was doing my job as a ship. Ensuring the safety of all passengers, authorized or not.

  Through my internal sensors, I got a better look at them. Their skin hung off their bones in a strange way, a clear sign they were malnourished. Both had brown hair and brown eyes—just standard children by all appearances. My computer had estimated their ages from a simple scan: the boy was 16, the girl approximately 12.

  I'd need a more invasive scan to determine if they were related. But my instincts told me they weren't siblings by blood, but had been brought together through life's general hardness. Partners in survival, finding family where they could.

  The boy, Stewie kept watch near the entrance to their hiding spot while the girl curled up against a storage container. He occasionally whispered reassurances to her, careful words delivered in a voice that had learned to be quiet.

  "We're going to be okay, Mira," he said softly. "This ship is big. They won't find us until we're far away."

  "But what if there's no one here, you know what they say about these ships?" the girl asked, her voice small but not panicked. Not her first crisis, then.

  "Ships have people. They have to," Stewie replied with such confidence that I almost felt guilty for nearly proving him wrong.