Engineering was quiet.
Which, Blake had learned, meant something was about to go spectacularly wrong.
The android lay on the work platform exactly where they'd left it—fully repaired, structurally sound, power systems stable, and as unconscious as a very expensive metal corpse. Repair bots had withdrawn to standby, clustered politely along the walls like they were waiting to see who'd get yelled at first.
Blake stood with his arms folded, staring down at it.
"So," he said. "No pressure. But we're about to invent a person."
Booth was sitting on an overturned crate about six meters away, which he had determined was the optimal distance for not being murdered by a robot. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"I just want to formally state," Booth said, "that this is how horror stories start."
Elenor leaned against a bulkhead, helmet off, arms crossed. "Relax. If it tries anything, I shoot it."
Booth stared at her. "You say that like it helps."
"It helps me."
Blake cleared his throat and looked up. "Aubrey. Walk me through this again."
A soft holographic glow coalesced beside the platform.
"The android's original personality matrix is irrecoverable," Aubrey said calmly. "However, the core architecture remains capable of supporting a full autonomous intelligence."
"So we're not restoring," Blake said. "We're… creating."
"Correct."
Booth made a small, distressed noise.
Blake pressed on. "You said your remotes are powerful enough to act as a bootstrap."
"Yes. Each remote contains a constrained but sophisticated cognitive framework. More than sufficient to initialize learning, memory formation, and behavioral modeling."
"And you suggested a personality overlay."
"I did."
Blake nodded slowly. "But not control. Not ownership. No kill-switch loyalty bullshit."
There was a pause.
Then—
"Agreed," Aubrey said. "The overlay will provide foundational structure only. Ethics, behavioral norms, identity scaffolding. The end state will be full autonomy."
Booth raised a trembling hand. "Can I ask a question?"
Blake gestured. "Go ahead."
"Why," Booth said carefully, "does that sound like you're about to give a combat android values?"
Blake smiled faintly. "Because if it's going to be lethal, I'd prefer it be lethal with a moral compass."
Elenor snorted. "That's new."
Blake ignored her. "Aubrey. What's the base personality?"
The hologram flickered—subtle, but unmistakably thoughtful.
"My own," Aubrey said.
Booth choked. "WHAT."
Blake blinked. "Your—wait, you?"
"A derivative," Aubrey clarified. "Patterned after my decision-making heuristics, ethical weighting, and situational awareness. However—"
"However?" Blake prompted.
"I have layered additional frameworks."
Booth looked physically ill. "I hate it when AIs say 'however.'"
The Layers (Or: How To Build A Terrifying Best Friend)"Layer One," Aubrey continued, "is identity stabilization. The android will possess a strong sense of self, personal responsibility, and continuity."
Blake nodded. "Good. No dissociative murder-bot."
Booth whispered, "Low bar, but appreciated."
"Layer Two," Aubrey said, "is tactical doctrine."
Elenor straightened slightly. "Military?"
"Yes. Specifically, human Marine Corps training models."
Booth's eyes went wide. "Oh no."
Blake tilted his head. "Why Marines?"
"Because their doctrine emphasizes unit cohesion, initiative under fire, and loyalty to squad-level bonds over abstract authority," Aubrey replied. "They are trained to protect civilians, secure objectives, and eliminate threats decisively."
Booth stared at the ceiling. "We are all going to die."
"Layer Three," Aubrey continued smoothly, "is social loyalty."
Blake's brow furrowed. "Define that."
"Friends and family," Aubrey said. "The crew will be categorized as primary in-group. Protection and support behaviors will be prioritized accordingly."
Elenor smirked. "I like it already."
Booth made a strangled sound. "So it's a combat android… with Marine training… that cares about us."
"Yes," Blake said. "Exactly."
Booth pointed at the unconscious android. "That thing is going to kill someone."
Blake nodded. "Enemies."
Booth slumped. "I hate how calmly you said that."
Final Question Before Doing The Stupid ThingBlake took a breath and looked down at the android's blank faceplate.
"When it wakes up," he said quietly, "it's not property. It's crew. It gets choices. It gets to leave if it wants."
Another pause.
This one felt heavier.
"Understood," Aubrey said. "I will not embed coercive loyalty. Only preference. Only connection."
Blake nodded. "Do it."
Booth yelped. "WAIT—"
Too late.
BOOTSTRAP INITIALIZATIONAubrey's remote unit slid from its docking cradle with a soft mechanical click.
Repair bots guided it into the android's cranial port with almost ceremonial precision.
Power surged.
Diagnostics cascaded across the Engineering displays.
Neural lattice—online.
Motor control—standby.
Sensory input—initializing.
Personality scaffold—loading.
The android's fingers twitched.
Booth leapt off the crate. "IT MOVED."
"Relax," Blake said. "It's supposed to."
"That does not help!"
The android's chest rose as internal systems synchronized.
Its head tilted slightly.
Then—
Its eyes snapped open.
Glowing.
Focused.
And the first thing it did was sit up fast.
Booth screamed again.
The android's head whipped toward the sound.
Its voice came out loud, gravelly, and furious.
"WHY IN THE EVERLOVING HELL AM I WAKING UP ON A BENCH LIKE A HALF-ASSEMBLED TRAIN WRECK?!"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Blake slowly turned his head toward Aubrey's hologram.
"…You said derived from your personality."
"Correct," Aubrey replied calmly.
Elenor covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Booth stared in horror. "It sounds like it wants to fight God."
The android pushed itself to its feet, servos whining, posture snapping into something that screamed military.
It looked around Engineering, eyes locking onto each of them in turn.
"You!" It jabbed a finger at Blake. "YOU THE ONE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS BOOTLEG RESURRECTION?"
Blake raised a hand. "Hi. I'm Blake. Welcome aboard. Please don't punch anyone."
The android stared at him for a long, hard second.
Then its posture eased—just slightly.
"…You smell like authority," it said. "But not the stupid kind."
Booth whimpered.
The android turned toward him next.
"And YOU—WHY ARE YOU HIDING BEHIND A CRATE LIKE IT OWES YOU MONEY?"
Booth squeaked. "I—I like crates!"
The android snorted. "FIGURES."
Elenor stepped forward, grinning. "Name?"
The android paused.
Its brow furrowed as internal processes aligned.
"…Designation pending," it said. "But I appear to be… operational."
Blake nodded. "You're crew, if you want to be."
Another pause.
Then the android straightened fully, voice dropping into something fierce and proud.
"If you're my unit," it said, "then anyone who threatens you is going to have a very bad day."
Booth fainted.
Not metaphorically.
Actually fainted.
Blake winced. "We should get him a chair."
"I will reduce vocal aggression levels slightly," Aubrey offered. "Perhaps."
The android looked around again, then nodded once.
"…Permission to stand watch."
Blake smiled.
"Welcome aboard, Sergeant," he said.
And somewhere deep in the ship, The Aubrey recalculated the meaning of crew.
Blake stared at the android for a long, stunned second.
"…Okay," he said slowly, rubbing his temples. "Serious question. Why do you sound like R. Lee Ermey?"
The android blinked once."Who the hell is R. Lee Ermey, and why does he sound handsome?"
Blake looked up at the ceiling. "Aubrey."
"Human cultural archive reference," Aubrey replied calmly. "Gunnery Sergeant vocal affectation. High authority projection. Exceptional compliance induction."
Elenor snorted.
Gunny nodded approvingly. "Whoever this Ermey fella is, he sounds like a professional."
Blake sighed. "Of course he does."
Booth came to on the floor.
Which, frankly, was the best possible outcome.
He blinked up at the ceiling, took one look at the towering android standing over him, and immediately tried to pass out again.
"Negative, son," the android said firmly. "You do not get to die on my watch without proper paperwork."
Booth whimpered. "Why does it sound angry at my existence?"
Blake crouched beside him. "Because it's a Marine."
"THAT EXPLAINS NOTHING AND EVERYTHING," Booth yelled.
The android straightened, rolling its shoulders. Servos purred—smooth, powerful. Its gaze swept Engineering with professional contempt.
"I require a designation," it said. "And coffee. Or whatever passes for coffee in this flying toolbox."
Blake rubbed his face. "Aubrey?"
"Caffeine synthesis is available," Aubrey replied calmly. "I do not recommend it for android physiology."
The android snorted. "Weak."
Blake stood and clapped his hands together. "Alright. Before you terrorize the crew into a permanent anxiety disorder—let's talk upgrades."
That got the android's attention.
Its head tilted. "Upgrades."
"Yes," Blake said. "You were… dumped in a pawnshop. That feels like it deserves backpay."
The android stared at him for a long second.
Then nodded once. "I like you."
Booth whispered, "I don't."
Upgrade Session: Jazz Hands Meet Drill InstructorBlake placed a hand on the android's shoulder.
The Repairman ability surged.
This time, deliberately.
Speed first—servo response tightened, micro-actuators refined. The android's movements became snappy, precise enough to make Elenor's eyes narrow appreciatively.
Dexterity next—hand articulation improved, sensor resolution sharpened. Fingers flexed, moving with surgical confidence.
Then Blake hesitated.
He looked at the android's exposed alloy, the patches of half-replaced synth-skin still visibly artificial. Functional. Tough. But unmistakably not human.
"…Yeah," Blake muttered. "No. We're fixing that too."
The glow flared again—deeper, more meticulous.
Synthetic skin reknit itself at a molecular level. Texture smoothed. Color evened. Micro-capillaries formed—not decorative, but responsive, capable of heat transfer, pressure feedback, and realistic deformation. Pores appeared. Hair follicles aligned. Subtle asymmetries emerged—the tiny imperfections that made faces believable.
When Blake stepped back, the android's skin no longer looked manufactured.
It looked human.
Too human.
Booth stared. "…That is unsettling."
Elenor squinted. "If I didn't know better, I'd think he needed a shave."
Gunny looked down at his own hands—flexed them slowly—then dragged synthetic fingertips across his jaw.
"…Hot damn," he rumbled. "I look like I could fail a background check."
Blake grinned. "Disguise potential. Also dignity."
Gunny nodded solemnly. "Appreciated."
Finally—intelligence.
Blake hesitated for half a heartbeat.
Then pushed.
Neural throughput expanded. Learning rate increased. Pattern recognition deepened. Personality bandwidth widened—enough for growth, not enough to fracture.
Gunny inhaled sharply—an unconscious reflex carried over from human training models—and exhaled slowly.
"…That felt like promotion and therapy," he said.
Booth stared. "You just made it smarter. Faster. And prettier."
"Yes," Blake said. "On purpose."
Booth looked at Gunny. "Does it know how to kill people better now?"
Gunny grinned.
A grin.
"Son, I knew how to do that before you finished asking."
Booth screamed internally.
Blake stepped back. "Designation?"
Gunny straightened, posture locking into something terrifyingly official.
"…Gunny," he said. "Gunnery Sergeant. That's who I am."
Elenor smirked. "Of course it is."
Gunny nodded once, satisfied. "Designation accepted."
Shore Leave: What Could Possibly Go WrongAgainst Booth's strenuous objections, the crew went out into Ersa City.
Luna and William were ecstatic.
Cows were seen.Cows were judged.One cow attempted to lick William.
"This one is my enemy," William declared.
Gunny stared at the animal. "It looks soft and stupid. I approve."
They walked markets. Ate street food that Blake described as "nutritionally suspicious but emotionally fulfilling." Luna convinced Elenor to buy her a ridiculous hat. William found a toy rover and immediately dismantled it.
Then the first mugging attempt happened.
Two locals stepped out of an alley, all bravado and bad decisions.
"Hey," one said. "Nice gear. Why don't you—"
Gunny stepped forward.
The alley darkened.
Gunny leaned down until his very human-looking face—creased, scarred, and furious—was inches from the mugger's.
"SON," he roared, voice detonating off the walls, "YOU HAVE APPROACHED THE WRONG GROUP OF PEOPLE ON THE WRONG DAY WITH THE WRONG AMOUNT OF COURAGE."
The mugger swallowed. "I—"
Gunny cracked his knuckles.
"I AM GOING TO EXPLAIN YOUR OPTIONS VERY CLEARLY."
The second mugger bolted.
The first handed over his wallet, shoes, and what Blake later learned was "emergency snack jerky."
Gunny straightened, voice instantly calm again. "Transaction complete."
Blake blinked. "…We just made credits."
Elenor shrugged. "Self-defense commerce."
Booth was vibrating. "THIS IS NOT HOW ECONOMICS WORK."
It happened twice more.
By the third attempt, people started crossing the street when they saw Gunny.
Luna waved cheerfully at one fleeing would-be mugger. "Bye!"
Pawnshop Reunion: Incentivized HonestyThey returned to Fen Grell's shop with a grav-sled full of repaired junk.
Fen's smile vanished the moment Gunny ducked through the door.
"Who—who the hell is that?"
Blake clapped Fen on the shoulder. "Fen, this is Gunny. Gunny, this is Fen."
Gunny stared at Fen.
Fen sweated.
"I don't like pawnshops," Gunny said evenly. "They smell like regret and bad life choices."
Fen nodded rapidly. "Yes. Accurate."
Blake laid out the deal. "We repair. You sell. Seventy-thirty. You skim, I stop bringing you inventory."
Gunny leaned closer to Fen, his perfectly human face splitting into a smile that promised consequences.
"…Or I do."
Fen swallowed. "Seventy-thirty sounds generous."
"Good," Blake said. "We'll be back."
As they left, Gunny waved politely. "Remember, Fen. I look human, but I am not forgiving."
Fen collapsed into a chair.
End of DayBack aboard The Aubrey, Luna and William compared souvenirs. Booth hid in his room. Elenor polished her rifle.
Gunny stood watch in the corridor, arms crossed, looking like a grizzled veteran instead of a walking weapons platform, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a marching cadence.
Blake leaned against the bulkhead, exhausted but smiling.
"Well," he muttered, "Selene's going great."
"Statistically improbable," Aubrey replied.
Gunny glanced over, eyes sharp, grin faint but proud.
"This ship's gonna do just fine."
Blake believed him.
Which was somehow the scariest part.
The Aubrey settled into its nighttime rhythm.
Lights dimmed. Systems shifted to low-noise cycles. Somewhere deep in the ship, coolant flowed with the contented sound of machinery that had finally stopped screaming for attention.
Blake sat alone on the bridge, boots propped on the console, staring out at Selene's night side. City lights glittered faintly through the atmosphere like someone had spilled a bag of LEDs and then very responsibly zoned them.
For once, nothing hurt.
Which was deeply concerning.
Blake narrowed his eyes at the planet. "You're being too nice," he muttered. "That's never a good sign."
Gunny stood near the bulkhead, arms folded, posture loose but watchful. He didn't need to breathe, but he did anyway—slow, steady, like someone who had learned that calm was just violence waiting patiently.
"You keep starin' like that, Skipper," Gunny said mildly, "you're gonna sprain your brain."
"I'm thinking," Blake replied.
Gunny grimaced. "That explains the facial expression. That's the same look lieutenants get right before they ruin everyone's weekend."
Blake sighed. "I was hoping for a quiet stretch. You know. Fix some tractors. Sell a few parts. Eat more fried street food than is medically advisable."
Gunny nodded. "A noble dream."
Aubrey's hologram shimmered into existence beside the console.
Blake flinched immediately. "No. Nope. Absolutely not. Whatever you're about to say—just… give me five minutes."
"Captain," Aubrey said gently, which was worse, "this cannot wait."
Blake dragged his hands down his face. "Of course it can't. Nothing ever can. Go on. Hit me."
"Your current revenue model is unsustainable."
Blake froze. "…I'm sorry, my what?"
Gunny tilted his head. "That sounds like something a man hears right before he starts drinking at breakfast."
Blake sat up straighter. "Okay. Explain it to me like I'm an idiot. Which—let's be honest—I am."
"You are selling repaired items through Fen Grell," Aubrey continued. "However, your repair capability vastly exceeds your rate of scrap acquisition."
Blake blinked. "We've been buying junk all over Selene."
"Correct. And at your current pace, you will exhaust that supply within approximately twelve days."
Blake stared at the console.
Then laughed.
A short, sharp, hysterical sound.
"Twelve days," he repeated. "Twelve. That's… that's not even a month, Aubrey. That's barely two grocery cycles."
Gunny snorted. "That's not a business. That's a garage sale with delusions of grandeur."
Blake leaned back, rubbing his temples. "Okay. Okay. So we need more scrap. Easy. We just—"He stopped.
Slowly.
"…Oh no."
Gunny's grin spread like a knife being drawn very casually. "Say it."
Blake swallowed. "…The ship graveyard."
"Correct," Aubrey said immediately, far too pleased. "It remains the most abundant source of unclaimed material within operational range."
Blake groaned and slid lower in his chair. "Of course it does. Of course the answer is 'go back to the place full of dead warships, corpses, and things that want to murder us.' Why would it be anything else?"
Gunny chuckled, deep and approving. "Looks like we're goin' back where the ghosts live."
"I was hoping," Blake said weakly, "for, like… boring. I wanted boring. I wanted spreadsheets. I wanted mild tax evasion at worst."
Gunny shrugged. "You can still have that. Just with occasional catastrophic hull breaches."
Blake made a small, distressed noise.
He glanced toward the crew quarters, where Luna and William slept—safe, fed, and blissfully unaware that their continued comfort was now directly tied to Blake's ability to strip-mine ancient battlefields.
"…We don't rush," Blake said, anxiety tightening his voice. "We plan. We prep. We pick unmanned wrecks only. No surprises. No heroics. No me floating through space screaming again."
Gunny nodded. "Reasonable. I'll shoot anything that disagrees."
Blake looked at him. "That is not what I meant by reassurance."
"I will update salvage prioritization and route planning," Aubrey said. "Risk-minimized. Efficiency-maximized."
Blake slumped. "You always say that right before things get weird."
"Statistically," Aubrey replied, "they get weird regardless."
Gunny laughed softly. "She's got you there, Skipper."
Blake stared back out at Selene—quiet streets, warm lights, people living boring little lives where the biggest problem was probably a broken harvester or a bad batch of synth-beer.
"…Enjoy the calm while it lasts," Blake muttered.
Gunny cracked his knuckles. "Yeah. Calm's just the part where the universe reloads."
Blake closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them—heart pounding, mind racing, already calculating angles and risks and ways this could go catastrophically wrong.
Because apparently, being a repairman meant fixing everything.
Including economies.
Including dead ships.
Including his own terrible life choices.